The Measure of Maturity

I've been thinking about this:

from: http://www.psychotherapynetworker.org/magazine/currentissue/item/2643-point-of-view/2643-point-of-view

"...We Americans believe profoundly not only in the pursuit of happiness, but in our unalienable right to obtain it. Despite roughly 5,000 years of written evidence to the contrary, we believe it isn’t normal to be unhappy. That’s why we have so many approaches to therapy and so many therapists. In general, we don’t want to stick around with psychological pain a second longer than necessary to get it excised from our life.

The problem is, according to Steven Hayes, professor at the University of Nevada, former Haight-Ashbury hippie turned behaviorist, and the developer of acceptance and commitment therapy (ACT), we’ve got it backwards. In fact, it’s suffering and struggle that are normal—and not the reverse. Furthermore, dealing with our inevitable psychic struggles by trying to get rid of them doesn’t work and may actually make them worse.

Instead of countering and correcting our negative thoughts, as classic cognitive therapy argues we should do, Hayes believes we should acknowledge those thoughts, accept them rather than challenge them, and then get on with living as full and worthwhile a life as we can. That’s the commitment part of ACT, and the tough-minded part as well. Hayes has stated elsewhere, “When we learn how to just notice our depressive thoughts and feel our feelings as feelings, deliberately and fully, it turns out that we can begin to live again, right now, even with depressed feelings or depressogenic thoughts. And when we do that, we start to move. We’re able to contribute to others and to make a difference.”



Versus this that I took from Elizabeth Gilbert's recent FaceBook status update:

Dear Ones -

Climb, climb, CLIMB out of that rut!

Do whatever you have to do to get yourself free.

Cut off your hair and braid it into a rope and pull yourself out of that rut by hand if you must...but do not make yourself at home down there in the dark, narrow, trench of sorrow and numbness.

My friend Pastor Rob Bell says that the definition of despair is "the belief that tomorrow is going to be exactly the same as today."

Don't fall for that belief.
   
It doesn't have to be the case.

Three years into my own dark season of depression, I remember thinking, "Maybe this is just my new reality now. Maybe this isn't a 'bad phase' that I'm going through; maybe this is just how it is now, and how it will always be. Maybe this is who I am now — a perpetually sad and aching person, who has no hope. Maybe I need to just accept that realty."

Because nothing seemed to be working I almost went furniture-shopping, in other words, to decorate my rut.

I almost made that rut my permanent address.

But some other, more stubborn, part of me, was like: "NO. We're getting the hell out of here."

The thing that's tricky about saving your own life is that it doesn't generally happen overnight, and it doesn't happen in one straight line. It's not like you get a little better every single day, in terms that you can measure on a graph. It's more like: two steps forward, one step back, three steps sideways, no steps at all for a month or so, and then finally one more step forward.

Recovery and ascension are a frustratingly slow and jerky process.

But if you keep doing the things that take care of you, the general direction will be upward. It may be slow and twisted, but it will be mostly upward. You will rise. No matter how long it takes.

In my case, the things that took care of me were: therapy, prayer, meditation, exercise, antidepressants, the solace of good friends, the comfort of reading good books, the practice of forgiveness and atonement, exposure to nature, looooooong walks, heart-opening acts of generosity, sometimes awkward attempts at self-compassion, listening to non-sad beautiful music, trying to get perspective on the human condition through philosophical study, trying to distract myself by learning Italian, getting rid of objects that held bad memories, setting boundaries with people who hurt or shamed me, moving to a new place...etc, etc.

It was not one thing that saved me, in the end — but all these many things combined.

That was the complex rope I braided, to pull myself out of the rut.

It was not always easy to do those good things for myself. It is easier to stay numb on the couch, or to cry in bed with the covers over your head, than it is to drag yourself outside for a walk on a sunny day — or to ask a friend or a doctor for help.

But I would make myself do these beneficial things, because somewhere deep inside, I knew that I WAS THE ONLY STEWARD OF THIS TROUBLED SOUL, and that I had to save myself.
Nobody could pull me out of that rut but me.

People could help — and they did help — but I ultimately had to get out of there myself.

Slowly, month by month, year by year — imperceptibly at times — it worked.
  
Do not make yourself at home in despair, Dear Ones.

Do not give up on loving stewardship of your troubled soul.

Climb, climb, climb."


And also this part that I copied from a status update on Mike Rowe's FB page:

"Of Assholes and Authenticity

Mystic Meaning writes:

Dear Mike
I'm amazed by what you've created here. It's an inspiration to see how a guy who is really just being himself can generate this tsunami of love and admiration. But being yourself, as odd as it sounds, takes practice. It takes knowing who you are, as Socrates says. This seems to be what you have done. Do you have any thoughts on what it takes to be yourself, the practice of it, the work of it? As paradoxical as it sounds, do you think people need to spend more time "working out" their "true self muscles?”

Hi Mystic,

Thanks for the kind words. It’s been fun to watch this place grow, and while I’m flattered by your suggestion that “being myself” is the sole reason, I’m afraid you may have overestimated my natural charms. Like most people on Planet Earth, I was born lazy, helpless, greedy, and selfish, and I’m pretty sure I’d still be that way if my parents hadn’t insisted I become something less obnoxious. The degree to which they succeeded is debatable, but with respect to the whole nature/nurture conversation, one thing has become obvious to me over the years - being myself is easy. Being someone better is not.

There’s an old comedy bit that goes like this:

First Guy: What is it about cocaine that makes it so wonderful?

Second Guy: Well, it intensifies your personality.

Third Guy: Yeah, but what if you're an asshole?

Existentially speaking, the Third Guy makes a point worth pondering. Why do we assume that all personalities will benefit from being intensified? Moreover, what happens when a genuine asshole is encouraged to be himself?

Millions of people are convinced that something good and virtuous resides in each of us, just waiting to be discovered and explored. They spend billions of dollars searching for their “true self,” secure in the knowledge that finding it will put them on the path to becoming the best person they can possibly be. But remember what Socrates actually said - “the unexamined life is not worth living.” He didn’t say, “examining your life will automatically make you less of an asshole.”

I suspect Hitler knew exactly who he was, and acted accordingly. Likewise, I think Castro and Stalin were probably just “being themselves.” So too were Jim Jones, Pol Pot, Idi Amin, Lizzie Borden, Osama Bin Laden, and millions of lesser known creeps and villains currently serving time in prison for “working out their true self muscles.” Last I checked, our entire planet was bursting with billions of regular Jane’s and Joe’s who lie, cheat, gossip, steal, and then reflect on their bad behavior as anomalous or “out of character.” My philosophy is this:

If you want to be less of an asshole, stop acting like one. If you want more people to like you, do more likable things. Regardless of all the personal enlightenment, we’re not judged in this life by what we discover within ourselves or what we come to believe - we’re only judged on what we do."

Versus this from Pema Chodron:

"We already have everything we need. There is no need for self-improvement. All these trips that we lay on ourselves—the heavy-duty fearing that we’re bad and hoping that we’re good, the identities that we so dearly cling to, the rage, the jealousy and the addictions of all kinds—never touch our basic wealth.

They are like clouds that temporarily block the sun. But all the time our warmth and brilliance are right here. This is who we really are. We are one blink of an eye away from being fully awake."

 And what I have come to, again, I guess, is something I read and copied onto my family blog years ago from here:

"A professor from grad school used to remind us that the measure of maturity was the extent to which one could live with ambiguity. Why do I still find myself stuck marveling in adulthood how often I have to hold paradox in trembling tension? It grates at me not to resolve the unresolvable.

Maturity means growing into the space where the world does not make sense and yet we agree to live there. Because it can still be good. Because there is no other option."

Self-Sufficiency is Overrated

This post and this comment make so much sense to me.

http://blog.penelopetrunk.com/2015/01/03/self-sufficiency-is-overrated/#comments


Dee commented:

In a way, the distortion of feminism has led to this problem increasing. Feminism is about equality, not the idea that you don’t need a man. Somehow it’s become wrong to need your husband.
Here in Sweden it’s becoming more and more absurd.

 If the dishes need doing, it’s done together and after that you walk the dog. Together. Everything takes these couples twice as long because of a ridiculous and unrealistic attemp to make everything exactly 50/50 equal. What happened to “I’ll do the dishes and you walk the dog and then we’ll have time and energy for sex” ? (Hint- that’s better for the marriage in the long run).

 Who cares about who does what? As long as you work as a team to benefit the team, you’re on a winning streak.

 My husband drives our car, not because I can't, but because he likes it better than me. I like to wander off in my thoughts and driving prohibits that.

 I cook, he cleans. Why? Because I’m a great cook and he has OCD, so he cleans 5 times before I’d even think about cleaning. In turn, he’s surprised every time he senses hunger as if it isn’t something you can plan for. (He never gets that you cook before you get hungry).

I spent my early 20’s trying to overcompensate for my gender and prove that “I can too” by throwing myself at any task or domain that was considered “for men”. Until I realized that a lot of the things I was doing, and of course COULD do- I had no interest in doing.

Feminism- free to choose to be the one that handles the barbecue and free to choose to not ruin my manicure digging that hole in the garden.

Sorry for the rant.

Stop Being So Religious

 

 

Stop Being So Religious

 

What

Do sad people have in

Common?

 

It seems

They have all built a shrine

To the past

And often go there

And do a strange wail and

Worship.

 

What is the beginning of

Happiness?

 

It is to stop being

So religious

Like That.

How Not To Need Resurrection

A couple times a week we have picnics at our local cemetery. After we eat I watch the girls play happily and listen to Sophia read the tombstones to everyone while she wonders aloud how they died and who leaves them flowers and such.

The last time we went I had packed a picnic lunch and when I picked up J and V from preschool I asked where they wanted to picnic - on our front lawn or at the cemetery? They chanted the whole way there, "Ce-me-tar-y! Ce-me-tar-y!"

 

 

 

 

 

How Not to Need Resurrection

Children like to play at death—
they hold their breath,
and cross their arms and shut their eyes
until they forget to be dead; then rise
from their nest of pillows and play instead
at being lost or married,
as if their state was mutable, as if, like water
they could flow or freeze or climb without a ladder
into the heavens then drop back down—
they are the first resurrectionists, they alone
understand the trick is not to try,
that once you believe in death, you must surely die.

--Michalle Gould

It's Easter

I just spent the last hour reading poetry on death, crying through most of them, and thinking each one would be my choice for my Easter poem. But then the next, I always loved the next too. I finally stopped reading on this one.

The Voice

By Thomas Hardy 1840–1928
     

Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,

Saying that now you are not as you were

When you had changed from the one who was all to me,

But as at first, when our day was fair.

Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,

Standing as when I drew near to the town

Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,

Even to the original air-blue gown!

Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness

Travelling across the wet mead to me here,

You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,

Heard no more again far or near?

      Thus I; faltering forward,

      Leaves around me falling,

Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,

      And the woman calling.

From: http://catchingdays.cynthianewberrymartin.com/2015/04/01/how-we-spend-our-days-katrina-kenison/

"My husband props up his iPad at the breakfast table, eats his oatmeal, and reads the Times online. Yesterday morning, I did the same—a mistake. The front-page story was about a young black vet in Atlanta suffering from PTSD who was running naked through his apartment complex. It was perfectly clear to anyone with eyes that he was unarmed. A cop shot him anyway. Twice through the chest. Once my tears began, they wouldn’t stop. I spent the day in aimless mourning, grieving for all that is wrong—with me, with us, with our country, our world. I took a long walk and made soup and talked with both my sons and didn’t write a word.

Today I sit down with my bowl of fruit and the book that arrived in the mail yesterday, Abigail Thomas’s new memoir about aging and writing, illness and grief and friendship. The title is perfect for those of us who’ve rounded that corner into the homestretch of middle-age, who struggle daily to make our own peace with life as it is: What Comes Next and How to Like It. We are all hoping to learn the secret.

“I wasn’t writing all the time,” this marvelous writer admits on page nineteen. “Days, sometimes weeks would go by without my doing anything at all. I began to feel like something left too long in the vegetable drawer. Then I had the bright idea of starting a weekly writing workshop. There would be a point to me!”

No wonder I love her. And oh, the joy of beginning the day with good sentences—priming the pump rather than bleeding the heart.

My husband fills a Tupperware container with the remains of last night’s dinner, brushes his teeth, claps a baseball cap on his head and makes his exit. I’m grateful for his good cheer, his work, his steadiness. It’s not lost on me these days that while I’m between books, he’s earning the salary that allows my life to be what it is: a luxury of time. For the next nine hours, the house is mine.
Resisting Abby’s good company (this is hard, but it’s a writing day) I close my book and survey the scene.

Once, a student in my own weekly writing class told us that she writes every day, all the time—in doctors’ waiting rooms, at stoplights, while on hold on the telephone, in the middle of the night. She flipped open a well-used notebook full of her dense scribbles—snippets of essays and scenes and dialogue and prose poems awaiting her finishing touch. I was in awe of her output. It occurred to me that, really, I should be taking a writing class from her.

Were it not for the words I somehow have managed to write, and the thousands of hours I’ve spent sitting in my kitchen and staring out the window in order to produce them, I could not call myself a writer. I do not write at stoplights or in the middle of the night or while on hold. Not ever. I write in hard-won secret pockets of time, in solitude. I sit still as a hunter perched in a blind in the forest, breathing quietly, waiting for words to come into view.

This morning, before I reach for my laptop, I need to get a few things done. I water the houseplants, fill the birdfeeder, start a load of laundry and vacuum the dog hair off the floor. Scrub the stubborn remnants from last night’s roasting pan, carry the recycling out to the bin, straighten the magazines on the coffee table, scribble a grocery list for later.

Setting the house to rights is unavoidably, irrevocably, part of my process. It’s not always easy to know where to draw the line. The other day my friend Maezen, author of three fine books and an archive of brilliant articles, and a Buddhist priest who knows a thing or two about discipline, posted this on Facebook: “I’ve washed every shower curtain in the house. I think this means it is time to write again.”

My first thought: “No, no, there must be grout to clean yet.” My house is never tidier than when I’m preparing to head off into the silent woods of myself. Before I can slip away, I must always rinse out the sink, fold the dishtowel.

Now, my house-wifely duties done, I stand once again at the kitchen counter, gaze out to the mountains, and call my friend. I listen to a heart-rending account of last days and final hours, family members arriving, memories spilling forth. My task in this moment is simply to be here, phone at my ear, holding space for her tears. It occurs to me that “How we spend our days” goes hand-in-hand with “This too, and this too.” Perhaps they are two sides of the same coin, reminding us simply to embrace all the truths of our lives with wise and tender hearts."