Living in the Moment: A Tale of Two Lives

In correspondence with a friend last week I was humbled by the words she wrote in response to my last blog.

As I relate what you say to my own life … I am learning to simply accept what is - not always what I'd choose - and move on...continuing to be who I am and learning to approach the future with an open and hopeful heart. This is really necessary for me as I become more and more involved with necessary support for [my family member].

How incredibly poignant that lessons gleaned from a cashiering job can have parallels to that of caring for a loved one living with a chronic and debilitating condition.

As a cashier I, too, have to “simply accept what is” (including my failings) and relentlessly push on. I need to let go of negative encounters, guilt and anger, and to open up, again and again, to the next connection, the next customer. On a busy day I may do this fifteen to twenty times an hour. For me it has been a crash course in living in the moment, finding joy in the present, and not holding onto past regrets.

My friend also wrote of the potential consequences of not opening her heart:Withhout that, I think the undertow of the situation would swamp who I am, and I would become bogged down in depression and despair.

Her words reverberated within me. When I first started this job I could only dwell on how it did not inspire me and was, so I thought, beneath my creativity. Taken on as a financial necessity I saw it only as a means to an end, not as a paving stone to further my career or even a part of my life. As a result I tried to negate this “dirty secret” of mine by keeping it from friends and family and distancing myself from who I was when I was at work. I bemoaned my fate and the countless things I should have, could have been doing. Within the first two weeks, however, I knew that I would have to get over myself or, as my friend said, be overcome in “depression and despair.”

Over the past three months I have worked through (and in some cases am still working through) the embarrassment of having old colleagues and friends come up to my till in surprise: “Jo-Ann! Is that you?” Then there is the challenge of learning (and remembering) new computer pathways through a hormonal daze; the shame of making mistakes in front of strangers whose countenance bear the suffering of yet another imbecile in their presence; and the vanity driven sense of foolishness in wearing a silly looking vest—these are all daily occurrences. Yet so are the heart opening moments when a connection is made, humanity is shared and barriers lifted. Moments when what I do for money is inconsequential compared with whom I am in that instant. Times when our interrelatedness is all there is.

I cannot delineate life as that which begins here and ends there. Regardless of the cliché, every moment is one to be treasured; none found wanting but all rich and full of potential.

These are the lessons I have learned, lessons of life, it seems, regardless of the situation: ringing up a cash sale or caring for a loved one.

Heaven and Hell

Hmm, the lessons keep coming … number four, is it not? I feel like Robert Fulghum, author of “All I really need to know I learned in Kindergarten.” Although I can’t really compare cashiering to pre-school there is a slight parallel in that while my work is seemingly basic is has, like kindergarten, not only unlimited potential for learning and growth but universal applications.

So, here we go. I was serving my umpteenth customer when, between a combination of both of our ignorance, we irritated each other. It doesn’t matter what the cause but with dual stubbornness we both chose in that immediate moment not to remedy the situation but stay in our grumpiness. She left, dissatisfied at best, and the next customer appeared. I looked at this new person. The better part of me wanted to establish a connection but another part, one buried deep within, age-old and bitter in taste, was bearing down with heavy hands. It hung onto the mood left over by the last encounter. It didn’t want to breathe in new air; it wanted to suck in the fumes of self-righteousness, judgment and self pity. These, however, were but masks that hid what I was really feeling. Feeding these noxious vapours was guilt: I had failed, it was my fault the connection had gone awry; I was in the wrong.

Hanging on to guilt, taking too much responsibility and indulging in self recriminations are part and parcel of codependent behaviour. Seductive in nature these behaviours urge you in soft, warm tones to continue the self-torture, convincing yourself that the pain of failure will only be relieved with self-abnegation. Feelings like these have a sense of the familiar that is almost ... almost pleasant. Usually learned in childhood, they have been with you for a long time—there is a comfort in what you know. Moreover, they provide the illusion of protection: it is near impossible to open your heart to another when you are closed off behind dark thoughts—it is better to kick yourself, the purported rationale goes, than risk being kicked by another.

In the past I was quite adept at hanging on to those soulless thoughts. Even if my role, in whatever conflict there was to be had, was very small, I could (and did) take on more than my share of responsibility. Remorse could last all day; sometimes many days. But times have changed. It has been easier these past few years to shed the burden of always being wrong. I haven’t always been successful, as those who read my blog know so well, but something clicked that day. I had choice. I could continue feeling guilty and miss out on creating a connection with this new customer or I could just acknowledge my part in the previous transaction, remedy (if necessary) my behaviour and move on. Time, as clichéd as it sounds, stood still: noises ceased; movement slowed; a choice was to be made… had to be made.

I won’t say it was easy. I won’t even say I did it willingly. A part of me wanted so much to hang onto the feelings that spoke of my failure. But another customer was before me demanding my attention. I looked at him; I looked within. A wall of my own making stood between us. I made a choice. It surprised me how well it worked. I opened my heart.

Milton said it best when he gave words to the Archangel Lucifer soon after his fall from Heaven: The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n. What matter where, if I be still the same …

The Joys of Being Inept

This part-time job I have so recently undertaken has become a barrel full of… no, not fun, but life lessons. I talked in my last blog about developing the strength of heart to keep oneself open to new connections and how it pertains to much more than just a cashier’s lineup. Previous to that I spoke of identity and how we are much more than what we do for money. This newest lesson finds me joyfully accepting my limitations.

If truth be known, and I know many already know this truth, is that I am fairly inept at being a cashier. Don’t get me wrong, I am great with customers (and that will save me from being let go), but the computer and I have, shall we say, some relationship issues. Perhaps if I had taken this job a few years ago things would be different but as my peri-menopause days drag on, my brain becomes foggier. New concepts take longer to sink in, my short term memory is … very short, and my stress levels are … very high: I have little tolerance for life’s irritations and none for mechanical devices that squawk and beep at the slightest provocation. In my “doddering” middle age I have come to enjoy stillness and quiet from these man-made machines, not insolence… nor, as it were, tales told behind my back. Whenever I push the wrong button or try to force the wrong pathway in this DOS based horror filled maze, it beeps. It not only beeps to me but does so with such voluminous gusto that the cashier thirty feet away hears my error filled ways. I’ve tried talking to it, pleading with it and even telling it to shut up but still this evil toting PC clone continues to tell the world of my ineptitude. And, yes, in my doddering middle age, I also anthropomorphize a bit too much.

At first I was quite stressed over the whole affair. I mean, I have always strived to be good, even great at things. Personal achievement was my goal whether it was in baking bread, working with clients or running up a mountain. Things were not done unless done perfectly or I died in the attempt. Somewhere, however, along day ten or so of this new job, I realized perfection wasn’t going to happen and more so, it really didn’t matter. I was stressing about a skill that I had no intentions of doing for more than was necessary, i.e. until my bank account looked a little healthier and, in stressing out I was making myself quite miserable. I took a step back. And then another. Things became clearer. It didn’t take much longer for me to say, hey, not only am I not good at DOS-based cash registers/computers but I am okay with not being good.

At first I stuttered over the words even as I mumbled them to myself. Then, as it got easier I began to let others onto my secret. The stuttering happened again but this time from my audience. They were shocked. Not that I wasn’t good at the work—that was obvious—but that I would say that about myself. No, no, they said, you are not inept, you are learning. Yes, yes, I replied, but learning aside, I am not good at it. Give yourself time, they admonished, you are being too hard on yourself. Time is not a factor, I shot back, and I am, for once, being kind to myself. But, but… they said; no, no… I replied.

Our society is one that idolizes the achiever, the one who pulls themselves out of the ditch and overcomes all odds; the survivor cum thriver; the new Canadian who works five jobs and becomes a self-made billionaire. These examples are all good and fine and I, too, find a lot to admire in these folk. But we tend to transpose those traits onto all endeavours forgetting, along the way, that as humans we are just that, human and predisposed to not being perfect. We forget to leave space for tripping up, losing our way, not getting to the top, and not getting it right. Most of us are not lulelemon or Nike prototypes. We are in definition and name, human: not perfect.

When I first started calling myself inept as a cashier I felt a weight shift upon my shoulders. It didn’t quite leave but it gave me a hint, a faint suggestion; a wisp of the freedom to be had. As I gained more confidence with my truth I began feeling truly buoyant. It was like finally coming out of the closet; telling the world that I am okay with being me. Looking back on my life there have been too many decades of playing the role of the übercodependent: needing to be good at things; to know things; to be smart, strong and capable only to find myself lacking at the end of the road. Click here for more information about codependence.

These attempts at being superhuman, of course, were attempts at finding some semblance of self worth. Over the past few years I have made many inroads into dismantling this mindset but it wasn’t until I got this job and found my inadequacies announced to strangers and colleagues alike on a regular basis that I truly began to see the light. It’s quite a relief to be human.

Oh sure, I still get slightly stressed at the beeps and withering looks of those waiting in line for me to get it right—it is hard to change completely within a two month period. For the most part, however, I am okay with it. My skills, or lack thereof, have nothing to do with any aspect of my self worth. I am okay.

Strength of Heart

Lessons, as we all know, often come in the most interesting packages. Recently, one has come to me in the form of a part-time job. It’s a cashiering position at a busy building supply store. I wanted a job that I could leave at the worksite: a place of employment that gave me money but no extra worries; a job that gave me time and space to write and do my Bodymind sessions with ease and clear mind. But, as they say, be careful what you wish for.

I haven’t done this kind of work in many years, probably since I was a teenager. Back then it would have been easy: new computer programs a breeze and the camaraderie with other staff a bonus. Coming at it from the late stages of peri-menopause with its concurrent foggy brain and perpetual fatigue I’ve discovered it to be a far greater challenge. One of the biggest feats, however, is how to maintain an open heart.

A busy hour can see up to fifty people pass my till. Some shifts are such that those busy hours last all day. I try for the most part to greet each person as an individual and then send them off with eye contact and words of care. I laugh a lot and even bop along to the sixties rock playing in the background. Most people respond in kind with the result that a connection, albeit a temporary one, is made. It feels good.

Ever so often, however, the routine is broken and someone comes in with a combustible mood. Regardless of whether it has to do with something the store sells or doesn’t sell, bad service or whatnot, the cashier is usually the place where the spark is ignited. I’ve been handling it fairly well letting the words slide off me but a few days ago there were just a few too many sly innuendos, despairing looks and plain rudeness pointed in my direction. I came home feeling like my heart had been trampled upon. Thankfully, I was off for a few days but I maintained a listless and melancholy mood for the next 24 hours. In an attempt to self-medicate I retold my tale of woe to three friends and countless times to myself but still felt the same emptiness. It wasn’t until that night while lying in bed that I finally got the story right. It wasn’t so much the fact that people can be hurtful but that one day, I might not bounce back; that one day, I may close myself off and stop caring.

Every day I go into work determined to sing and dance my way through customer interactions with as much grace as possible. I vow to let the occasional bad experience slide off me and open my heart to the next encounter. For the most part my plan works but I am finding it is taking a toll. I feel it in my body at the end of the day as I drag myself home. I feel it in a slow but burning desire to shut myself off when faced with yet another question, another problem. I see it on the faces of those who have done this job for many more years than I: the protective mask that comes down as the customer approaches. Facial expressions that go blank or worse, appear with a pasted smile and eyes that flatten out as all gears shift into neutral.

Initially this mask is used only when there is need but soon takes over with even the most subtle of provocation. At the end stage, it is there with all encounters and may even become defensive. While it is maddening for the customer it is, at times, a survival necessity for the clerk who feels they cannot risk being exposed to yet another irritated client; another hurtful comment. The shield works well. The unfortunate thing is that while the shield blocks out the negative, it also wards off the positive.

The challenge I set for myself is to keep that shield at bay.
A friend humbled me with her response as I spoke of my concerns. She compared it to a family situation in which her attempts at connection were constantly disdained by someone with bonds too close to ignore. She said that for her it was about finding strength of heart to continue despite the pain. I sat with her words. At first I wanted to deny that my trivial work concerns could even compare but then I saw the universal truth in her statement. Life throws us all sorts of challenges whether they be intimate and long term or mundane and temporary. To compartmentalize them and say, this one is worthy while that is not, undermines the integrity of heart-centred living and belies the connection we share with all other beings.

The question is the same regardless of the situation: do we have the strength of heart to continually open ourselves up to the next possible connection?

I Yam What I Yam

A few weeks ago I was invited to a potluck. Except for the hostess my eating companions were strangers. Regardless, they were easy to get to know in that informal party way: conversation flowed in and around the joys of life as we talked of eating, travelling and humorous happenstances. I was enjoying myself when, in dialogue with an otherwise lovely man, he asked me how I filled my days. Now while I admit it is neither an offensive question nor, really, an invasive one, it still took me by surprise and made me somewhat irritated. Perhaps it was the energy behind it but what I heard was a variation of the age-old: “what do you do for a living”. Not only did I not expect it but I didn’t want to answer. Oh, sure I could have told him what I did on that particular day: baked bread and went for a long walk but that wasn’t what was being asked. He wanted to know my profession.

When I got over my surprise I felt my vocal chords tighten and my belly do a minor twist. I knew my reactions to be strong and perhaps unreasonable but still, there was something there that bade me to listen to them. In response, therefore, I was vague and then joked about my evasiveness in suggesting I was a gangster—incognito. We laughed but soon my cannot-tell-a-lie integrity betrayed me and I responded that I was a BodyMind therapist and writer. We chatted for a bit longer, me with discomfort, him with nonchalance, until we thankfully drifted away. I let the conversation go and went back to enjoying the business of partying: good food; laughter and other in-the-moment joys.

On the bus ride home I thought back on that particular conversation. What, I asked myself, made my body react so strongly? In answer, and regardless of the man’s seeming innocence, it brought up questions about my identity—who am I? This question is one that has been central to a rather long period of self-reflection. It started last year, a few months before I turned fifty and has gathered steam to the point where I am almost loathe to pigeon-hole myself into anything. I have discovered in a powerfully visceral way that my identity is somewhat nebulous and, specifically, that I am much more than what I do and, paradoxically, much less.

About ten years ago, I did my first “who am I?” exercise. I am sure it is familiar to many of you but to summarize, it is when you sit in front of a witness and answer the “Who am I?” question for about twenty minutes. It is a simple exercise but quite profound. It reminds me of Jorge Luis Borges’ last words in his short story, The Immortal: I have been Homer; shortly I shall be No One, like Ulysses; shortly, I shall b all men; I shall be dead. In other words, if I interpret Borges correctly, we are everything and therefore, nothing; all human traits, all emotions and capabilities lie within us. To identify with one aspect is to potentially negate another but to identify with all aspects ultimately has no meaning.

Since I was fifteen, I have held thirty-six different jobs … in twelve different fields. The longest tenure continues to be my bodymind practice, the shortest was a stint at Safeway for six weeks. If I had to count on working experience as my identity I would be giving Sybil a run for her money. And that does not even include my non-paying identities of daughter, sister, aunt, baker, hiker and lover of good books. The list goes on.

In the past I often over-identified with jobs or career manifestations. I was what I did; I did what I was. This was especially true with my therapeutic work. Then, some years back, I experienced a steep decline in clients: they stopped coming. Without my work, I was, or at least felt I was, nothing. It affected both my mental and physical health; I felt lost, confused and abandoned.

This rather melodramatic event along with some other intense personal relationships was what propelled me into researching codependency. After years of soul searching and then writing and teaching about the subject I returned to health and, funny enough, the clients returned. It is interesting then to note that this return of identity questioning has climaxed into a time that once again coincides with a slowing down of my practice. Who am I?

It was hard at first, this revisiting of an old issue but ultimately, it has proved rewarding. It’s like the return of an old acquaintance who once was tedious but now is tolerable due to stronger boundaries and a deeper trust in the journey of life. Despite the fact that I have had to get a part-time job to support my budget, I am not at the “depth of despair” nor on the door to burnout as I was during the first round when my business slowed down. Oh sure, I went through some periods of self pity and bouts of “why me?” but the bottom line is that my identity hasn’t changed with the vagaries of my practice. As Popeye once said: I yam what I yam. This moment I am a blog writer and later I will be a walker. An hour ago I was a BodyMind practitioner and tomorrow I will bake bread and then go on to my cashier job at RONA. I am many things—a myriad of things—yet, at the same time, none of these things. I am just me.

St. Patrick's Day

Way back when, when I was a wee little lass, I had a speech impediment. It was nothing that a few sessions with the therapist couldn’t clear up but I had problems distinguishing my “sh-es” from my “esses” and my “th-es”. So my mouth became my mouse and I could sink but not think. I also talked way too fast forgetting to take a breath between sentences let alone paragraphs. It was too such an extent that only my family could understand what I was saying: I was a language unto myself. When asked by others why I spoke so … differently, I assured them it was just my Irish accent and immediately backed it up with an Irish Jig. Or at least what I thought to be an Irish jig. I put my hands over my heads and jumped over an imaginary sword a few times while channeling the Irish Rovers singing the Unicorn song. A legitimate replica to be sure.

Funny thing is my Irish ancestry is at least a few generations back. Perhaps my maternal great grandparents came from that emerald isle but then again, I may be pushing it. Regardless, St. Patty’s day holds a special place in my heart even if it is just in my political and environmental leanings.

Speaking of which, I just read in today’s Globe that the federal government has plans to water down the fisheries act. If they succeed it will be easier to push through projects such as Enbridge’s pipeline from the oil sands to BC’s west coast.

“This government is convinced that the Fisheries Act is an impediment to economic activity, and that is just BS.,” said Otto Langer, former head of habitat protection for DFO on the West Coast. …

The proposed changes, Mr. Langer said, strip reference to “habitat” from the act, and make the legislation difficult to enforce by introducing vague and obscure wording.

Currently the act makes it illegal to damage fish habitat. The new version refers instead to harming “fish of economic, cultural or ecological value.”

“If you can’t prove any of those values exist, you can’t take anyone to court,” said Mr. Langer, who added his former colleagues in DFO were surprised when he brought the changes to their attention.

For more information, read here. I am writing my MP and the various ministers involved. Please consider this action for yourself. To find your MP go to http://www.parl.gc.ca/Parlinfo/Compilations/HouseOfCommons/MemberByPostalCode.aspx?Menu=HOC

I believe letters sent by snail mail are taken more seriously than petitions or email. Letters sent to the following address do not need postage.

Name of MP
House of Commons
Parliament Buildings
Ottawa, OntariO
K1A 0A6

Write your letter to:

1. Minister of Fisheries and Oceans - Keith Ashfiel
Critics
* Fin Donnelly (New Democratic Party)
* Lawrence MacAulay, (Liberal Party of Canada)

2. Minister of the Environment – Peter Kent
Critics
* Megan Leslie (New Democratic Party)
* Kirsty Duncan & Grant Mitchell (Liberal Party of Canada)

3. Your Member of Parliament

Torture: A Fear Based Reaction

On February 7, the Globe and Mail reported that “[t]he federal government has directed Canada’s spy agency to use information that may have been extracted through torture in cases where public safety is at stake.”

On first reading I was shocked. How can we, as citizens of a country that disallows and, from all accounts, abhors torture, permit others to be hurt, maimed or even killed for information that is, at best, dubious? As Bob Rae stated: “The law in Canada has been pretty clear that information based on torture, first of all, is not reliable and, second of all, is not permissible”.

I read the article again. Two quotes stuck out. The Canadian government has directed CSIS to “make the protection of life and property its overriding priority.” This was followed by: “Our government will always take action that protects the lives of Canadians.”

Of course, I thought, the safety of Canadians must be the government’s overriding concern. And thus began a convulsive penduluming as I explored the various pros and cons of allowing information gained through torture.

If I knew someone was withholding life saving information about a loved one, would I limit the methods I use to force it out of him or her? Would I turn a blind eye to someone being threatened, emotionally battered or hurt if I knew it would coerce them into saving another? Would I, as captain of a shipwreck, ask the weakest member to jump ship in an overburdened lifeboat?

It is the age old question: do the rights of one supersede the rights of others or do the rights of the collective override those of the individual? It is also the interdependent question: how can I create a safe and respectful environment that supports my needs, desires and goals while still respecting those same rights in others?

Interdependence requires conscious awareness and, therefore, a creative response to life that is built on a foundation of respect, mutuality and self leadership. Every day we make decisions that affect not only ourselves but those around us. Each decision is an opportunity to show how we can respect and honour our interconnectness. Torture is not a creative response. It is, instead, a reaction to fear—one that devalues both the life of the abuser and the victim. By allowing information gleaned from torture we diminish ourselves.

Please write your Member of Parliament and tell them how you feel. As Alex Neve, secretary general of Amnesty International Canada stated: “The bottom line is that as long as torturers continue to find a market for the fruit of their crimes, torture will continue. Firmly rebuffing torturers when they offer up information extracted through pain and suffering is a critical plank in the wider campaign to eradicate torture once and for all.”

Sample Letter

Dear Mr. Toews:

I cannot understand the recent policy reversal that has information gleaned from torture considered as potentially reliable intelligence. Torture is illegal and morally wrong. The information obtained from torture is dubious in value and founded on the blood of others. There is no hierarchy as to human value: the life of one is not more or less worthy than that of another. Do not let Canada slide down this slippery slope of repugnant disrespect for human rights.

Regards,

Write your letter to:
1. Minister of Public Safety - Vic Toews

2. Critics
Sandhu, Jasbir (New Democratic Party)
Baker, George (Liberal Party of Canada)
Scarpaleggia, Francis (Liberal Party of Canada)
Mourani, Maria (Bloc Québécois)

3. Your Member of Parliament

To find your MP go to http://www.parl.gc.ca/Parlinfo/Compilations/HouseOfCommons/MemberByPostalCode.aspx?Menu=HOC

I believe letters sent by snail mail are taken more seriously than petitions or email. Letters sent to the following address do not need postage.

Name of MP
House of Commons
Parliament Buildings
Ottawa, Ontario
Canada
K1A 0A6