Guilty Pleasures

Have you ever noticed that children do not understand the concept of a guilty pleasure?

Sunday afternoon found me in the bath tub after the completion of a daunting to-do list. I decided to do this bath right – I had the window open to listen to the rain, a glass of wine and a newly downloaded Kindle book. I had no rush, no worries.

As I lay back into the scented bubbles, enjoying the feeling of my arms floating, cradled by the warm water, I was taken back to my childhood.

I used to spend hours in tubs – both of the hot and bath varieties – savoring the slippery denseness surrounding my buoyant frame. I would stay in the waters until hunger or a completed book drove me out, never feeling guilty for wasted time or feeling pressure to accomplish something more meaningful. On the nights I spent at my dad’s apartment in my childhood, he would knock on the bathroom door to check on me about every 30 minutes. Many nights, he made it to four knocks before I finally emerged from the tub.

I understood the concept of pleasure. But I never thought to associate it with guilt.

So why does that change? Why do I now feel guilty or lazy when I indulge? Why do I judge myself?

Part of it is out of necessity. When we are young, our parents and guardians act as our voice of reason, limiting our overindulgences (“You can only have two cookies”). We do not have to self-limit; it is done for us.

But, at some point, that regulation has to shift to us. We have to learn how to work before play and eat our broccoli before our ice cream. We become the care takers and the needs of others are placed before our own. Without that mental management, we would all be living in our parent’s homes, eating Oreo’s all day and playing video games. Well, except for me. I’d be in a bath tub with a book. And probably broccoli.

The problem is that, at some point, many of us get too good at using that internal voice. Not that we always obey it (Ever had an internal argument about if you should eat that dessert? Yeah, who won?) but that we usually feel guilty when we do not.

We indulge. But we don’t necessarily enjoy.

That dessert tastes much better when you’re not berating yourself for eating it. The hope is that the internal monologue of guilt will keep your willpower in check. That if you feel bad about the behavior, you will avoid it in the future. Reality doesn’t work that way. Rarely does guilt about an indulgence keep us in check. We just act as though it does. The reality is that our cravings for whatever the indulgence are more fully satisfied when we fully give in to the experience.

So what’s the answer? How do we balance our need for self-regulation and yet still enjoy our indulgences without guilt?

I know that I am going to let my parental mind set my guidelines and then turn control over to my inner child to enjoy the experience.

All I can say is that it’s good my Kindle has limited battery power. Otherwise, I may never get out of the bath:)

Taming the Monkey Mind: Taking the Monkey for a Ride

My monkey mind has been unruly of late. It’s been delivering excuses to refrain from sitting quietly faster than McDonald’s serves up burgers. And the excuses are about as palatable.

I could list those excuses, rationalize away my lack of mindfulness. But what’s the point? It’s just noise. Distraction.

I have two friends, sisters, who lost their mother many years ago. Ever since, they have chosen to make Mother’s Day a day of celebrating life. Their venue of choice? Amusement parks. I have been lucky enough to have been included in the tradition.

Every Mother’s Day finds us at the gates of some purveyor of adrenaline – laced fun. Sometimes we stay local, sometimes we travel. Regardless, the goal is the same – a day of riding as many coasters as possible while engaging in great food and better company.

Boy, did I ever need that yesterday.

The coasters forced my monkey into submission. I had no choice but to accept the experience. No choice but to let go. No choice but to be in the moment and enjoy the ride. With my eyes closed, there was no anticipation, just experience.

With each new coaster, I could feel the tension draining from my shoulders and clarity slowly replacing my muddied brain. My breath deepened and my posture straightened. I felt refreshed and relaxed.

For weeks now, meditation has been a chore, something I have to force myself to do. But this morning, my mat is calling to me, inviting. I want to sit. I want to breathe. I want to be.

Sometimes my monkey mind protests too much stillness and too much routine. He needs to feel the air rushing past his face and hear the joyful screams and laughter bursting forth, unrestrained. He needs to have his untamed side acknowledged and celebrated. He needs to let go with no thought of decorum or restraint (well, other than the ones that keep me from falling 200 feet to the ground!).

Sometimes the monkey just needs to ride. Maybe next year I’ll bring my meditation mat and some incense to the park:)

 

Broken Windows

Broken windows theory
Broken windows theory (Photo credit: Roel Wijnants)

I need to fix my broken windows.

Not literal windows, luckily, since it’s been snowing for the past two days in Atlanta, but metaphorical windows. The types of fractured panes that, if you subscribe to the broken window theory, will lead to greater calamity if left unrepaired. Unlike the criminological perspective of the original theory, I am not concerned about increased vandalism or an uptick of violent crime in my actual or figurative home, but I am concerned about a cascade effect if I don’t make the minor repairs now.

Brock and I currently reside in a rental home. We selected the home because we love the location and the space and price suits our needs. However, the state of the house is a bit…rough. It’s been a rental for many years with no major updates or repairs. The floors are poorly laid. The nails and screws form connect-the-dots pictures on the walls. None of the interior doors lock and none of the fixtures match and none of them work particularly well, either. Apart from painting a few rooms upon moving in 16 months ago, we have not put much effort into the home, not wanting to waste time or money on a temporary stay. Even with those restrictions, we still settled in to some degree, hung pictures on the walls and curtains on the windows.

We plan to buy a house next winterish (for those of you unfamiliar with the season, it begins in October and continues until the last of the sweaters are put away). I’m ready. I’ve lived in temporary housing for the past 4 years after owning a home for the previous 10. I’m tired of feeling unmoored. I want to put down roots and put down new floors.

In my old life, my physical space was very important to me. My stress levels and ability to relax were directly tied in to my surroundings. My ex was helpful with this. He graciously helped me redo my office between work commitments when I was desperate for a change of scenery after completing my master’s degree. In my new life, I have had to learn to be content despite my surroundings. I’ve lived in a spare bedroom in a home with a young kid and lots of clutter. I moved into Brock’s space for a time and had to carve out my niche in a bachelor’s domain. And now, I am in this rental, with all its marks of tenants past.

It’s been 16 months. A picture has fallen off my office wall. It now sits in a corner awaiting a new nail that I have yet to hammer in. My cork wall tiles have been leaping off like lemmings and, now that I’ve tired of trying to convince them not to jump, rest stacked in a pile on my printer. I have a jacket that lives on the floor of the guest room closet because I never transferred any hangers to that room.

These are details. Unimportant in many ways. But they are also broken windows.

This is my home. It’s not permanent (is anything?) but it is home for now. If I ignore these minor fixes, I am allowing myself to not be present in my current environment. I am making do and making plans, rather than being in my surroundings. If I allow myself to agree that these details don’t matter, what will not matter next?

I’m not going to go Martha Stewart on my house (after all, I do see perfection in my chipped plates!), but I am going to take a few moments over spring break to restore the wall hangings and transfer a few hangers. Although I am looking forward to purchasing a home, I am not going to let myself live in the home of next winterish while I am still in the present season. So I will fix those broken windows and appreciate their view. Even through the torn screens:)

In Life as in Yoga

present

Bloom

bloom