... were Lester Burnham's last words before he was shot in the head in American Beauty. Moments earlier he was surprised to find himself, when asked how he was, suddenly able to say, "I'm great." And really mean it. Standing under the blue sky and bright sun on this most beautiful of days, I found myself looking up and saying his words: man oh man oh man (and instantly felt the urge to check behind me for a gun).
I write to share the same revelation. I'm great. Anyone who's been around knows there were patches that were decidedly not great (I refer especially to the month of camping out in an abandoned construction site), and there will be such patches again. Making it all the more important to point it out when life is great.
This all came to my attention after encountering situations I honestly thought would have set me to longing for one thing or another. I was genuinely surprised to discover that instead of wishing for what I don't have, I really prefer what I do have to anything else. I'm where I want to be. In every way. I love my family and friends, and find those relationships so fulfilling. I love what I do, and feel competent to do it. I feel good about the food I eat, and the clothes I wear. I don't wish I was richer, thinner, prettier, more or less anything. All of which has nothing to do, incidentally, with being perfect.
Same goes with life. Mine's not perfect... there really isn't even that much to it. When I'm not doing the usual work of living, I'm mostly just bumbling around on the guitar or attempting to cook or playing frisbee with the dog. But some of my contentedness probably comes from welcoming and preserving that simplicity. From loving what I have and allowing it to be enough. And, from being grateful.
I learned my style of gratitude from listening to Dr. Crump teach about the Old Testament Jews. I don't know half of what I perhaps should about Judaism, but I remember learning that all those detailed, particular rituals in the Torah pretty much boil down to being grateful ALL THE TIME. For every moment - getting up, eating meals, leaving the house - there is a ritual that in essence says, "thank you."
I loved that idea, and took it for myself. Gratitude is, really, a good deal about what it means for you. It re-benefits the beneficiary. :) It means you name it when this moment is good, and this one, and this one. Before you know it there's beauty to name all over, and suddenly the whole world offers itself to you (harsh and exciting...). Practicing gratitude opens your eyes to the goodness that's all around, and it makes everything brighter.
Gratitude doesn't only brighten what you see. It helps you see what you might have otherwise missed. Emily of Our Town saw all there was to be grateful for when she returned to one day of her life after she died. She saw every good thing as she had never noticed it in life: coffee, and oranges, and her mother. Clocks ticking. She cried out that so much is happening in every moment, but it happens so fast that we don't notice; we don't have time to look at one another. She asked, "Do human beings ever realize life while they live it? Every, every minute?"
We don't. And honestly I think if we did, we would all spontaneously explode. But by practicing gratitude, hopefully I'll be able to say that for most of those minutes, I was there... and it was great.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
baby be friends with you.
It's a beautiful night, at the end of a frustrating day. The moon is conspicuously hanging out like a bulbous, ill-disguised troll behind too-thin strips of clouds. The air smells like wood burning in fireplaces, and it's cool for Florida, but - being honest with ourselves now - it's still warm.
Bob Dylan is singing "all I really wanna do-o-o-o is, baby, be friends with you," while a certain herding dog demonstrates grave concern about the source of that yodeling. Friends are calling my attention lately. Calling me away, I think, from the inclination to label a given day, or anything, as frustrating.
Like today: I all-out forgot two meetings I had fully planned on the day before. And messing up things for which you can't turn back the clock is frustrating! But a friend commiserated about all the things she's missed too, and reminded me how small those mistakes turn out to be against the backdrop of all you usually get right. Another friend suggested how to mend things with the folks I'd stood up.
Like last week: defending a dissertation proposal is stressful, and is just part of the stream of challenges that keeps coming allll the time. Sometimes I worry the persistent work will erode my sense of fun! What if I forget? But a weekend away with a friend who pointed out her surprise that I "play as hard as I work" (and who should win trophies or something for her own ability to do exactly that) let me have a couple days to remember no matter how many papers I write, I can still bring the ruckus.
Like other friendships. As a girl who's historically thrown her friendship around every which way - to highly variable outcomes - I've spent a lot of time working at people with whom my efforts don't always pay off. I still get frustrated when they don't. But - but. I'm starting to learn. Those friendships that stay have a way of drowning out frustration at what doesn't stay. Where one attempt at connecting fails, there is a net of other connections already there to let me know what I'm really looking for. And how incredibly blessed I already am.
It's fine when it doesn't work out. See, you launch enough of your little filaments (as Uncle Walt put it) and plenty of those gossamer threads will catch somewhere. The ones that need to will. The bridges you'd probably rather not form are usually the ones that won't anyway. And there's a beauty in that. Some strange, benevolent efficiency of loving, maybe. We find our anchors where we belong.
Not to say I won't keep flinging out proverbial filaments at just about whatever crosses my path, including any number of long shots. Some things are entirely ingrained. :) But there is comfort in being reminded that whatever efforts fail, there is a web of friendships ready to hold you if you'll look for it. And if you keep on flinging: well, not everything will work, but there will keep on being something - someone - there to break the fall.
Bob Dylan is singing "all I really wanna do-o-o-o is, baby, be friends with you," while a certain herding dog demonstrates grave concern about the source of that yodeling. Friends are calling my attention lately. Calling me away, I think, from the inclination to label a given day, or anything, as frustrating.
Like today: I all-out forgot two meetings I had fully planned on the day before. And messing up things for which you can't turn back the clock is frustrating! But a friend commiserated about all the things she's missed too, and reminded me how small those mistakes turn out to be against the backdrop of all you usually get right. Another friend suggested how to mend things with the folks I'd stood up.
Like last week: defending a dissertation proposal is stressful, and is just part of the stream of challenges that keeps coming allll the time. Sometimes I worry the persistent work will erode my sense of fun! What if I forget? But a weekend away with a friend who pointed out her surprise that I "play as hard as I work" (and who should win trophies or something for her own ability to do exactly that) let me have a couple days to remember no matter how many papers I write, I can still bring the ruckus.
Like other friendships. As a girl who's historically thrown her friendship around every which way - to highly variable outcomes - I've spent a lot of time working at people with whom my efforts don't always pay off. I still get frustrated when they don't. But - but. I'm starting to learn. Those friendships that stay have a way of drowning out frustration at what doesn't stay. Where one attempt at connecting fails, there is a net of other connections already there to let me know what I'm really looking for. And how incredibly blessed I already am.
It's fine when it doesn't work out. See, you launch enough of your little filaments (as Uncle Walt put it) and plenty of those gossamer threads will catch somewhere. The ones that need to will. The bridges you'd probably rather not form are usually the ones that won't anyway. And there's a beauty in that. Some strange, benevolent efficiency of loving, maybe. We find our anchors where we belong.
Not to say I won't keep flinging out proverbial filaments at just about whatever crosses my path, including any number of long shots. Some things are entirely ingrained. :) But there is comfort in being reminded that whatever efforts fail, there is a web of friendships ready to hold you if you'll look for it. And if you keep on flinging: well, not everything will work, but there will keep on being something - someone - there to break the fall.
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