Day 74 No Judgment
Anthea often tells us in class to listen to our bodies, do the postures as best we can, with no judgment. “Time and patience,” she says. “That’s how you improve.”
I’ve never thought of myself as a particularly patient person, however when I think of the activities with which I occupy my time, it becomes pretty clear I have a thing for delayed gratification. Yoga can take weeks, months, years to see results. Gardening, an annual just-wait-until-next-month/season/year/house project. Parenting, generally considered an eighteen-year project. Marriage, for the lucky, and the tenacious, a lifelong project.
Then there’s writing.
I’ve been published off and on for the last couple of decades, in print, on-line, in magazines and book format, short-stories and full-length, fiction and non-fiction. And while every now and then I get a lovely burst of “free money” in the mail, overall, I’ve probably made the full-time equivalent of about 0.23/hour. Freelancing is not a career choice for those with loftly financial goals.
Fortunately, the Mennonite in me disparages filthy lucre anyway. (Plus my husband makes enough for both of us, so I can afford to be philosophical.)
But there’s is still something about financial reward that makes a person feel valued, Mennonite self-loathing aside. And when it comes to the writing life, recognition tends to come in fits and starts, long periods of drought broken up by mists, drizzle and the occasional deluge.
I learned this week that 1) my agent is going to pitch my book proposal at Book Expo America, only the biggest publishing event in North America 2) the wonderful people at Heritage House are releasing the new, improved version of my first book, Great Dog Stories, and 3) are going to repackage my worst-selling but arguably best book, Wildlife in the Kitchen, with a new title and new cover. (Who knew that a cross-eyed rat wouldn’t warm the hearts of chain representatives? Or that the title could be interpreted as a cookbook? Roasted Roadkill, anyone?)
So as always when it comes to my career, time and patience is of the essence. Keep on keeping on, no judgment.
I guess I can do that.
Day 73 The 80-20 Life
“I’ve been doing yoga for seven years,” our instructor, Randee, told us today. “And it took me three years before I could do Fixed Firm.”
As this is a pose that only took me a week or two to master, I suddenly felt pretty darn good about my practice. (Again, not me in the photo, but I think my alignment is more or less the same. At least, no one corrects me, so it must be close.)
After 73 days straight, it’s gotten to be something of a habit now. I’ve even had a few classes where I’ve sort of zoned out and suddenly, it’s over and everyone’s packing up.
My nemesis posture, Standing-Head-to-Knee, is coming along nicely. I can now get each knee straight, toes pointed backwards, Achilles flexed. For just a moment or two, but still. Next step, bending my head down to my knee, but I’m in no hurry. If it takes years, it takes years. I need to stop thinking of this as a quick fix, a 90-day boot camp, after which I’ll be able to go back to my sloth-like ways. I may take a few days off eventually, but I aim to continue four-five times per week. I like the way I feel, and I don’t want to lose that.
It’s not about perfection, or deprivation. It’s about making healthy choices 80% of the time.
I got another motivator recently, with the results of some routine bloodwork. My cholesterol – wow, this makes me feel old – has been edging upwards for some time now, a genetic albatross passed down from my mother’s side. (Strokes to the left of me, cancer to the right, here I am, stuck in the middle with you.)
In April 2010, my total number was 6.9, at which point I pretty much put my fingers in my ears and went la-la-la-la. As of February 2011, before I began my challenge, it was 7.1. I’d like to emphasize here that I’d just returned from Maui, where I freely admit my lifestyle was probably 80% mai tais, 20% lying around, but this forced me to take my fingers out and pay attention.
My HDLs – the good fats – are also high, which means my HDL:LDL ratio is still within normal range. Which is probably why I haven’t had a heart attack – yet.
I don’t know if Bikram yoga, without dieting, has a documented effect on cholesterol. My diet is fairly good anyway, pie notwithstanding, and I get really crabby when I’m hungry, so I’m not inclined to anything drastic here. But I will get my blood chemistry rechecked in a few months, and report back. If my cholesterol has gotten worse, despite my yoga challenge, then – and only then – I will reconsider giving up cutting down on pie.
Day 71 Don’t Be an “I’m-Sorry-Butt”
The Vancouver Sun ran a piece by columnist Susan Schwartz this morning with the header “Apologies Often Remedy the Situation but Timing is Crucial.” A thought-provoking story as I’ve often mourned the demise of apology, blaming it on our increasingly-litigious culture. Politicians and CEOs are famous for this strategy: “Don’t apologize, don’t explain,” in order to avoid an expensive ruling against them. (Now maybe this makes good business and/or political sense. I wouldn’t know. Maybe it’s a male thing. Again, out of my experience pool.)
And thus what should be a simple “I’m sorry” gets mangled into the weasely “Mistakes were made,” or the pompous “I regret that such-and-such occurred” sort of dodging.
Translation: “Mistakes were made… but not by me,” and “I regret that such-and-such didn’t occur on your head sooner… and from the cloaca of a low-flying gull.”
People screw up, it’s a fact. And, except for the sociopaths among us, we feel uncomfortable when we screw up. Lower on the totem-pole of worthiness. Naturally, we want to get rid of the discomfort asap, so our immediate reaction is to pull up the defenses and pour on the effort to deny, deny, deny, as if “I didn’t do it” could magically turn back time.
Of course, if you’re Mennonite, or a woman, or worst of all, a Mennonite woman, you might be prone to saying “I’m sorry” as a matter of course, whether you’ve done a bad thing or not, which swings the pendulum of accountability in the opposite direction, but with no better results.
An insightful therapist once pointed out to me that that phrase “I’m sorry” is completely focused on the offender. Taken to the full Menno-Monty, it goes something like this: “I’m sorry, I’m such a loser, I’m the worst person ever, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I try and I try but I …” (dissolve into racking, mucous-filled tears).
In this Menno-Monty martyrdom scenario, the offender slyly regains power by making themselves appear long-suffering victims of their own baseness and how mean are you to point this out! When in fact they’ve learned to rather enjoy the toasty flames tickling their toes.
In fact, Mennos aside, all the offended parties need is some recognition of their own experience. E.g. “It must have been unpleasant for you when I farted into the oscillating fan just as it swung your way. I’m sorry. I’ll aim away next time.” The offender accepts responsibility, while acknowledging the offended party’s feelings and thereby if he/she is very lucky, avoids being booted out of bed.
Maintaining relationship equilibrium is about balance. Party A takes, Party B gives. Next time around Party B takes and Party A gives. One person offends, acknowledges, apologizes. The other calls foul, accepts apology, forgives. No “you owe me,” or tucking it away in that secret bad-deeds bank account we all have.
It’s the golden rule of screw-ups: apologize unto others as you’d have them apologize unto you, because sooner or later, what hits the fan will originate with you. Politicos and CEOs who can apologize? Gems among men. (Okay, or women, but let’s be real.)
Admitting and forgiving, that’s grown-up work.
No need for lawyers at all.