comfort isn’t an endgame

I went for a walk in the rain today, trying to train myself, as Mary Oliver instructs: Attention is the beginning of devotion.

The air was cold, and the tips of my fingers, ungloved, stung as they adjusted to the wet. I repeated to myself, again and again, that I don’t need to be comfortable, that comfort does not need to be my aim.

The park was deserted, except for a three other people, and I dropped down into small valley that water, once, carved out. Underneath the birds, and the rains, and the rushing water, music played in my head. I repeated lines to myself, and tried to pay attention. I was out, because I needed it. On a primal level. These last few months, I’ve made jokes about wanting to lie down in the dirt, but underneath the laughter, I think there is something profound and true in my desire to touch the ground. I was an outdoors girl. I hiked (in flip flops, as my mom will tell you), and I camped, and I tried to build for myself small words of my own that didn’t need shelter from walls or the root. I’ve been out of touch with that part of myself, and I’ve suffered for it.

Today, I stayed in the rain even though it made me uncomfortable, because I knew that I needed it. I sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, rushing water on either side of, and watched the current move dark over stones and branches and other unseen things. I stayed there, and watched one large log, hung up on brambles and rocks, be pushed in and out of visibility. Deep fears of what lies underneath the water stirred in me (I pictured dead bodies, then I pictured my own, if I were to slip from my perch). I let the discomfort build, but I was safe, and because why do I always try to turn away from fear?

I walked slow enough to see wildflowers, bright and beaded with rain. I knelt at a dark pond, and watched bubbles puncture the flat surface. Small green things lay just underneath the water – early spring grasses, a maple leave, wild green with black veins. I put my hands into the water, and then I pushed them into the dirt. I wanted the tactility of mud on my skin, the feel of small vines – life finding its way – giving way underneath my fingers. I scratched into the earth, and pulled up fistfuls of black mud, muscular with roots. It smelled rich and rotten, and was cold even on my numbed fingers. I smeared my hands with the dirt until they were dark and streaked and gritty. I turned my palms up; the rain made clean circles on my skin again. Later, I knelt at the creek, and let the current, warm compared to the mud, wash away the rest of the dirt.

As I knelt, the trees above me flapped, and a great blue heron landed in the water in front of me, its body a thing of lethal grace. I froze, so as not to alert him, and watched it move through the water. He stepped slowly, his body rising and falling with the shifting depths of the creek bed. As I watched him, I tried to remember which dead relative (of mine – or was it someone else’s?) had loved blue herons.

He walked against the current, spindle legs adapted for the water in a way that mine, if they were where his were, were not. Once he moved past where I could see him, he stopped long enough to let me move, come closer than I had been before. I sat, this time, on the wet rocks, and continued to watch him. I’m sure he knew it too. He plucked his way, delicate, through the water, catching minnows in his beak, until he heard something I did not in the woods, and lifted his wings into flight. I stood with him, and watched him circle above me, and above the creek, and then above trees. I continued to watch until I couldn’t see his movement any longer, the woods returned to their raining stillness.

It didn’t matter if someone I loved once loved blue herons. This moment was mine, not theirs, firmly of this earth, and of my silent attention.

I walked back to my car after that, my fingers too numb to bend, and my legs and hair drenched in rain, and thought about Mary Oliver, and why we need homes not of beam and nail, but of existence itself.

How wonderful that the universe is beautiful in so many places and in so many ways. But also the universe is brisk and business like, and no doubt does not give its delicate landscapes or its thunderous displays of power, and perhaps perception too, for our sakes or our improvement. Nevertheless, its intonations are our best tonics, if we would take them.” Mary Oliver’s, Upstream

Here’s What I WON’T Quit in 2016: Thoughts on Quit Lit, Staying Put + the New Year

2016a2015 was the year of quit lit. Everyone with a blog, or a Twitter account was quitting something: social media, beer, academia, televisions shows, bread, iPhones, sugar, massive income, the day-to-day happenings of human life. (Hell, I “quit” something, then wrote about it). The biggest of all these stories, though, were the stories of people who “quit” their lives. Who left exorbitant paychecks  to hang out on the beach, who traded Conde Naste for Cape Town, a huge D.C. Home for a grass hut in Mexico. People who, for different reasons, traded the life in front of them for something radically different.

Then they sold their story to magazines so we could know how much better life is from the top of a treehouse.

First, the two caveats I need to include here. One, it is commendable whenever men and women take risks to improve their lives. As long as you’re not abandoning people who depend upon you, then brava for following instinct, need, and passion. Two, I’m going to talk about privilege, and in order to do that, I need to acknowledge my own. I am deeply, radically privileged. I grew up in a financially and emotionally stable home, attended public school without threat of violence, received a college education, and am now on my way to building an equally financially and emotionally stable home. I am very privileged.

Now, here’s what I want to say about these “I quit my life stories:”

At their best, they are interesting and possibly mildly inspiring. At their worst, they are shaming, and they are shallow.

When I first started to see these stories, I ate them up. They were fantasies illustrated with bright photographs (all optimized for my cell phone screen), for the 600 or so words, I enjoyed participating in the escape.

But as I read more of these articles, I became more discerning of the tone of most of these stories. I realized that as much as these stories are explanations of one person’s highly individualized choice, they’re also laced with the insinuation that their choice was the right one, not just for themselves, but for all of us. They were writing because they found the secret to the good life, and if we were choosing to stay (regardless of the reason) we were the real suckers.

“‘I quit,’ goes the text. ‘And you should, too,’ goes the subtext.” Megan Garber, The Atlantic

To quit is to declare that you do not need to learn how to deal with what’s in front of you. It means that your responsibilities, and commitments, and life structures demand so little of you that if you vacate yourself from all of them no one, yourself included, will suffer.

At its very core, it’s a story of privilege. My life was so great, I could no longer live it. Those who can to do this do so because the riches of their first life were so great that they are able to take that excess and parlay that into an easier, more enjoyable second life. I’ve yet to read the story of the public school teacher who quits, moves to Phuket, and starts a beauty blog.

The lie of these articles is that there is life, and there is bliss, and to reach the latter, you must first escape the former. This is a shallow, half-hearted response to the whole vast tapestry of the human experience. A good life, a life well-lived is, yes, marked by risk and by courage, by changing what does not serve and by celebrating what does. But this life is also rooted in relationship, in steadfast presence, and in sacrifice. In staying when it would feel better to leave.

To have weight and dimension, a life can’t be only about passion, but also must be about recognizing and honoring what is set before you.

And what’s set before all of us is different, influenced by background and upbringing, time, circumstance, location, privilege, and a whole host of other factors as randomly assigned as these. What’s beautiful, commendable, worth of story, is the people who take what is given to them, and, with dutiful devotion, show up for themselves, for their families, for the responsibilities that they’re been yoked to. Who create passion and adventure and bliss where they are.

For most people, to quit would not only isn’t feasible, but it isn’t responsible. It isn’t commendable. It’s an easy out in the face of the hard and necessary staying. For many, to quit is not even an option.

“It is a luxury to be able to quit something, whether that thing be a job or a food or a pair of Lululemon Luxtreme Wonder Unders. And it’s a luxury, too, to be able to write about that quitting.” Megan Garber, The Atlantic. 

I am building lives within the hem of responsibility. I know—I’ve always known—that I cannot quit our jobs to travel the world (as much as I’d like to). I cannot cut away from my life here to live a life out in the ever exotic there, no matter how many bloggers assure us I can.

Not only that, but I are yoked to a community of people as well. Relationships take care, and time, and proximity in order to flourish, and I, in turn, need these men and women for our own growth and general human decency. To quit what I’m building here would be to quit, in a way, all of our friends and family, and that would destroy me.

2016aI was raised by a man who worked hard, with little complaint, because he understood that his responsibility to provide for his wife and children was sacred. His three bad habits, he always told my brother and I, were food, shelter, and clothing for Aaron and I. My mother, in response to my father’s work, sank herself into motherhood with the ferocity of deep love.

Planting into a life of responsibility and interdependence isn’t sexy. It doesn’t translate well into a feature story, but it is deeply human. It’s worthy to pursue, admirable to work towards, and it is profoundly, essentially human.

In this new year, I want to hear the stories about those who stayed. Who stuck out demanding jobs, because it’s what they needed to do, and who remained faithful to their partner during trials, because they knew that nurturing the commitment is better than abandoning it.

Life is such that we anchor ourselves to one another, to institutions, to the dutiful devotion of love. To quit, is to wrench those bonds apart—or it is to never form them.

That which we cannot quit gives us context. It gives us weight, and shape, and it gives us access into the sacred. That which we do not quit shapes us into faithful, steadfast stalwarts of lives lived well and true.

***

In honor of the life in front of me, here is what I will NOT quit in 2016:

My job
General fiscal responsibility
Carbs
Coffee
Television (I will learn what happens to Jon Snow)
Writing (because I would wither into a shell of myself if I did)
Hard work
Friendships with extraordinary women
Family

But, because to be human is to contradict, here is what I will quit in 2016:

Sugar (my doctors and health care providers claim I’ll feel better if I do…)
Diet Coke
Possibly cable (because Netflix and HBO Go…and debt).
Comparison (Because it’s toxic. It’s brutalizing to hear that I don’t measure up, and usually, the only person I hear this from is myself. It’s cruel to me, it’s cruel to the specific women I compare myself to, and it’s cruel to the general unity of womanhood.)
Talking shit about myself
Thinking that publication is the reason why I write.
Social media before bed
Uncomfortable clothing
Inaction

Onward, onward, into the New Year!

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Health and Wellness: Because My Body Needs My Care

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I’ve had it up to here with my body.

I don’t have health issues, per say, but my body is high maintenance. It has itself some issues.

If you’ve spend much time with me, you’ll know about all my food stuff. I’m lactose intolerant (enough so that it’s not worth it to eat that piece of pizza). I have acid reflux, which keeps me avoiding tomato, onion, spicy heat, excessive grease. I don’t handle hunger or a drop in blood sugar well (hangry is a familiar state, as are the “too hungry to talk to you,” “too hungry to see straight,” and “so hungry I feel nauseous) states. I’m frequently exhausted, and need lots of sleep. My sinus passages are narrow, and I’m prone to painful sinus infections. I did something to my low back years ago, and now the base of my spine throbs with pain if I’m certain positions, sit too long, stand too long. I waged a decade long war with severe acne, and still have sensitive skin (I’m writing this slathered in steroid cream).

See what I mean about high-maintenance?

My body has been revealing these glitches in the system for about five, six years, and in that time, my relationship to general health and wellness has been rocky. If we were a couple, we’d have broken up and come back together a thousand, obnoxious times.

I used to be an avid, almost obsessive, exerciser, but I lost the zeal and the dedication. All through college, I cycled through intense mental commitments to a workout routines and deep love affairs with my bed and my books (and, let’s be honest, Netflix). My eating habits, though never dreadful, slid steadily from lean proteins, fresh vegetables and monitored portions to granola bars and pasta kept ready in the fridge. The growing up of life brought higher levels of stress than I still don’t how to handle, and I’ve never been good at creating environments of health or peace for myself.

And it’s been a while since I’ve really, really cared. Healthy living has always been a priority. It’s always on my list, but it’s been lower on it than, say, re-watching Silicon Valley.

Until recently.

Now, I’m fed-up. Fed-up with not feeling well. Fed-up with eating and not feeling full, with constantly managing my body’s temper tantrums, with having rashes spread down my arms and up my legs, and fed-up with feeling so captive to a body that was designed to run better than this.

I’m fed-up with what comes from not being intentional about health and wellness.

My body is my home. It’s a house for my mind and for my soul and it’s the vessel that carries me through the world. It’s just been recently that I’ve come to really believe this, and it’s made me want to shake my own shoulders: Why don’t you give your body more of your energy? More of your love and your care?

The same goes with food. It’s fuel; it’s the means to my energy. Why do I eat junk that does the opposite of what food is supposed to do? (In an impulse of nostalgia, I bought myself one of those blue-raspberry ICEEs at the movie theater, remembering how often I’d beg my mom for one as a kid. I felt that sugar crash hard, and afterward thought to myself, how many more times will I do that before I really learn?)

So I’m setting myself out on a mission. A pursuit or an exploration or an adventure (I don’t want to call it a journey) into healthy living and general bodily wellness.

I don’t have the money or the time to see a dietitian or an allergist to help me decide what to eat, nor do I have the means to hire a personal trainer to teach me how to enjoy my workouts. I’m also not interested in any cult of “drink this powdered shake,” “take this miracle pill,” “chia seeds/acai berries/eating-like-a-cave-man will save your life.”

I do, however, have an arsenal of exercise options that don’t include a paid gym membership or running (hello, apartment complex workout center, goodbye hell on pavement), and I do have the ability to experiment with my foods. Already I’ve set a (pathetically small) workout goal for myself, and have begun tracking what foods create what effect within me. Already I’ve learned that lentil and avocados are a great combination for me, but the very best cheeseburger I’ve ever tanks my energy levels and turns me into jell-o with legs.

I don’t expect that I’ll widen my sinus passages or make my lactose intolerance go away through healthier eating. In fact, I have a feeling that if I dedicate myself to eating well for my body, I’ll actually become more discerning and have an even longer list of foods I’m not interested in eating.

I do expect that I’ll be able to raise my energy levels. I do expect that eating more thoughtfully will increase my productivity and creativity, and I do expect that working out will make me feel stronger in my body, feel more capable and more energized, and more awake to the world around me.

I also expect this to be really hard. I expect to skip workouts and hate the ones I complete, and I very much expect to find myself shoveling spoonfuls of chocolate chips and peanut butter into my mouth for no other reason that I really, really wanted to. I expect to cook food that tastes terrible, and to be cranky about saying no to things that won’t serve me well.

But I have to start somewhere, right? I can’t start out with all the answers.

My body needs to be precious to me. Not for vanity or pride (though I won’t say no to a dropping a few pounds if it happens), but for durability, and for strength. For knowing that my soul, to which I’ve always given infinitely more care and concern, is housed in a vessel that will sustain my life.

 

P.S. To anyone who has already figured out this lesson, who knows which foods give the best fuel and who get excited for Saturday morning workouts, help me! I’ll take any advice, recipes, food recommendations, workout tips you want to share.

The Anxiety Files: This Land is Mine and I Can Choose What to Let In

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For the last couple weeks, I’ve been moving at a velocity that frightens me.

Most of this activity has been necessary—work demands, groceries need restocking, and friends have birthdays that need celebration—which made it okay for a while. But then, this miniature season of vibrating stress started to feel more like a state of being, and all my protective walls began to draw themselves up.

At some point in the last few days the strong current of life-moving-a-little-too-fast intensified into a flood. I could feel it in my body. The stress took on a dangerous physicality. My heart beat had become a bang, even when I was still, and inside my rib cage, my lungs snagged on rib bones, sharp, painful breath. My fingers fluttered. A tight, heavy ache had set into my shoulders, and my pupils were constantly dilating. Stress had hijacked my body, and, to extend the metaphor, was about to hand the controls over to my illness.

Anxiety is a darkness that lives inside of me. It feeds on stress. It delights in my fraying. It is chemical and inhuman, and it is intent upon my undoing. I know this, because I’ve been undone by my anxiety, been ripped apart and left hollow by onrushing adrenaline and unchecked cortisol in my bloodstream. I’ve been left bared and scared and sobbing in a downtown transit station by the toxic chemical imbalances that do deadly things me.

When I was first diagnosed with a Generalized Anxiety Disorder, I had no tools. I was given a vocabulary and a set of breathing exercises and a prescription for Zoloft. For a long time, that was enough. That was a compounding miracle, actually. That alone helped me. The medication steadied the neurological reactions that I still don’t fully understand. It allowed my body to become healthy again. It gave me the time to seek out the rescue I needed, and then, after I’d come back to the land of the living and the laughing, it gave me the safety to experiment with other weapons against my anxiety.

There are some tricks I’ve learned—apples and chamomile tea helps, as does deep pressure on the tops and sides of my shoulders—and some powerful coping mechanisms—deep breathing can reset the nervous system, and loud music distracts my thinking. There are a handful of other weapons I’ve gathered, that do more than just beat back the anxiety, but actually serve to feed my humanity. A phone call to a friend or to a parent can stop a panic attack in its tracks. And very little can stand up against Isaiah 43:2, because “when you pass through the waters I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you.”

More than all of these things, though, I think I’m learning how important making choices—before I hit the point of panic—really are. I say “I think,” because this is such a new revelation (a baby of a thought), because maybe I’m totally full of shit. But maybe I’m not.

At least for me, panic and anxiety operate entirely outside of choice. If I slips into the really heart of anxiety or panic—that tenting of vague, oppressive, overwhelming fear and danger—I’m usually past the point of choice. I’m in survival mode, and I am hanging onto whatever edges of reality I can, hoping that when I emerge, the damage won’t be permanent. (I have to believe it never will be).

But that period beforehand—that time that I was in this week, where I could feel the flood of life intersecting dangerously with anxiety, but before I was caught up and swept away in it—I am still autonomous.

This life I have, this body that I’m in, this soul—they’re mine. They’re mine to be the gatekeepers for, and they’re mine to protect from the threats within and threats without.  (Those of you who are wiser, more experienced, less blind are saying what did you think they were, Torrie.)

This land is mine to let in and let out, and if I am healthy enough, cognizant enough, tuned-in enough, I can chose to pull up my walls against the external factors that trigger my internal illness. This weekend, I took Friday off. I sat in a coffee shop, and I read. I wrote. I edited my novel manuscript. I stared out the window at passing cars. I watched individual leaves shake and stir in the wind. I had lunch with my dad, and I drove with a friend on errands errands. I moved slowly, and I breathed deeply, and I weighed every decision by the questions what will this let in? and what will this keep out?

And you know what? I feel like a whole person again.

My fraying edges have been bound up, and the internal shaking has been stilled. My anxiety has been beat back down, and for a little while at least, it should stay there.