a perfectly good life

The way football fans rev up for the Super Bowl, our family looks forward to Oscar night. The whole day is planned around the event, with cookies baking, and homework completed before we gather around the television. It gets our adrenalin pumping as we identify with the actors who wait with a mix of poise and vulnerability. There are moments when we actually find ourselves thinking that we are the actors ourselves: we are winners; we have come so far, and it is our night!

The Barbara Walters Special is foreplay for the evening, allowing us intimacy with a select few. Before her interview, who knew that Helen Mirren was disarming, humble, and even spunky? We decided then and there that she had to win, even though before the interview we were routing for Meryl Streep. (Aren’t we fickle?) And, for me, if Eddie Murphy didn’t walk away with gold in hand it would be my own personal defeat. Then there was Ellen, the boy-woman telling the world of the betrayal that haunted her childhood. We were all in love with her, routing for the show’s success to make up for the horrors of her past.

It was Sunday afternoon, and the clock was ticking on towards my writing deadline. I promised myself publicly on this blog that I would make at least one entry per week, adding on to my story/novella/novel each time. There was a nagging pressure that felt like a mosquito relentlessly buzzing about my head in an otherwise quiet room at night, when sleep should prevail, but won’t. I knew I would keep the promise I made to myself, but until I got down to business, there was a distinct buzz following me throughout the day.

Concern that I had absolutely nothing more to say was quietly haunting me. As long I was alive and conscious, I had to trust that there must be something to say. Of course, the compulsion to be fabulous must not take center stage. Inhibition was my enemy.

Finally, I took my seat and began.

I love rollercoasters. Tension increases with each “click-click” of the chain that pulls me up the first peak, until neither the car I’m in nor my heart rate can get any higher. Plummeting down the other side, the release is so great that I have no control over the hysterical screams that emanate from the deepest core of my being. In the end, thanks to the skill of the physicists who designed the ride, I emerge unharmed, feeling victorious and eager to experience it all again. Five tickets for exhilaration: it always seems like a fair price.

It’s not been nearly as much fun riding the thrill rides of my emotions. I’ve spent a lot of time in my internal theme park, stuck on rides I neither chose nor controlled. If the outside world accepted me, it was like I was handed five free tickets and a trip to the front of the line. Life was a fantastic rush. Nothing could stop me. I felt in charge of my life, and I was happy. The problem is, the outside world is not always so generous. It can withhold the valuable tickets even when we deserve them; or worse, it can send us straight into the eeriest haunted house. When I didn’t get the validation I craved from the outside world, I felt hopeless and worthless. I was stuck in the hall of mirrors, trying to find my way out, constantly confronted by a distorted image of myself. I believed what I saw, and it wasn’t a pretty sight.

It is my firm belief that there is almost no better mood elevator than being engaged in an act of creativity. I have often looked at the creative process as a chance to give ourselves a “god-like” experience. When we knit a sweater, write a story, paint a painting, or play the piano, we are putting something into the universe that hadn’t previously been there. This process requires work, planning, organizational skills, and of course imagination and creativity. Mastery of these qualities can be satisfying, at least; and exhilarating, at best. Because I have a love-hate relationship with writing (a subject for another post!), I have decided to take a plunge and actually write a story, or maybe even something longer (dare I say novel?; I am not sure where it will wind up) in this blog. Enough talk, I want to expose myself by actually doing a public piece. I will be demonstrating my process, and exposing my imperfections. I have writen previously about how risk taking is a key ingredient in creativity, and accomplishment, and now I will put my “money where my mouth is.” I will commit to contributing to this story at least once per week.

I might also remark on the details of the process. For starters, my biggest fear is that I will lose steam, that perhaps I will get off to a great start, but will have difficulty sticking with it. Of course, I anticipate wanting the material to be impressive, but the discipline of sticking with the project is my greatest challenge. Wish me luck!!!!!

Here is the start of my story/novel/whatever:

When I was at Harvard studying Russian Lit. twenty-nine years ago, my friends were convinced that I would be either a famous writer myself, or, if not that, then I would without a doubt teach at an Ivy one day. No one would have expected to find me living on the streets of New York, homeless, and writing my novel in the various Apple stores on any computer that was free for a moment.

The feeling “I should be doing more” is epidemic in our accomplishment driven culture. As I was deciding between a shower before making the bed and a 15-minute yoga workout (where I’d make sure to squeeze in a few minutes to work on the full lung breathing I am trying to perfect so the wheezing from my allergies might improve) I worried that I might not be leaving enough time before my first patient of the day. So, I chose to give myself a break and see a few patients before showering. I wanted to practice my yoga and breathing in a more peaceful context. If there is a psychological component to my allergies, it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to unravel this one! It is strange that the rapid, seemingly productive start of this busy morning left me with the feeling that I wasn’t doing enough.

My patients work in a variety of careers, ranging from artists to stockbrokers to teachers. I have noticed they often experience feelings of yearning, with a tinge of anguish mixed in, if they have not had a creatively productive day. It’s not unlike constipation: there is something inside us and it’s supposed to come out! How many of us walk around with filled colons? People we meet throughout the day might never guess we are so full of shit. We look and act just fine. The artist not producing, the mother not connecting, or the athlete not moving, is guaranteed to feel like crap.

I was impressed when my son and his girlfriend, both sophomore BFA students at the University of Southern California, described how they prepared for a recent mid-term oral examination. They called it an emotional vaccine, and I think it’s a valuable technique any of us could use to prepare for a situation where our emotions might negatively impact our performance.

There were several reasons why they thought their chances of “choking” on the exam were high. First, it would be conducted by one of their favorite professors, who they wanted desperately to please. Second, it would be in front of all of their classmates, who they wanted desperately to impress. Finally, it was in seven difficult sections, that they hoped desperately not to forget. As they prepared for the exam, worrying about everything that could go wrong, their anxiety increased to a point of near paralysis. That’s when they discovered how to give themselves an emotional vaccine.

How many times do we, as parents, want to get right down at our children’s level of behavior? I would say it happens every day, and often many times a day. When young children are inconsolable, exploding with tantrum after tantrum, we too want to cry and scream with them, or more often at them. When our teenagers are down right mean to us, isn’t it our impulse to be even meaner back? For me, acting as an adult in the midst of the abuse and freewheeling feelings from my children is one of my greatest parenting challenges.

So what keeps a parent in line? Most parents want to improve history by doing a better job than their parents. What makes this particularly difficult is that it is usually one’s impulse to repeat history. If my mother was highly critical and fearful that I would make poor choices, and she gave herself license to lose her cool because of these fears, it puts me at risk of behaving the same way with my children. Another factor that can contribute to parental deterioration is that many of us are looking to our children for the love that we did not get from our parents. This indulgence is a very big no-no. As a matter of fact, giving in to those impulses can, and probably will, get us exactly the opposite of what we want. Kids have a sensitive antenna for neurotic behaviors, and that is probably a good thing. When a parent is motivated by the need to be loved, it becomes about the parent and not about the child. What kid wouldn’t be able to pick up on this?