On Not Fighting the Early Morning

I woke up this morning around four am and got up to read and meditate before my 7 am meditation meeting. I wondered if this was overkill but did it anyway. After sitting with 25 people for 20 minutes of silence, several shared that they too had been up for hours already. Whether I know it or not, I’m always in community, never alone. What would shift if I consciously acknowledged that? Does my crabbiness stem, in part, from thinking I’m all alone? Doing all the work myself? Experiencing all the good stuff in solitude?

A morning reading suggests that spiritual practices crack open our hearts to love, and that if we don’t cultivate such practices, we will become bitter and hateful in the last third of our lives.  We need to consciously counter the human tendency toward negativity with a practice of receptivity and kindness. I’ve been a hateful old woman this past week or two, and I don’t like it one bit. I’ve been negative and resentful despite a daily practice of meditation and writing. What gives?

Since negative thinking is part of the disease of addiction, I’ve had plenty of signs that my addiction is ascending, and with that information comes the truth that I need to enlarge my spirit.  I suspect that’s the invitation in waking at 4 am: use this time wisely. Lately, I’ve been filling my time with distractions in the guise of holiday cheer.  I’ve been filling my body, closet, and calendar with food, stuff, and busyness rather than the true nourishment of connection.

All the celebrity deaths that seem too soon remind me that I don’t know how many days are left.  How might sitting quietly enhance the moment? How might speaking my truth enlarge the space or keeping silent perfect it? If I shift  from being critical to being curious, such a small move, really, could that crack of love let in more light? Maybe that's the soothing that awaits at four am.

Moments from Christmas Past

                                                                                               

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In the 1960s, Dayton’s department store in downtown Minneapolis had a shopping area set up just for kids.  When I was five, my mother listed my gift recipients, put money in an envelope, and sent me off with my personal shopper, who led me through a screened off area where I selected presents.  I bought ladybug soaps for my mom and watched as they were carefully wrapped and labeled.  The story goes that on Christmas morning, I rushed past my own Barbies and games toward the presents for others I couldn’t wait to give.  My mother kept those soaps, unused and dusty, until she died.

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When I was nine I got a record player, a brown plastic case that snapped open like a suitcase to reveal the turntable.  Dad took me to Delphi’s  Wynkoop Pharmacy to pick out an album, my very first.    It was 1967 and I selected a compilation album with “Hey Jude” and “123 Red Light.”  That year Dad filmed a home movie of all of us dancing in the living room. I looked self-conscious but happy.

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Our newly reduced family sat on the floor around the Christmas tree, my sister, 12, myself 16, and mom.  My father had died two days earlier and we had a brief respite from the constant stream of visitors bringing their shock, grief, and casseroles to our door. Apparently people were staying home Christmas Day. We chose the presents from Aunt Mary to open—the best ones—first. Mom pulled out a pretty white shawl. “Where will I ever wear this now?” she asked with a crack in her voice.  It was the only time I saw her cry during that entire time.

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My mother lay in the living room in a hospital bed, hooked up to oxygen at the highest setting. A fellow teacher came over to bring a Night Before Christmas book. “What day is it?” Mom asked. When told it was Christmas Eve, she said, “That’s a good day to go.”  Within a couple hours her breathing changed and she didn’t appear conscious.  Now in our forties, my sister and I stayed up all night talking to her, thanking her, assuring her we would be fine.  Toward morning Lori went to bed, exhausted.  A while later some movement caught my attention; Mom had raised her head, opened her eyes and was looking directly at me.  I shouted for Lori, who ran back and we each took her hand.  One tear rolled down her cheek as we also cried. Mom gave a shrug, sighed, and was gone. Light streamed into the window. It was 8:15 Christmas morning, the end of an era.

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Brian and I call the boys into the living room to open presents. This family doesn’t take turns. Everyone tears into his own stash and thanks you are murmured. I’m not even sure what anyone gets. After 15 minutes,  I clean up the ribbons, boxes, and papers and stack each person’s gifts. Each year Brian writes a beautiful note to his sons. These cards do not contain money. They read them and say thanks but usually leave them, no sentimental scrapbooks for these young men. Still, they know their father loves them, and perhaps that I do too.

Drinking in the Dark

Maybe it’s my Scandinavian roots, but I absolutely love the darkness this time of year and get a bit sad when it gets lighter.  I’m an intensity junkie so living in Minneapolis is good, but I think I’d been happier some days in Greenland. Each winter I feel it hasn’t been cold enough or dark enough long enough.  While some people are counting the days until the solstice and growing light,  I enjoy cocooning and spent yesterday afternoon in bed for a long nap, snuggly warm. The cold darkness gives me permission.

This morning in meditation, I felt I was literally drinking in the quiet, quenched by stillness. It seemed delicious and yet I was sad the 20 minutes were almost up. I wanted to experience more, deeper, closer. I felt myself on the precipice of a deeper dive and was eager. Or am I?

In both the darkness of winter and the stillness of a morning meditation, I started mourning before the time was up, grieving something that, although inevitable, isn’t here yet.  This may be a form of protection from the richness of experiencing what is, for preparing for loss buffers the intensity of the present. How else do I do that?

We have a number of social engagements between now and the new year. At times I worry about being overwhelmed or too tired, but I believe all these connections can fill me up in this darkest time of year. Being with others in a warm home, with candles, a lit tree, a fire, laughter and hugs replaces the loss I have from not being outside as much, on the water, in sunshine, immersed in the woods.  Instead I will enter a human forest, nourish the blossoms of friendship, and deepen my roots in community. That should get me ready for spring. 

Addiction--subtle and overt

Brian and I saw the film Manchester by the Sea last night, and as we were leaving this powerful movie about grief, he asked if I would recommend it to the alcoholics and addicts I work with.  After all, he said, it’s all about addiction.  His opinion baffled me because the movie didn’t strike me as being about addiction. And then we dissected it: the main character drank steadily, got into fights in bars, and the heartache at the center of the film was created by his drinking.

How had I missed that?  What picture of addiction do I have that precluded the centrality of it in this richly layered film?  The only thing I’ve come up with is that I’m now so used to stories about much harsher drug use that something as benign as 8 beers in 7 hours doesn’t strike me as excessive.  I’ve come to normalize this level of use because, after all, he was functioning. Or was he? The main character had no access to his emotions, no way to express them except when they erupted in violence. 

That’s what addiction does—cuts us off from the very thing that helps us reach for others, ask for help, and make a human connection.

I’ve been very interested in ambient addictions lately, the subtle, socially-sanctioned habits and activities that nonetheless keep me buffered from what’s going on internally and often in the world.  I’ve been noticing all the little ways I distract myself from reality to feel a bit more comfortable.  Lately it’s been novel-reading, and while I’ve read some wonderful books,  I’ve put down a couple mid-way after realizing they aren’t good enough to take up my time. 

I’d be better served phoning a friend, taking a walk, or simply looking out the window than filling my head with mediocre words and stories. But first I have to let go of the need to be productive, even in my spare time.