optimist

Luckily, it’s three years later and I mostly hang out with animals and department store mannequins so this doesn’t happen to me so much anymore. But I was talking about this very thing to a friend this weekend, about not caring about getting to the bottom of things and the heartless asshole who taught me the extremely valuable lesson of not going there. 😉

Generally speaking I suppose you could describe me as an optimist. A Pollyanna even. After reading about my life I think that’s pretty safe to say.

So naturally, people come to me to have their spirits lifted. To lighten their emotional load, so to speak.

But what ends up happening if I’m not careful about my energy is: I cheer them up—and they cheer me down.

Not too long ago I consoled a friend whose business had fallen on hard times. I can do this, I thought through her torrent of tears.

No big deal. My business tanked almost seven years ago. I’m over it! I said to myself. And I meant it.

But her stories of debt collectors, empty bank accounts, no customers, and an evil, puss-pocket, scum-bag, hell beast, shit gibbon of a partner (he must have been related to my old landlord), sent me down the rabbit hole.

Obviously.

Before I took my journey to hell, I did manage to mumble a few things I thought might help. She felt so much better when she left. “I feel so much better”, she said. That’s all I can remember. My transformation into Zohar, the gatekeeper of hell had already begun, so my understanding of the English language became sketchy.

Driving home I came down with a splitting headache and a couple of hours later I was in full-on migraine mode which for me looks like incoherent muttering in a dark room about f*cknobs, the horrors of retail and the unfairness of life—with breath that could peel your face off—and an attitude to match.

WTF?

It doesn’t happen to me a lot, but more often than I’m comfortable with, and I see you my coach/motivational expert/fellow optimist friends. I can see your exhaustion, your edge, and your drastic need for a break because This shit can wear you down!

We may have no problem listening to our friends vent about their shit. But maybe we’re not doing anybody a favor by re-telling the story over and over again. I know, I know! We do it because we love them (and they’ve sat through our endless bitch sessions)  but I’ve gotta say, it is hard work keeping their shit from sticking to my shoes. Especially if I’ve been through anything even remotely similair—which is pretty much everything they’ve ever been through except maybe an alligator chewing off my arm.

The optimist in me has started to scream Awwwwww! My arm! My arm!

Besides that, I’ve started to remember the advice I received from someone very wise who was trying to help me crawl out of a bottomless eddy of despair over twenty-five years ago. Talking about something over and over again is NOT helpful, and he refused to do it, much to my dismay.

He would listen my sad story ONCE. Only one time would he listen before holding his hand up and shushing me. That’s right, he shushed me! (Truth be told, that was the only way to shut me up once I was on a roll.)

“You think you’re going to find answers to your problems by talking about them,” he said. “But the answers aren’t found in the problem and it’s just making things worse. It’s keeping you from progressing and I won’t go there with you.”

Huh… And fuck you.

I think that’s when I lunged over the table with a fork and threatened to tenderize his face. All I wanted was to hurt him as much as I was hurting, and that’s the truth.

But he would have none of it.

Because he knew how sticky that shit is when you give it life with words. “When you speak its name and give it language, you give it power,” he said. And he wasn’t willing to be cheered down. Not under any circumstances. Not even love.

Besides, what I know for sure is that if he’d gone to the depths with me to chew on that problem—I wouldn’t be here today. Swear to God. I needed him to stay with his head above water so he could throw me a line when I was drowning. You know what they say about rescuing someone who’s drowning: Be careful or they’ll pull you down with them.

So, I guess my advice to all of you optimistic uplifters out there would be (if you’re asking), speak briefly to each other about the shit. Don’t dwell on it and if you’re not up to it energetically—don’t sacrifice how you feel—even to temporarily lift a client/friend.

And check your shoes. ‘Cause that shit can stick.

How do you feel about this? Do you hate it? Does it feel shallow and selfish and other names that start with an ‘s’? Or, are you strangely relieved? Like, thank God I have permission?

Carry on,
xox

I was going to write about what a very alright, really great day I’m having.

How last night I dreamt of witches and Donald Sutherland and the vague memory of my dog offering me a pork chop and donut smoothie.

About how I had the stamina, not just the stamina, the desire to put on the false eyelashes and leave the house. (If you know me at all you know that if I’m rocking the eyelashes I’m firing on all cylinders.)

That fact that I drove myself somewhere BY MYSELF for the first time in ten days without falling asleep at the wheel, ricocheting off other cars or hitting puppies and babies in crosswalks.

Then I got a parking space right in front of my destination (which came in handy because I’m still walking like a toddler with a full diaper.) Not only that, the meter still had and hour and fifteen minutes of time left on it which always leaves me in a state of awe and wonder when I see it—like someone has just pulled a diamond out of their ear.

That’s all good and well but while I was sitting and waiting in a bright blue linen chair that was too deep for me to dismount in any kind of elegant way, I read this.

This. 

This beautiful essay by Anne Lamott that sums things up. Big things. Little things. All things. Government, hopelessness, getting gutted by a well-meaning doctor…Every damn thing.

“I think they are a tiny tiny bit tired of hearing me say that grace bats last, and that in the meantime, we practice radical self-care, pick up litter, flirt with old people. They’re probably sick of hearing my secular father’s Golden Rule: Don’t be an asshat. And above all, listen. Listen. Listen. Hear each other.”

I’m not tired of hearing it, Anne. I needed it. Like a mango margarita on Taco Tuesday.

I Love you, Anne. I Love you guys. xox

“I have been traveling around the country for nearly two weeks on book tour, and without exception, my audiences have been filled with lovely bright people who feel doomed. In New York City they were too sad to be ironic, just devastated, and in the Deep South, where they pet me and give me home baked cookies and pocket crosses, and where I develop an accent, their eyes tear up.

People do not feel “anxious” or “frustrated,” or doomed-ish, in a mopey Eeyore kind of way.

They feel cursed, cut down, scared to death, like during the Cuban Missile Crisis. It’s as if we’re all waiting for biopsy results for someone we love. We try to be brave.

No one has a clue how we are going to come through this fever dream. They come to my events because I am usually a cranky optimist who believes that if it seems like a bad ending, it’s not the ending. They hope I have found some spiritual, political or psychological tools to cope and transcend.

Yeah, right.

I think they are a tiny tiny bit tired of hearing me say that grace bats last, and that in the meantime, we practice radical self-care, pick up litter, flirt with old people. They’re probably sick of hearing my secular father’s Golden Rule: Don’t be an asshat. And above all, listen. Listen. Listen. Hear each other.

I think they are tired of me repeating that the only things that ever help are Left, Right, Left, Breathe.

I think they are tired of me saying around Easter that the crucifixion looked like a big win for the Romans. The following Monday, Caesar, and Herod were still in power. The chief priests were still the chief priests. (And meanwhile, in a tucked-away corner, the 12 were transformed. And some women, too.)

It’s amazing to stop pretending that things are not as bizarre and dire or hard as they are, in the marriage, for your grown child, in the nation. To be where your feet are, and to feel it all: the swirl of doom, of gratitude, of incredulous fear, of wonder, of hate, judgment, love.

Doctorow nailed it when he said writing fiction is like driving at night with the headlights on–you can only see a little ways in front of you, but you can make it through the whole journey that way. That is true about every single aspect of life. Maybe people are sick of me quoting that, too, but it’s true.

It doesn’t make sense to stay fixated on what we don’t know–say, hypothetically, whether we will nuke North Korea over our special friend’s feelings getting hurt, or who turns state’s evidence first, or what crazy scheme might save the mountain gorillas from extinction. We only know now. We have all been through long stretches of feeling truly doomed–deaths, divorces, breakdown, failure. They call it the abyss because it’s pretty abysmal.

Maybe the Obama years were like this for you. Whatever.

But we know the precious community that kept us company. We know sacrifice, mercy, the arc toward justice. We know that the love and solidarity were real and profoundly, eternally true; and it is now, where your feet are, abundantly.

And hey, Hallelujah, y’all.”

~Anne Lamott
https://www.amazon.com/Hallelujah-Anyway-Rediscovering-Anne-Lamott/dp/0735213585/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1492046942&sr=8-1&keywords=anne+lamott

I’m convinced that one of the main differences between an optimist and someone who walks around with a black cloud over their head without an umbrella; and horribly mis-matched shoes is this:

They believe, as I do, that we get more than just one thing to love

Ask anyone with multiple marriages under their belt if there is only one soul mate per lifetime. (don’t ask mid divorce).

The answer is no.

Optimist. Faithful to the belief that if your true love ship has sailed, just stand at the dock, another will come along.

I’ve loved several men in my life, each relationship was equally powerful but drastically different, and at the time, in the moment, I was convinced they were my one-and-only soul mate — the connection was that intense.

I loved some with only my head; a few exclusively with the region below my waist; but only a couple with all my heart, and they were spaced decades apart.
Thank God I had optimistically stood on that dock waiting, albeit impatiently, for another ship to come in. If I hadn’t, the loss would have been profound.

We get more than just one thing to love.

I found comfort in that because I often got distracted by my phone or the lady with one pink roller in her hair, and I worried that I’d miss my golden opportunities as they passed me by.
Now I know better.

But only because I’m older and wiser (ha) and because I know that as we change and grow, preferences shift and we start to want something different, something…more.

Thank God those ships kept coming — When situations ended I stood waiting for a virtual fleet of ships to come into port — I think I saw you there, (I could tell it was you even with the hat and sunglasses.)

And they always come.

Guaranteed.

This applies to careers as well.
By the time you get to be my age, (our age) you’ve worn many hats so to speak.

I loved working at the Antique Mall, I adored acting and singing, I loved being a jeweler, I LOVED my store, and when that ended I loitered long enough on the dock that writing found me— and it may be the all time love of my life.

We get more than just one thing to love.

I used to LOVE playing jacks as a kid, probably because I was inexplicably good at it, (good eye/hand coordination, that’s all) then I LOVED Barbie’s and Monopoly.

One summer as a fifteen year old I LOVED riding my bike up and down the hills the ten miles to the beach and back everyday. (now just the thought make me want to puke).

I had a friend who LOVED to ice skate, you could find her at the rink every morning, six days a week at 5:30 a.m. She was obsessed. Soon she became so good she started to compete.

I’m not exactly sure what happened, an awkward growth spurt or becoming boy crazy, but one summer she lost interest and all that changed, and by the fall she LOVED horses and started training and competing in dressage.
Now she owns a successful interior design business. Go figure.

Obviously she spent a lot of time on that dock, catching one ship and then the next, and the next, LOVING each one that came along.

We get more than just one thing to love.

More than one great love,

More than one fantastic hobby,

More than one way to wear our hair that makes us look the way we envision ourselves,

More than one goal in life, or purpose, or destiny (yes, I said destiny)

More than one thing that we are better at than anybody else,

More than one chance…

We get more than just one thing to love.

Marinate in the thought of that all weekend,

Bon Voyage! and Carry on,
xox