The View From Above

“I just attract bad people. It’s like I’m being punished or something,” my fifteen year old daughter cried, her face buried in her hands. “I mean, how hard is it to be loyal and to do what you say you’re going to do?”

“Actually, over the long haul, it’s very, very hard,” I told her. “I would argue,” I went on, “that you aren’t attracting bad people, you’re attracting human beings. And they’re imperfect and they disappoint.”

She looked up, her tear stained face wearing an expression of both anguish and disappointment. For a moment, I regretted my candor. I felt like I was taking away a piece of her innocence. She was in the grip of her first breakup with her first boyfriend–her first love. The adult in me knew that this was a valuable lesson in managing grief, in learning what you will and won’t accept from a partner, and in evaluating your own contribution to a failed relationship of value.

The mother in me was much more primal. I wanted to gather her into my arms and tell her that a more enlightened, mature boy–and later, man–awaited her. That she was kind, loving and beautiful in every sense of the word and that any man would be lucky to have her. I wanted to clobber the 16 year old boy who had broken her heart.

My daughter’s heartbreak was in some ways my own. I had liked the boyfriend and his family. I believe they cared for each other. And while I knew the odds of long-term success were low–despite my nearly 30 year relationship with my own high school sweetheart–I was shocked when they broke up suddenly just before school let out for summer. The following months were up and down and had recently erupted into a hurricane of drama and recriminations the likes of which are only understood by teenagers at their hormonal and emotional peak.

My plan was to rise above the teenage angst and impart wisdom sparingly, compassionately and at the right time so that my message could be heard in the loving and helpful manner in which it was intended.

In reality, I lost sleep, worried about my daughter, wondered what information I didn’t have and took every opportunity to share my latest thoughts and revelations with my daughter who grew increasingly wary of car rides and mealtimes. I felt thrown into the front seat of the roller coaster ride is that is high school friendships and romance. I felt like a teenager all over again, reliving all the ups and downs of my own adolescence. It was hard enough the first time around; once was enough.

What I know–and what my young daughter will come to know–is that relationships with human beings offer no guarantees. People are fickle, unpredictable. Even the most well-chosen friend or mate will disappoint you and hurt you, sometimes deeply. Finding someone who “simply” does what they say they’re going to do and is loyal is beyond difficult, it’s impossible. People have different interpretations of the same circumstances and conflicting agendas. Events have a momentum of their own, with one person’s behavior impacting the other person’s response. The line between who was betrayed and who did the betraying can be perilously thin, and depends on who is telling the story.

I wanted to explain all this to my daughter in a way that wasn’t pessimistic, but also dispels any unrealistic expectations about people and relationships that she may be harboring. More than anything, I want my only child to love deeply and to be loved.

One of my greatest challenges as the parent of a teenager is to accept that my child will experience the emotional ups and downs that accompany a full adult life. I can’t conceive of every hurdle she’ll encounter, every difficult decision she’ll have to make, every disappointment or loss, every triumph, or every bittersweet moment. She, like all of us, will learn as she goes. And sometimes she’ll learn the hard way.

My instinct as a mother is to protect my daughter by providing her with guidance and direction for everything she might encounter. But the desperate and grasping manner in which the advice is given makes it harder for the advice and guidance to be heard and appreciated–particularly when I’m riding the roller coaster right alongside my teenager.

To see clearly, you need a little distance. Up close, everything looks big, blurry, flawed, fast-approaching and urgent. If I’m to offer myself as a guide to my daughter, I need perspective. I need to zoom my lens out and focus more on the scene and less on the details; like a general on a hilltop or a bird in flight. Only from that vantage point, can you survey the landscape, assess your options and decide what to do.

Perhaps this is the best and most important lesson I can teach my daughter. I can’t tell her everything she’ll ever need to know about people, love and relationships, I can only prepare her for the road. If she can give herself the space and time she needs to see the view and make a clear eyed decision, she’ll be less prone to making rash, emotionally-based decisions that detract from the goal of creating loving and healthy relationships that are driven by compassion and compromise, rather than ego and the need to be right.

Maybe she’ll be the one who teaches me.

The Selfish Gene

After a long hiatus from blogging and writing, I find myself at another of life’s crossroads.

Having hit my mid-forties, I am in the throws of perimenopause and the powerful mood swings, the restless sleep pattern and the emotional fragility that comes with the territory. My daughter, now fifteen, is hitting her stride as a teenager and a high schooler and I’m staring down the march of time and the inevitability of becoming an empty-nester in a few short years.

I’ve come to realize that “Empty Nest” isn’t just a state of being, it’s a state of mind–and it’s gradual. One doesn’t become an empty-nester when their child leaves home, one becomes an empty-nester in phases, as their child undergoes the long process of pulling away and achieving independence, ultimately building an adult life of their own. It is not proving to be an easy process for me.

Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. I have always felt exceptionally close to my daughter. She is an only child and–for better or worse–has received the full force of all the attention and resources that our family can bring to bear. Seeing her blossom into a young adult is both exhilarating and poignant. There are days I want to burst with pride, and days I want to bury my head under the covers. Things that never used to strike me as noteworthy can now bring me to tears or strike in me a fear as to the state of society.

As I find myself struggling with the thought of launching my beloved daughter into the world, I am plagued by fears and doubts. Did I teach her everything I need to? Did I set the right example? Did I cultivate her ability to think for herself so that she can handle what life will throw at her? The answer, of course, is both yes and no. I’ve had countless conversations and have done my very best to lead by example. But I am an imperfect woman and mother. I can’t possibly conceive of every situation she will encounter and the endless permutations that accompany even the most common of life’s hurdles.

Teenagers have a well-earned reputation for being self-centered. I don’t think they are malicious or intentional in their expression of this quality, it’s what the age and stage demand. They are focused on their present needs, what feels good in the moment, demonstrating their ability to handle the complexities of adulthood, experimentation, and on laying the foundation for a future they can’t yet visualize. Their ability to think through the consequences of a given action is curtailed both by their limited life experience and by their still-developing prefrontal cortex. I have to trust her, but to do that, I have to trust myself.

It’s easy to get thrown into mindset of a teenager when you live with one. You are susceptible to their emotional weather, including any obvious stress and mood swings, as well as the more subtle “cloud” that can hang over an otherwise positive interaction. But as I watch my daughter pull away, I know that I must not only allow her to go, but also to encourage it by filling the space she leaves behind. To do that, I may need to take a page from the Teenager Playbook and become a bit more self-centered. What does my life look like now that I’m no longer consumed with raising a child? What dreams and goals have I put on the back burner and how can I revive them? What does this next stage of my life look like?

Perhaps most importantly, as someone who has long struggled with change and the uncertainty of transitions, how do I embrace the evolving relationship I have with my daughter?

At this point, as I stand in the space between intensive mothering and an empty nester, I find that I have more questions than answers.

 

What You Know for Sure

It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so. –Mark Twain

Last night, I watched an interview on 20/20 with Diane Sawyer and Sue Klebold, the mother of Columbine shooter Dylan Klebold. Like many, to the extent I’ve thought about the parents of Dylan and his partner in the crime, Eric Harris, it has been with a degree of disdain and hostility. What kind of parent doesn’t know that their teenager is building pipe bombs in the garage? How could the kids be so mentally disturbed and the parents be so oblivious? Honestly, I’ve never been able to muster much sympathy for the family of either shooter. A native of Colorado, I recently visited the Columbine Memorial and thought it appropriate that neither Dylan nor Eric were mentioned or acknowledged. After all, as a society, we don’t want to in any way signal approval–even in the form of compassion–for what they did to dozens of innocent people.

As I watched Sue Klebold, my position softened. Seventeen years later, this woman–this mother–remains heartbroken. She cried at many points throughout the interview, burying her face in her hands or dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

Sue Klebold was not a perfect mother and she acknowledges that she missed disturbing signs that, in retrospect, should not have been ignored. Dylan was withdrawn. He spent a lot of time in his room. His grades dropped. He was caught by the police for breaking into a van and stealing computer equipment (a felony charge). His grades were slipping. Additionally, the Klebold’s older son was having some issues (dabbling with drugs) and the parents were directing most of their attention to him.

But as I watched the interview, I found myself thinking about whether or not she really “missed” the signs. It’s not unusual for teenagers to be withdrawn and mercurial. Or for their grades to slip. Or even for them to have minor (non-violent) brushes with the law. Teens aren’t known for their good judgment or for their capacity to think several steps down the line so as to evaluate the risks or potential consequences of a given action. Furthermore, Dylan largely kept his anguish to himself. He had a secret journal in which he wrote about his suicidal thoughts, but he didn’t confide in anyone or seek help.

Besides, there was a long list of adults who knew as much or more than Dylan’s parents about what was going on. Eric Harris, a good friend of Dylan’s, had a website in which he made threats and described violent revenge fantasies. So disturbing was this website that it had drawn the attention of local authorities (after a parent whose child was named on the site reported it). Both boys worked at a pizza place and their boss was aware that they were making pipe bombs–and oddly never reported this to the parents or to authorities. After writing a disturbing essay in which he describes massacring students at his high school, Dylan’s teacher expressed her dismay (and offense), and gave the essay to a school counselor–who again did nothing. Then there was the 18 year old girlfriend, and Dylan’s prom date, who helped the boys obtain guns for the under aged boys. She apparently never paused to consider the possible outcome–for Dylan and Eric, for other people, or for herself as an accessory to a crime. Nor did the two men who sold the guns.

Columbine was a failure of many adults, at many levels. But in defense of those involved, it was in a pre-Columbine era. No one really thought that two middle class boys from good families would go all Natural Born Killers on their classmates. Of that, everyone seemed quite certain. They had a blind spot.

What struck me as I watched Sue Klebold–beyond her contrition, her anguish and her willingness to assume responsibility for her failure to see the signs–was her normalcy. This wasn’t a neglectful mother or a heartless one. This was a mother who was blindsided. A mother who thought she knew her son and thought he would come to her if he were in crisis. She seemed vulnerable, gentle and fragile. In addition to losing her son, she became isolated and was pilloried. She lost her marriage of 30 years after “grief took us in different directions.” She has been ruined emotionally, psychologically and financially (after being sued by the victims’ families).

Many parents get on their high-horse and think this would never happen to them. They would see the signs, they would probe or go through their kids’ rooms to uncover secrets. But I know many parents–good parents–who don’t always see a situation with their child for what it is. We all know parents who are in denial about something, be it their child’s behavioral or learning problems, their difficulty in making or keeping friends, or their lack of motivation. It’s hard to know as a parent if these issues are a phase that the child will outgrow as they mature–or the sign of something darker and more profound. Is smoking pot a sign of a serious drug problem in the making, or just a bit of teenage rebellion or curiosity? Is shoplifting a gateway to a life of crime, or an impulsive decision by an otherwise good kid? Is a kid who seems a bit withdrawn or secretive going through puberty and seeking space, or are they depressed? There are no easy answers.

Fortunately, most of us don’t have to worry that our child’s “red flags” will culminate in the most deadly school shooting in American history. But on a smaller scale, parents make judgment calls all the time about how seriously–or not–to take an issue that their child is presenting. Most parents whose child has been through a crisis will say that it wasn’t an overnight “snap” it was a gradual decline, a pattern that becomes clear mostly in hindsight.

In other words, all that really separates Sue Klebold from the rest of us is the depth of her son’s problems. He could have turned to drugs or alcohol, or wallowed in depression for years, or failed out of college–and she wouldn’t be so universally criticized for shoddy parenting. Instead, Dylan Klebold faced a perfect storm: he was depressed, had an influential (and by all accounts, psychopathic but charming) friend, and was able to obtain access to guns. It was a deadly–if somewhat unlikely–confluence of events.

I believe that the older you get, the greater your responsibility to see situations as complex and to show compassion for those who have encountered extraordinary circumstances. Of course it’s safer and emotionally more satisfying to conclude that, faced with similar evidence, we would have avoided the pitfalls experienced by another. But in fact, I suspect that it’s those in possession of such certainty who are most at risk for calamity.

They never thought to check their blind spot.

A Rose by Another Name

I have a guilty pleasure: I watch The Bachelor. I’ve watched the show for years; it’s like a train wreck that I don’t want to witness, but from which I can’t avert my gaze.

It’s become a bit of a joke between me and my husband. Participants on the show question who “is there for the right reasons” and who is not. While no one has explicitly stated what the “right reasons” are, frequent use of the phrase “I can see myself spending the rest of my life with [fill in the blank]” provide an important clue. Conversely, those accused of secretly being “in it for themselves” suggest what might be a “wrong reason” to appear on the show. Left and right, single women (and men on the sibling show The Bachelorette) who have “built walls” are now “letting their guard down” and “taking a chance on love.”

The premise of the show lends itself to ridicule. An initial pool of 20-30 women date the same man and on each episode, the Bachelor whittles down the group at a Rose Ceremony by offering a single, long-stem rose to each woman he wants to keep around for another week, sending the two or three remaining and roseless women home. The series culminates in a very dramatic choice between the last two women standing. One woman receives an elaborate proposal in The Final Rose Ceremony (complete with a huge diamond ring, thoughtfully provided for advertising purposes by Neil Lane), and the newly engaged couples walks off into the sunset (literally). The woman he doesn’t choose leaves tearfully in a limousine, left to wonder where she went wrong.

The show provides an interesting window into human psychology and the power of the ego. Every season, I watch as these women angle and posture to “win” the love of the Bachelor. They compete with each other, they vie for his attention and affection, they sabotage other budding relationships, they look for “signs” that their relationship is real and not just a contrived or artificial construct supplied for a rabid television audience. At its heart, the show is a competition. And no one likes to lose when it comes to competition.

It begs the question: Do these women really want the man? Or do they just want the rose?

The show got me thinking about the complexities of competition and ego. Subjugating my ego in favor of a higher good–and a potentially better outcome–is not a skill that comes naturally to me, or apparently to the female contestants on The Bachelor. When I perceive competition, I often feel driven to win, sometimes only to later learn that I was competing for a booby prize.

This issue has come to fore recently as my daughter has been applying to private high schools. She began thinking that her current school–which she has loved as a middle schooler–is too small for high school. No problem, I thought. We’ll apply to a couple of larger schools that offer more activities, more classes and have a larger student body. As the search began, it became clear that this was not a process for the faint of heart. There are tours, visit days, interviews, standardized testing, applications and essays. It feels like applying to college. And the competition is about as stiff. Turns out, 9th grade is a very competitive entry point and her odds of admission to any one school aren’t that good given the number of applicants and the number of available spots.

Suddenly, high school applications became a major focus of our time, energy and conversation. Like so many things in life, we seem to want most that which we can’t (or are least likely to) have. The most coveted, prestigious schools become The Prize. I’ve realized that it’s actually very hard to step back and examine whether or not a particular school is actually the right fit because the waters are muddied with a lot of extraneous information that may or may not have any bearing on my child or my family. Parent chatter, student chatter, a school’s reputation or perceived level of exclusivity…it all becomes part of the backdrop of the admissions process.

Like any parent, I want the very best for my daughter. But what is the “very best” in this context? My mind knows that “the best” for one child isn’t necessarily “the best” for another. But my ego wants her to be admitted everywhere she applies.

In other words, I’m having trouble figuring out if I really want the man, or just the rose.

Of course the easy, pat answer would be say that I want both. I want my daughter to receive the admit letter because I want her to attend that particular school. But that wouldn’t be completely honest. The truth is that you never really know what a school (or a job, or a man/partner, or a house…) is like until you live with the experience for a period of time. At this point, we have clues about the “right fit” but no assurances. Like the applicants, the schools are putting their best foot forward. Just like the participants on The Bachelor, each party is revealing only what they want the world to see. The reality of living with the choice–after the rush of the competition is over–may be very different. In fact, most couples on the show don’t last, so the available evidence suggests that the fantasy doesn’t match the reality most of the time.

Once in a while, a brave woman–who really is there for the right reasons–tells the Bachelor that she just isn’t feeling it and she bows out of the competition. She decides to play the long game. She isn’t looking for this week’s rose, she’s looking for a husband.

She leaves her ego behind, gathers her dignity and her evening gown and steps into the limo and leaves the show, the contestants and the Bachelor behind. She’s connecting with something deeper than ego and more powerful than winning for the sake of winning; she’s connecting with that part of herself that knows that the only real victories in life were never a competition to begin with.

Dichotomies

One of the things I love about yoga is that it provides me with an opportunity to re-examine some of my long-held beliefs about things which are, on the surface, contradictory.

Strength and softness.

Ease and effort.

Fierce, but not angry.

Active, but calm.

These phrases are often used by an instructor during practice to remind us that things seem like opposites can coexist on the yoga mat. And by extension, they can coexist in life off the mat.

Midway through a class, I might understand exactly what it means to be both active yet calm. For instance, when you are holding a pose, to an observer you are still. But your muscles are engaged and active, your core is tight and firm, your breath is deliberate and strong. Without these subtle but powerful forms of engagement, you can’t hold the pose. To take another example, when you are in a Warrior One pose–your front knee bent, your back leg straight and strong, your arms high above your head–you are making your body as big as you can. You are looking fierce and powerful in your stance. But this doesn’t mean you’re angry.

If ever there was a place where power comingled with vulnerability, it’s on the yoga mat. A pose in which you feel solid one day might be inaccessible the next. Even from moment to moment, we might vacillate from steady and balanced to falling out of a pose due to a change that could be as minor as where our eyes are focused or in a barely perceptible adjustment in our hips or feet.

In yoga, we get used to the idea that poses are impermanent. That bodies are fickle. That we can bring seemingly opposite ideas together to create a more balanced practice.

The challenge–and the less obvious question–is how to bring this way of thinking to everyday life. What does it mean to be active but not “wound up”? How does that manifest in any given situation? What would it feel like to be both strong and soft in a very charged and difficult conversation with someone you care about? How can you project power and assertiveness without tipping into aggressiveness or steamrolling?

I think it’s easy to slip into a mindset in which busyness or its cousin, anxiety, is confused with action. They might look alike on the surface, but actually they aren’t the same thing. Not all activity is productive. Not all busyness serves our larger goals. When we want people to take us seriously or understand our pain or anger, we rely on emotionality as the fuel to convey urgency and severity. But is there another way?

As with yoga, I think it’s in the subtlety of the movement–or the communication.

I don’t have the answers to the ways in which these attributes can coexist in every given situation, but I believe that practicing on the mat every day gives me a chance to know the feeling of it. To know how I feel in my body and in my mind when I am fierce but not angry. When I’m strong, but also soft. When I’m active, but calm and still. By familiarizing myself with that experience, that feeling, I might be able to conjure it up in the moments off the mat when I need it most.

When we think in black and white terms, words like strength and vulnerability or action and calm might exist on opposite ends of a spectrum.   We polarize so that we can decisively lean one way or the other. When we exist in the middle of the spectrum, we have to be more comfortable with ambiguity; with the idea that both concepts are possible at different times, and even at the same time.

My hope is that when the need arises, I’ll be able to remind myself that just because I’m powerful doesn’t mean I have to use that power. Just because I’m feeling emotionally threatened doesn’t mean I have to act out in anger. Just because I believe myself to be strong doesn’t mean I can’t also be soft and vulnerable. To accomplish this middle ground, I’ll have to pay attention to the details. Remember to listen to what is being said and not said. Ask myself–and answer honestly–if I’m speaking out of honesty or out of ego.

Because as any seasoned yogi will tell you, the difference between holding a pose or losing your balance, can be as simple as where you choose to fix your attention.

The View From Here

I’ve noticed an interesting pattern, one that has revealed itself in yoga class.

When an instructor introduces a new pose, as a practitioner, you have a choice: Do you want to attempt the pose, or as one instructor humorously puts it, would you rather watch-asana?

For me and my fellow Type-A yogis, we tend to try, sometimes doggedly, to achieve the next level of a pose. I’ve written before about how yoga is, among other things, a practice in patience. Your body won’t do what it can’t do. Sometimes you have to step back and spend months working on the basics before you can successfully move on to the next level. No amount of forcing or pushing will enable your body to twist or hold that which it isn’t flexible or strong enough to do. At other times, a pose that was accessible yesterday is elusive today. Such are the vagaries of a yoga practice.

What I’m coming to realize is that yoga is ultimately a practice in letting go of your ego. Do I push myself into certain poses because it really enhances my practice, or because I want to prove (to myself or to others?) that I can do it? Yoga makes me feel good and I love the challenge of trying something new, of taking risks in a place where the stakes are low. If I never achieve a handstand hold without the help of the wall, will my life be worse? Would it be better if I could? No. It’s just something to do for fun.

Sometimes, the view of a mountain from a distance is as breathtaking as the view from the peak of that same mountain. Neither view is necessarily better than the other, it’s just a matter of perspective. Part of my practice–on the mat and off the mat–needs to involve deciding what I want to accomplish and what I’m capable of letting go. Some poses will never be accessible to me. I’ll need to be content with watching what is possible for someone else, and taking pleasure in that view, even if it’s a view I’ll never know firsthand.

I love the physical practice of yoga. I love how it makes me feel and I love the strength, balance and flexibility that I’m achieving through a daily practice. This is the first time in my life that I’ve ever enjoyed–craved–a physical activity to this degree. I’ve lost over 50 pounds and I feel like I’m in the best shape of my life. But I’m not in my 20s anymore. I’ve got limitations and I’ve never been particularly good at acknowledging them. Yoga is forcing me to do this, albeit grudgingly.

Intellectually, I know that yoga is about the journey. It’s not about achieving every pose, it’s about exploring your body and your mind as you attempt new things. It’s about getting to know yourself as a learner, a student. It’s about experiencing frustration, risk, satisfaction, discomfort, space and openness in a zone of safety. In many areas of life, we are too invested in the outcome to experience these things because we believe, rightly or wrongly, that if we “fail” (whatever that means), that we’ll let someone down, be perceived as stupid or incompetent, feel embarrassed or ashamed. Yoga is a place where we can experiment with only our own egos as the judge. When we see our egos rear up and take center stage, we are also confronted with the fact that we have the power to let go of it and just enjoy the practice.

For me, this means that I need to treat letting go of my ego as a “pose” in my practice. In other words, something to work on, just like I’m working on my handstand or forearm-stand. I need to practice backing off. Giving myself permission to accept that some poses are not possible in my body–and that some, while perhaps possible with a lot of time and practice, are not ones I need to experience.

Sometimes that mountain is even more stunning and awe-inspiring from a distance than it is from the top.

The Other Side of the Coin

Life works in mysterious ways. I recently wrote a post entitled The High Road, about my outreach to a neighbor and (ex)friend with whom I’ve had a falling out. She never responded, by the way.

A couple of weeks ago, I received an outreach from another friend with whom I’ve not spoken in about a year. I met this woman at work and we hit it off almost immediately. There have been a couple of bumps in the road. At one point, she got angry with me, hung up on me, and we didn’t talk for six months. We saw each other at a coffee shop and any prior resentments seemed to melt away. We more or less picked up where we left off.

For six months or so, I thought things were going pretty well. But then, she was always too busy to get together, wasn’t initiating much contact and not particularly responsive to my efforts to get together. After several weeks (or was it months?) of this–and in the wake of another “too busy” response–I told myself that I wouldn’t reach out again. I would wait to hear from her.

I never did.

Then, about three months ago, I was visiting a client in the same building where she works and I wrote her an email to say I’d been thinking of her and to wish her a Merry Christmas. Crickets.

Then, months later and out of the blue, I got an email from her asking if I’d like to get together for coffee or lunch. I’m struck by the irony that I would find myself on both sides of this equation within a couple of weeks of each other. In The High Road, I wrote about reaching out not because I expected a response or a reconciliation, but because I wanted to behave in a way that’s consistent with my values. I want to be someone who is able to make amends, to move forward, to recognize my own role in whatever may have transpired.

For the first time, it occurred to me that there is more than one narrative to the story with my friend who “faded out”. From my vantage point, I thought I was reaching out to get together and that my efforts were being rebuffed. From her perspective, I might have dropped out of the picture mysteriously and without warning. She might not have been “keeping score” regarding who was reaching out to whom and may not have been aware that she appeared to be distancing herself. She may have been hurt that I suddenly stopped calling, or perhaps she thought I was mad at her. Or perhaps we are just two adults with full lives who got caught up in the busyness of kids, spouses, work, errands and other commitments. Either way, we both own a share of the communication breakdown that led to a year of no contact.

I responded to her outreach and we got together recently–and we were able to pick up right where we left off. We had a nice time catching up and got together a second time soon thereafter. I was not only glad to reconnect with her, I was grateful for the reminder that there is more than one way to interpret a situation.

My commitment to myself going forward is to be more honest and open. Rather than assume that she was pulling away, I could have asked her. Instead of making a unilateral and undisclosed decision that the next outreach would come from her, I could have had a conversation and told her that she seemed busy and to give me a call when things slowed down.

The reality is that friendships ebb and flow. To maintain a long-term friendship, you have to be able to find your way back to each other and, without grudges or resentment, move forward.

The High Road

An eye for an eye will leave everyone blind. –Mohandas Gandhi

My neighbor doesn’t like me. We used to be friends, but about two years ago, in the process of her divorce, she had a falling out with a couple of other women on the block–with whom I am also friends–and I think I got lumped into the mess, and ultimately thrown out with the bath water.

For a long time, I continued to wave or smile when we passed each other, to at least be cordial. After all, we don’t have to like each other, but it would be nice if we could at least be civil with one another given the proximity of our homes.

I’ve been thinking about how to handle this. At first, I was angry. I wasn’t involved in the fallout with the other two women on the street. I tried to stay out of it. I like all parties involved, and truthfully, saw both sides of the argument. But it didn’t involve me, so I didn’t take sides (which in retrospect was probably my undoing since I suspect my friend thought I should have supported her). MYOB, right?

But as months and now years have passed, I’m no longer angry, just stumped. What is the best approach when someone goes out of their way to signal their dislike of you? Given my direct and at times confrontational style, I recently thought about knocking on her door and asking her what the f*^% her problem is. Can’t we be mature adults? We don’t have to be friends or hang out, but why not be polite? Ultimately, though, I know this would only escalate things.

The kill ’em with kindness idea also surfaced, but isn’t really my speed, so I dismissed that choice as being a bit disingenuous. Plus, I’m not trying to rekindle a friendship, I’m only interested in making things less awkward between us.

I began thinking about the fact that resolution, like forgiveness, is ultimately about you, not the other person. In this case, there may not be satisfying resolution. This woman may hate me for the rest of our lives. But at the end of the day, I’m not someone who pretends not to notice my neighbor. I’m not someone who feigns having something in my eye so that I can look in my rearview mirror rather than wave and smile at someone. So while I’m not a kill-’em-with-kindness type, nor am I a bury-my-head-in-the-sand type.

So in keeping with my personality, I decided to send her a birthday card. Nothing too forward and no big language about missing her or wanting to be friends again. Just a simple card, wishing her well. I don’t expect a response, but perhaps she will soften just a little. Or maybe not. Either way, I’ve behaved in a way that allows me to hold my head up high. She can do as she chooses with the gesture–ignore it, respond, maintain hostility or accept the olive branch–it’s out of my hands.

It’s a small example of the thousands of opportunities we get in life to choose who it is we want to be. It’s tempting to meet hostility or jerkiness with more hostility and jerkiness, and it might even be satisfying in the short term. But does it really make us feel better about ourselves in the long run?

It always sounds trite when people advise us to “take the high road” or “be the bigger person”, but it’s just another way of saying, “Who do you want to be in this moment?” We might be justified in our anger, but rarely does a blow-for-blow match reflect well on either party.

We are presented with the lesson again and again–sometimes with high stakes. Do you forgive someone? Do you try again? Do you take the opportunity to undermine the person who threw you under the bus a few years ago? Who do you want to be? Someone who throws others under the bus–however much they may deserve it–or someone who remains true to their values of fair play and honesty, even when it’s hard to implement?

It’s easy to live by our values when everything is going smoothly and people aren’t testing us; it’s much harder in the face of hurt, betrayal, anger or hostility. But that’s when we need to ground into those values the most. That’s when we really show the world–and ourselves–who we are and what we’re about. It’s one thing to say you’re forgiving, it’s another thing to do it when you’ve been hurt. It’s easy to be a friendly neighbor when they’re friendly back, it’s not so easy to be friendly when someone openly dislikes you.

When we choose our behavior on the basis of someone else’s treatment of us, we put ourselves in a passive position. We effectively allow the other person to determine our next move. When our behaviors and actions come from a place of authenticity and are not contingent upon what others do, we not only have greater freedom of expression, but also the opportunity to live a life of our own choosing.

I haven’t received a response to the birthday card, and I haven’t seen her since I placed it at her door. I’m still waiting to find out who she is. But at least I know who I am.

The Kindness of Strangers

If a man be gracious and courteous to strangers, it shows he is a citizen of the world. –Francis Bacon

Several summers ago, I was taking my nine year old daughter to the airport to fly to Colorado to visit my parents on her first solo airplane trip. We had traveled many times as a family so she was comfortable on airplanes and everything was arranged such that she would never be unattended. Still, as a mother, it’s hard not to let your mind drift to some of the worst-case scenarios that might arise in flight and for which you would be unable to help–or at least comfort–your child.

Add to this that I was in emotional turmoil. My life had recently taken an unexpected turn and my comfortable, stable life suddenly felt like it was coming apart at the seams. My husband and I determined that our daughter would be better off visiting family for a couple of weeks, without having to deal with the anxiety and stress that was permeating our household. My parents were eager to help and lend us their support by hosting what was affectionately termed “Camp Grandma”. Our plan was for our daughter to head to Denver where we would follow 10 days later and all spend another few days together with friends and family.

With her bag packed and her American Girl doll safely tucked into her carry-on luggage, I walked her to the gate. She was wearing a sticker that identified her as minor traveling alone and the flight attendants greeted her warmly. She knew that her grandparents would be meeting her at the gate at the Denver International Airport. She was to be among the first group to board the plane.

As we said our goodbyes, we were both emotional. She was a little scared, but trying to put on a brave face. I was similarly uneasy, but didn’t want to heighten her anxiety by exposing my own. We hugged and kissed and said goodbye. As she walked down the jetway with the flight attendant, she turned around several times to wave with tears streaming down her face. With each tentative wave and strained “Bye, Mom! I love you! I’ll call when I land!” I felt my heart break just a little bit and my eyes burn with tears.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw a tall woman who I’d estimate to be in her mid- to late-50s, approach and place a gentle hand on my shoulder. I was sniffling and wiping my nose as she came into full view with her arms open to me. She embraced me in a warm hug and said, “Your baby is going to be okay.”

Instead of a quick or cautious hug–as you might expect from a stranger–her grip was firm. She pulled me into her and with a slight choking sob, I put my head on her shoulder and allowed myself a moment of release. For a couple of breaths, she just patted my back. She couldn’t have known it, but I wasn’t just crying for my departing daughter, although that was certainly part of it. My world was upside down. I was in anguish. My daughter’s departure was calling up emotion that was just barely below the surface.

I never learned her name, but I thanked her. And in the quiet of my mind, I have thanked her many times since, although she probably never gave me a second thought. I was moved by her compassion and her empathy. Her willingness to extend herself to another woman, a stranger, touched me. So often, people avoid looking at someone who is openly emotional. Perhaps they are uncomfortable with their own emotions or perhaps they imagine that they are being kind to not embarrass someone by acknowledging their public display.

But in that moment, acknowledgement was exactly what I needed. And it has stayed with me. I told myself that if I were ever in a position to offer solace to a stranger, I would do it.

Today, I was in a coffee shop getting some work done. A couple of tables away, I caught snippets of a lengthy conversation between a man and woman who were clearly in the process of a divorce. They were discussing the division of assets, spousal support, retirement accounts, home value, the cost of private school for the two young children.

A couple of times, the conversation was heated. The woman raised her voice to emphasize that her contribution, while not exclusively financial, had been no less valuable. She believed he was underestimating the value of their home. She insisted that their kids receive the best education possible, whatever that might mean in terms of sacrifice to each parent. The man, ever the pragmatist, had his computer spreadsheet open and kept coming back to the idea of a “fair formula” when determining who should get what.

After about two hours, he left the coffee shop and she lingered at the table. She had her cheek resting on her hand with her head turned, looking out the window. I heard an occasional sniffle.

I got up and purchased a $5 gift card, choosing a cheery floral patterned motif on the card. I hurried back to my table and was thinking about how to approach her. Then, she turned around and we made eye contact. I moved toward her table and said, “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help but overhear some of your conversation. Here is a $5 card so that when you want to, you can treat yourself to your favorite drink and know that a stranger was thinking of you and wishing you well.”

She just looked at me and her eyes filled with tears.

Feeling a bit awkward, I said, “I don’t know what to say. I’m sure it’s been very hard for you, but you really held yourself together beautifully, and from one woman to another, I wanted to offer my support.”

She said, “I don’t know what to say. Just your presence is a huge gift. Would you mind if I gave you hug?”

“Of course not.” And with that, I embraced her, just as the woman in the airport had embraced me. I didn’t rush, didn’t hold back with a tentative or shallow hug. I tried, through my body language, to signal that she was not alone in that moment.

As she left, she told me that she felt “lifted up.”

I hope it’s true. And if it did make an impression on her, I hope one day she’ll have a moment when she can offer comfort to another stranger in despair.

The Chicken and Egg Paradox of Body Image

One of the most significant changes to come about from nearly three years of practicing yoga is that I see my body differently than ever before.

I’ve always struggled with my body image. I have written before about my struggles with weight. Years ago, shortly before I got married, I had the early stirrings of a breakthrough about my body image–although I never fully connected the dots and didn’t realize the significance of my approach until recently.

At the time, I was significantly overweight, but the thought of a huge pre-wedding diet overwhelmed me. Instead, I turned my attention to what I liked about my appearance and I started to put more effort into those areas. For instance, I’ve always had nice nails, so I started giving myself regular manicures. I also have nice teeth, so I flossed every day. I’ve never had a problem with acne, so I bought some nice face cream and made a point of washing and moisturizing my skin every night before bed.

It became a bit of an upward spiral. I bought some new makeup and got contact lenses. Started styling my hair a bit more. In general, I spent more time on my appearance–and I felt better about myself. It was soon thereafter that I began a concerted effort to lose weight. And I was very successful. I lost 67 pounds in about 10 months. I was working out regularly. I came to love the results of my exercise, if not the exercise itself. I felt better–and looked better–than ever before.

Then, after several years, life happened. I had a baby, changed jobs and my workouts were less frequent. I also started taking shortcuts when it came to my diet: more convenience foods, more indulgences. My weight crept up, my body image plummeted.

I won’t bore you with my various attempts at weight loss since then, but I’ve recently had a breakthrough that has brought me full circle and has helped me connect the dots that first appeared way back when I was tending to my nails and gums. Weight loss isn’t the key to developing a positive body image, it’s the byproduct of a positive body image.

Historically (and I believe I speak for many women here), as my weight goes, so goes my body image. The two have been inextricably linked. I don’t feel good about my body when I’m overweight. And when I don’t feel good about my body, I don’t feel as good about myself. And when I’m in that frame of mind, it’s hard to muster the energy to take care of myself because I feel like there’s an elephant in the room regarding my weight.

The problem with waiting to feel good about your body until you’re at the “right” weight, is that it puts the cart before the horse. Feel good about your body so that you want to eat right and enjoy your physicality; not the other way around.

Fast forward to present day: I’m going to yoga about five days a week, sometimes more. I’m experiencing my body in a different way. Instead of seeing my body as, at best, a utilitarian vehicle in which to move through the world–and at worst, as a source of shame and disappointment–I’m now experiencing it as a source of fun and pleasure. Yoga is a form of physical play. I’m no longer exercising for the sole purpose of weight loss or maintenance, but because I actually enjoy the physical activity. More specifically, I’m amazed by what my body can do.

This is a very different mode of thinking. For the first time that I can remember, I’m proud of my body. I’m grateful for the strength in my arms and legs; the flexibility that allows for deep backbends and splits; the newly-achieved headstands and arm balances. Instead of waiting to feel good about my body until I lost weight, I started feeling better about my body which led me to want to eat better and do more yoga. In short, to treat myself as I should be treated. And–what do you know?–I’ve lost over 40 pounds.

Creating a separation between weight and body image is, for me, a significant step forward. To recognize that I can feel good about my body independently of my weight is something that had never occurred to me, and it’s liberating.

I’ve been down this road enough to know that I’m not out of the woods when it comes to maintaining a healthy weight. I have come to accept that it will be a life-long effort. I’m not a naturally thin person, nor am I naturally athletic person. But I’ve learned that I can do some pretty incredible things with the body I’ve got–even when I’m at a heavier weight point.

Yoga is teaching me that I have a lot more to feel good about than such subtleties as healthy gums, good skin and a nice nail bed. This is a body that has gained and lost weight and yet remains healthy and mobile; has recovered from two thyroid surgeries and three rounds of radiation; and has grown, birthed and fed a healthy new human being. And can kick up an occasional handstand for good measure.

Not too shabby.