It seems the holidays can be fraught with conflicting experiences. On the one hand, the holidays can be joyous, busy, bustling. On the other hand, the holidays can be downright bugaboos. It is not uncommon for things to get a little busy around my office. Family is descending, old tiffs resurface, fights break out on the once-innocent Friday after Thanksgiving that somewhere along the line turned to the dark side.
A common statement starts out:
I just wish the holidays were ________________________.
A time when everyone got along?
Not so hard this year without Dad?
Peaceful? Happy? Reverent?
And despite our best efforts, sometimes, the holidays just end up with a heavy shot of disappointment.
Early in my therapy career, I stumbled upon an article that addressed this very topic. Basically, the wise person, whom I would quote if I had his/her name, linked holiday stress with struggling against what is. According to this wise writer, the secret to holiday enjoyment has less to do with the meal you are cooking or the presents you are giving or whether or not Uncle Petey is going to drink too much and try to kiss everyone under the mistletoe - again. Rather, holiday enjoyment has to do with not having the expectation that people are going to be any different than they are. When we can let go of expectation that family will behave, shoppers will generously give their parking spots, or that we will be able to buy every single thing the kids want, something magical happens - our grip loosens, our palms open and finally we are able to receive what magic exists.
Perhaps it is in the prayer while lighting the menorah. Or the exhale when the presents are at last wrapped and under the tree. Or the comforting tradition of watching your favorite movie. Or maybe its the breather you take, hiding in the bathroom with a good book, hoping Uncle Petey will somehow forget about kissing you.
When we let go of what we think the holidays should be, more open to what they are, we can become clearer of our boundaries ("No, I'd really appreciate it if you did bring your own tree with you Christmas Day."), more aware of the moments that really count (Playing Dreidel with your nephew), and more in touch with the moments that feel just right. Such a moment might last as long as a deep breath, but wouldn't it be a shame to miss it?
Best to you and yours,
Rebecca
Monday, November 24, 2014
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Listening skills
My old cat, Cally injured her knee. Truthfully, I didn't even know cats had knees until this happened. She could not walk. She could not get up to eat. She made small mewing noises that sounded like pain. She lay in a "nest" of blankets on the floor until the vet could fit her in.
I sat by her, talking and petting and waiting for the vet to call back when I noticed something. She may not have been able to get up on her feet, but she stretched her front legs anyway.
She purred when I pet her.
She rested almost a whole day and for the briefest of moments, pulled herself up, stretched her back and lay back down.
Hours later, she stood again, walked two feet to her food dish (despite the one we put by her nest), ate a couple bites, limped back and lay down.
Bit by bit, Cally did what felt right. She listened to her body. She stretched in ways she could, enjoyed the company of a warm hand, and did only what she could. It was a slow process. Little bit by little bit. She healed quicker than the vet had expected.
I wondered what would it be like if we as humans listened that closely to what we needed. If we honored our pain, our limitations and had patience with ourselves to move at a mindful pace. So often we push through, full of "should" and "ought to", only to backtrack our own healing. Or we lay down, curl on our sides and claim defeat, not staying in touch with that which is still strong, still peaceful within us.
What would happen if, when life felt painful, we moved like Cally honoring, patient, listening? How long would the pain last? Might be worth a try next time.
* Cally has made a full recovery.
I sat by her, talking and petting and waiting for the vet to call back when I noticed something. She may not have been able to get up on her feet, but she stretched her front legs anyway.
She purred when I pet her.
She rested almost a whole day and for the briefest of moments, pulled herself up, stretched her back and lay back down.
Hours later, she stood again, walked two feet to her food dish (despite the one we put by her nest), ate a couple bites, limped back and lay down.
Bit by bit, Cally did what felt right. She listened to her body. She stretched in ways she could, enjoyed the company of a warm hand, and did only what she could. It was a slow process. Little bit by little bit. She healed quicker than the vet had expected.
I wondered what would it be like if we as humans listened that closely to what we needed. If we honored our pain, our limitations and had patience with ourselves to move at a mindful pace. So often we push through, full of "should" and "ought to", only to backtrack our own healing. Or we lay down, curl on our sides and claim defeat, not staying in touch with that which is still strong, still peaceful within us.
What would happen if, when life felt painful, we moved like Cally honoring, patient, listening? How long would the pain last? Might be worth a try next time.
* Cally has made a full recovery.
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