On My Terms

My cat has always been affectionate.

But she has only recently become wise.

For most of her 17 years, she would only allow affection on her terms. If she was picked up, she would squirm out while uttering an irritated yowl. If she was caressed, she would walk away, only to return later to demand attention when she was ready.

When she was the affection instigator, she would stay still for hours, soaking up the strokes and vibrating the air with her purrs.

She loved to be loved. But only on her terms.

At some point in her advancing years, she must have calculated that by accepting affection only on her terms, she was limiting the amount of attention she would receive. Perhaps she learned this from watching the dogs, who were always willing to accept care, even if it interrupted their important activities.

She still approaches and asks for affection when she wants it. But now she accepts it when it is offered. Instead of jumping out of encircling embraces, she snuggles in and closes her eyes in feline ecstasy. Instead of running away from an approaching hand, she now meets it halfway, stroking herself along her head.

She learned to accept love. Even if is wasn’t on her terms.

And I learned from watching her.

I suppose you could say that my ex was fluent in my love languages; he knew how to express affection and love to me in a way that I understood.

When Brock and I first started dating, I was much like my cat in her younger days. I wanted affection on my terms: at a time when I wanted it and in a method I preferred. When it was offered at a different time or in a different format, I would turn away.

Around the same time, I read The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman. It opened my eyes in two ways, one which Chapman intended. And another that he did not.

First, the book helped me to realize how Brock expressed affection. Some things that I found silly or irritating (when they interrupted my flow) were actually his way of expressing love. Just recognizing that changed my response to those actions. I approached rather than turn away.

The book advocates sharing your love language with your partner and then helping him or her learn how to speak your language.

This is where I disagree.

I am not going to travel to Italy and expect them to learn English.

Nor am I going to enter into a relationship and demand that he learn to speak my love language.

That’s accepting love only on my terms.

And, as my cat learned, that’s limiting.

My cat still teaches us how she likes to be petted, guiding hands to her favorites spots. But she still enjoys the attention even when we miss the mark.

You can teach your partner how you like to receive love. But accept his or her gifts even when they are in a different form.

Instead of expecting your partner to convert to your language, try learning to recognize and accept theirs. You may be surprised at how much love is there when you are receptive instead of critical.

And, as the cat has learned, purrs are better than yowls any day.

With This Ring

My ex never really wore his ring. His hand was injured in a car accident a year before we wed and he claimed that the intermittent swelling was an issue. He also provided the legitimate excuse of working with machinery, where the addition of a metal band increases the risk of traumatic hand injuries.

The fact that he was ringless didn’t bother me.  I grew accustomed to his naked finger and I reasoned that it was only symbolic anyway. After all, marriage is founded on actions, not held in small metal bands.

It didn’t bother me until he left. And then I found his two rings (a “dress” one and a scuffed one) in his office. Looking at them cradled in my palm, I wondered if I should have placed more importance on their absence. Maybe the lack of a ring was a broken window in the marriage.

At least I was able to sell them for $200.  A drop in the bucket, but a particularly satisfying drop.

During our engagement, Brock and talked about his ring options a few times. He also has legitimate reasons to avoid a metal band, not the least of which is his almost-daily martial arts practice. However, unlike my ex, he didn’t just leave it at that. He looked at options, problem solved his way around the challenge. He thought about a tattoo (it wouldn’t be his first) but hesitated because of his professional career. He thought about multiple metal bands, a replacement ready to step up when one was lost before time in the dojo. He eventually decided on two rings: a tungsten “dress” ring and a silicone SafeRingz as his everyday band.

A week and a half later, I still get a thrill out of seeing that ring on his hand. That outward sign of a private committment.

It also symbolizes his willingness to work through a problem rather than just give up. A quality that was key to me the second time around.

It’s so easy to dismiss those little things as not important. “Don’t sweat the small stuff,” we’re always told.

But sometimes those little things carry a big message.

"Can we go for a hike now?"
“Can we go for a hike now?”

Pissing Contest of Pain

Tiger has a funny habit on walks. Whenever we encounter another dog (especially if it is a male, dominant-type animal), he begins to pee on everything around. He reaches his leg high, sometimes almost losing his balance, just to aim the stream as high on the tree or post as possible. It’s as though he wants to send the message that he is the big dog and none can top him.

It’s a humorous habit yet one with deeply ingrained motivations.

We humans don’t tend towards literal pissing contents (well, except for that one epic battle that occurred in the boy’s bathroom in my kindergarten class!) but we are no strangers to the impulse to be the top dog.

Sometimes this competitive drive propels us to reach new heights in business or fitness. Sometimes it can be a powerful motivator to do better. To be better.

Yet we also engage in pissing contests that hold no promise of anything better.

We compete to compete even when doing so holds us back.

We want to be the best even when being the best means that we aim to convince others that our pain is greater. That our suffering cannot be beat. That our torment tops all others.

Pain is such a strange thing – universal and yet personal. Subjective. Well known and yet unknowable.

We have a strange drive to want our pain to be understood.

So we share.

And then others share.

Often times, we empathize, recognizing another in pain and reaching out in solidarity.

But sometimes, especially when the pain is still acute, we respond with defensiveness. Frustration at not being understood. Believing that their pain is but a trickle compared to the torrent surrounding us.

For those who have been betrayed, this need for their betrayer to experience their pain is strong. Powerful. Even all-consuming.

We respond by holding on to our suffering. Claiming it. Owning it.

Adding to it until its edges cannot be seen.

We reach that leg up high, releasing the pain for all to see.

It is ours. And ours alone.

I have become so aware of this pissing contest of pain in the comment section of The Huffington Post. It seems like readers want to top one another with their tales of woe with no intent of letting go.

Some stay there, content to won the pissing contest. Their pain is the worst. Their territory clearly marked by signs of suffering.

Others become aware that it is a winless contest. That everyone’s pain is their own and that no one will be fully able to feel yours and, more importantly, no one else can remove yours. That you are more than the sum of your sufferings and that despair is not the badge you want to wear.

You learn that the true release of pain comes with acceptance, not competition.

Tiger continues to be driven by his instincts long after the well has run dry, holding his leg high for an invisible stream. We have the ability to outsmart our drives, to keep our legs down and to continue to move forward. It’s not a contest. You don’t win by tallying the most pain.

You win by letting go and moving on. Even if someone’s pissing on the post behind you.

Related:

Adhesion

Trigger Points

You Shouldn’t Feel That Way

Are You a Mental Hoarder?

 

 

Scheduled Smiles

smiles

It’s all too easy to believe that happiness is fixed. Unchangeable. Set in place by internal or external factors that feel beyond our control.

We may not control all of the strings on the marionette of our lives, but we do have the ability to manipulate the ones that produce a grin.

And all it takes is a calendar. Some intention. And some follow through.

Studies consistently show that our happiness increases when we are anticipating a trip or other exciting, planned event. We experience this. We revel in its gleeful power and, then, we all too often face a symmetrical slump on the far side of the vacation.

I used to see this pattern – up echoed by down – as inevitable.

Until my divorce.

He left days before an anticipated trip to the coast. That trip was my motivator and smile generator all summer.

And then it disappeared, a mirage replaced by hell.

For those first several weeks, I simply struggled to survive. Any smiles were spontaneous, fleeting whispers of joy teasing my lips.

One night, I opened a calendar. The only entries were for legal proceedings and work related deadlines. I knew I was looking at a tough year ahead and the calendar certainly confirmed it.

And then I got angry. I felt like he stole the one little vacation from my year.

Yet I was the one that had allowed him to erase all of the entries of happiness.

Over the next few weeks, I got busy.

I started with the big things – scheduling a trip to San Antonio over Christmas and to Seattle over spring break. I also planned one more big-ticket item – a 3 day meditation and yoga retreat for that fall.

My wallet was empty at that point, but my heart felt a little more full as I saw those plans printed on the page.

But I wasn’t done.

I penciled in hikes for weekends that should have good weather. I looked up festivals and wrote them down. I visited the websites of local bands and marked down their concert dates. I followed with release dates for books and movies and museum openings. I researched gluten free friendly restaurants and marked them down on the page as well. No event was too small.

Related: Goal Post

The timing of some of the events was dictated by necessity, but others I intentionally placed just before or after events I was dreading.

Sometimes, we chaff at the idea of having to schedule pleasantries. Think of the advice for busy couples to schedule a regular date night or regular sex. We feel like we shouldn’t have to plan it, that it should just happen.

But then we get busy.

And it doesn’t happen.

If it’s important, plan it.

Of course, I still enjoyed the unexpected smiles. I made a commitment that year to say yes to every invitation, to every query of, “Do you want to…?” I loved those spontaneous smiles. They created some of my best memories. But they lack the guiding power of anticipation.

Even though I am no longer in hell, I still make sure my calendar is heavy with scheduled smiles. Instead of feeling let down at the end of the wedding week, I am looking forward to meeting a blog buddy for the first time, going to see Lewis Black, an annual Octoberfest weekend with friends and an upcoming visit with a childhood friend that I haven’t seen in 15 years. I don’t have time to be morose.

My life used to be cluttered with to-do lists. Notations of what tasks needed to be accomplished and what responsibilities needed tending.

They’re still there. After all, stuff still needs to get done.

But now, I make sure that two more important lists are more prominent:

The gratitude list that reminds me of all that I have to be thankful for (I love that I had to shrink the font on this one to get it to fit on the page!) and

The calendar that lists the upcoming smiles.

And that makes me happy:)

My challenge to you today – open up that calendar. Find a week with nothing fun planned and find something to add that you can anticipate. Bonus points if it also involves bringing anticipation to another.

And then enjoy the little happiness boost that comes from scheduling a smile.

 

 

 

It Doesn’t Matter How You Got Here

Wow.

What a week.

The wedding was simple, personal and beautiful.

The weather cooperated.

The venue cooperated.

The dog did not. He seemed to have trouble understanding the concept of standing still on a woodland path. Instead of turning his gaze towards the camera, he kept looking wistfully at the trail. That’s okay’ we love him anyway:)

We ended up getting married beside a mossy creek on the Ely’s Mill property at the base of the Roaring Forks Loop. It was a magical location, even better than the original – locked up tight behind the national park shutdowns- site.

Change can be good.

We enjoyed a few quiet and scheduleless days in a cabin outside Gatlinburg.

And then we came home and celebrated. A roving and riotous party that spanned from afternoon until morning. Our home, “our” restaurant and finally, “our” downtown filled with the smiles and laughter of our friends. What an amazing night. What a precious gift.

 

I usually take about four naps in the span of a year.

Yesterday, I took two.

I could have used another today.

 

 

I have so many thoughts scratching at the inside of my head, begging to be written. But only one is fighting through the fatigue tonight:

 

The actual ceremony consisted of pretty traditional vows and was led by a pastor that we only met minutes before. I don’t know if he looked at the marriage license and chose his words based upon our not-exactly-super-young ages (36 and 40) or my prior marriage, but one sentence he shared hit us both hard.

“It doesn’t matter how you got here; what matters is here and now.”

He’s right.

And, I’m happy to say, that it is more than just words to me now. I felt at complete peace with my past the entire week. Random memories popped up on occasion (more to do with Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge than wedding stuff), but they passed through easily with no emotion.

I was married before.

It doesn’t matter.

I was left behind.

It doesn’t matter.

I was betrayed.

It doesn’t matter.

None of those things have any bearing on today if I choose not to let them have any bearing on today.

What matters is here and now.

 

When I was unpacking and sorting after the trip, I came across three prescription bottles. They contained the leftovers of the medications that I took that first year to help me sleep and eat and function. I started weaning myself off the medications the day after the divorce and haven’t taken any in well over three years.

But I held onto the remaining pills for all this time.

What if I couldn’t sleep again? What if my appetite vanished again? What if the fear and the pain and the anxiety crippled me again?

Much of the time, I forgot that I even had the vials. But, when I would happen across them, I would always hesitate and then place them back in their bin. I wasn’t ready.

But last week, when I recognized those orange bottles even though the labels had faded to white, I did not hesitate.

I released them.

They are relics of my past.

And they don’t matter.

What matters is here and now.

 

On a totally random side note that gave me a bit of a chuckle, for those of you who wonder how someone can commit bigamy (Getting Away With Bigamy), it’s still pretty easy. I carried an original copy of my divorce decree into the courthouse, thinking I would need it. Nope, I just needed to give them the date the divorce was final. Pretty scary. Kinda makes you wonder how common it actually is…