Month: December 2019

“If you don’t like something, change it; if you can’t change it, change the way you think about it.”–Mary Engelbreit

“There is only one corner of the universe you can be certain of improving, and that’s your own self.”–Aldous Huxley

“I don’t know if it’s the holidays, the cloudy weather, the lack of sunlight, or what, but I am really struggling.  Then, when I say it aloud, I feel like I am crazy–like no one else struggles this time of year.”

Yes, I was “eavesdropping,” as John, my husband, has frequently accused me of doing, but I was waiting in a long line at a popular store the Saturday before Christmas to buy a gift. All around me were people having conversations. What was I supposed to do?  Besides, the lady who was speaking kept looking back at me beseechingly as if she wanted me to participate in the conversation.

While the unknown sad woman, as I now came to think of her, had listened to her companion offer the advice to focus on the “real reason for the season,” sad woman was quick to retort.

“Yes, I know, I know.  I hear every week at church.  It seems like either pastors feel they have to say that, or they are just clueless to the real mental anguish people go through,” she added with frustration in her voice.  

As the line slowly moved forward to the check out point, sad woman went on to describe to her companion how her life had been turned upside down over the course of the year.  She had lost one parent and a good paying job thanks to a corporate decision to cut costs. Now this woman, for whom I was now feeling profoundly empathetic, was working two part time jobs, her remaining, but ill, parent had moved into her house, and her adult child had also moved back home, albeit temporarily, due to an impending divorce. 

“I know I am supposed to ‘count my blessing and name them one by one’ as the old hymn states, but I am so busy trying to count dollars to make ends meet . . . ,”  her voice trailed off as she stepped forward to pay for her meager purchase, a gift for her mom–it was her mom’s favorite fragrance.  

“She always smiles when I rub this scent on her arm.  It’s the one time she knows me,” I heard her explain to the young, but uncaring clerk.

Driving home the thirty or so minutes to my home, my mind kept rolling over this sad woman’s story.  She was around my age, maybe a bit older, but not by more than ten years. How many other stories did I know similar to hers?  Too many, I realized.

Likewise, I can think of several other people with whom I interact who seemingly, “have it all,” as far as financial success goes, who I have overheard or been engaged in conversations with that openly confess they are mentally struggling.  Every time I hear this, I am so deeply empathetic, that I can feel/sense their cloud of sadness too. In fact, I sincerely wish there was a way I could brush away the darkness for them as if I were brushing crumbs off of a table after dinner.  

Unfortunately, whether it’s short term holiday blues, seasonal affective disorder, or a more serious mental illness, such as depression and/ or anxiety, there is no quick-fix.  However, having experienced depression, and bouts of the blues, I can tell you this. There is a gem inside of you, it’s just covered up with some dirt and dust, and with a bit of patience and persistence, it is my sincere belief that you can get through the dark times.

I do not own much of what some might consider “good” jewelry, but the few pieces that I do own, I wear nearly daily, mostly because of the importance of the people in my life who have given them to me.  Due to the fact that I wear them frequently, they get dirty, dull, and diminished looking. Therefore, I try to weekly to soak my jewelry in a combination of ammonia and classic blue Dawn detergent (not anything with pearls or sterling silver).  

Once these pieces have soaked an hour or so, I use an old soft toothbrush to gently brush away the grime.  Three events during this process never fail to surprise me. The first is the amount of dirt particles that have settled in the bottom of the solution that came off the jewelry.  The second event is how shiny and lustrous the pieces look after being brushed and rinsed in warm water. Finally, as I set each piece on a paper towel to dry, I am stunned by how silky smooth/soft each one feels.  

When I first put on each piece, I am still taken aback by the way they look in the light, reflecting it just so.  As I rinse away the solution I made for the cleaning, I never fail to be surprised by the fact that I never realized how dirty each piece was until I cleaned it.  Further, I am so thankful I once more took time to clean them, rid them of their dirt with a little TLC, and, as I gently put each piece back on, I am reminded that no matter the irritants that can sometimes darken my soul, like the dirt in the jewelry, in the end, I can ultimately shine through with a little bit of help and self-cleaning.  And, that, Dear sad woman, or anyone else experiencing depression, is true for you!

You may be a bit dulled up, in fact, you may be flat out covered in darkness.  I get it. I have experienced depression too–not yours, but my own version of the dark cloud–the kind that makes it hard to get out of bed; the kind that sends you behind closed doors, so that you can cry profusely without prying eyes; the kind that makes you feel like you don’t matter, no one cares, and there is nothing you can do. I’ve been mucked up with all that, and more, on a few occasions.

Well, I am here to say, hold on, Dear Friend, hold on.  Clasp, claw, clutch the edge and hang on for dear life. There is a way through it.  You’ve collected some metaphorical dirt, maybe even more than your fair share, but inside of you is a gem that can be found by simply placing your hand on your heart.  No one, and I mean no one, has a heartbeat rhythm similar to yours. It is your unique marker formed by The Creator. It is continuously beating, whether you think about it or not, and it serves as a reminder that you, like your heart, can beat this.  It may take time, it may take therapy or medicine, it may take hours of exercise or talking with a trusted friend, it may take time spent outside, a change in scenery, or any other number of ways to get through it, but keep cleaning away the dirt; keep excavating–the real you is still there waiting to shine through once more.

“The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.”–Robert Burns

“This too shall pass.”–Persian adage

The schedule for the day, as is often the case on Saturdays, was full. My to-do list was inscribed and fortified via thorough mental rehearsals for several days prior.  In fact, Saturday was really only a continuation of a busy week filled with items needing to be completed and a forecast of another week just like it coming up. Nothing insurmountable as long as the steady pace of productivity persisted.  Get. It. Done. Girl.

Friday was a late night, at least late in my early-bird world. John, my husband and co-worker, and I had, along with the rest of the St. Joseph Catholic School middle school staff, chaperoned a Christmas themed dance for our students.  Combine that with an after-school writing club that I sponsor on Fridays, and I wasn’t able to leave school that day until after we cleaned up from the dance. No big deal, other than we had not yet eaten dinner, and I needed to be up fairly early the next morning to teach two classes at Brown Dog Yoga in Ashland, KY.

Therefore, John and I headed to a nearby Asian restaurant in hopes of avoiding a heavy dinner for my sensitive stomach.  Steamed vegetables and rice seemed light enough. Once home, I did feel extremely tired, but nothing too unusual. Thus, my thoughts once more pursued that mental list of appointments and “must-dos” as I drifted off to sleep.

After a restless night, I stepped out of bed the next morning, and knew, as soon as my feet hit the floor, my stomach was upset.  Not unusual, between eating late–a new found age-related issue–and my celiac disease–cross-contamination of wheat products is a threat any time I dine out–I wasn’t super worried.  Sure, my belly was protesting, but if there is one thing I do well, it was persist . . . at least that is what I told myself with dramatic mental flair.

Driving the thirty minutes to Ashland, my stomach only complained more.  It’s the curvy state route over which I am traveling.  That seemed like a plausible reason to me.  You ate a late dinner.  Plus, you didn’t sleep well last night.  Maybe a wheat noodle was accidentally cut into your rice.–Okay, that last thought was logic-defying, but these are the types of lies I tell myself even when the proverbial handwriting is on the wall. 

Arriving at the yoga studio, I still did not feel better, but as the clients began to arrive, I was able to focus on them, taking my mind off my own digestive distress.  In fact, as I taught through my first class, I was convinced that if I’d just give it time, whatever was upsetting my stomach was sure to subside. You’ve been here hundreds of times, Steph.  This is not a big deal.

Heading into my second class, heated yoga, I was 80-90 percent convinced, this was all in my head.  Now, to clarify, the warm yoga classes at our studio never have the temperature set higher than 85 degrees fahrenheit, so it is not an unreasonable temperature, especially on a chilly Saturday morning.  In fact, I embrace the warm temperatures as I tend to be cold natured. However, half-way through class though, the heat began to increase my nausea as a feeling of imminent misery began to grow deep within my gut.  Swallow.  Swallow. Keep focused on the clients and the flow. Swallow. Swallow. Focus on their needs. Not. About. You.

I made it through, and convinced myself that nothing was wrong once I was outside of the warm room.  This too shall pass as my Dad is fond of saying.  He’s right, you know.  This will pass. 

Determined, I drove to my next stop–a hair appointment which had been scheduled six weeks earlier.  Arriving early, as the appointment time had been slightly changed, I decided to take a nap in the car.  Seemed logical, despite the fact I don’t typically nap, much less take one in my car. A nap will allow your stomach to settle.

Erin, my stylist and salon manager, warmly greeted me as I entered 20 minutes later, and we talked a bit.  Then, she took a good look at me.  

“Are you alright?  You don’t look like yourself.”

I assured her I was fine, and she assured me that we could reschedule the appointment if needed.

“Just an upset stomach–no big deal.”

Fortunately, as the manager, she is often pulled away from the chair to take care of minor issues as they arise.  Several issues later, she was finally ready to mix my hide-the gray-color. As she walked away to mix up the colorful magic, I urgently called after her. 

“Don’t mix the color,” and I ran to the public restroom, embarrassed, but worried I wouldn’t make it in time.

For the record, there is nothing more humbling than being forced to, shall I say, bow before the public porcelain.  Ironically, thoughts of all of the germs I must be encountering filled my mind as I contributed my own germs to the water below.   Why now?  I have an entire list of things that must be completed, plus another appointment in Barboursville, and Christmas party tonight. . .or, so I thought.  

“Best laid plans of mice and men . . .” a saying my mom is fond of repeating came to mind.  Why do my parents’ words still continue to haunt me at my age?

Dad and Mom were both right.  The stomach bug did eventually pass, a few days later, and my perfectly timed plans were, well, publicly flushed away as I was forced to drive home, crawl into bed, and not leave except for, yep, you guessed, more visits with white porcelain fixtures–but at least it was my own!

The moral of the story?  God has a funny sense of humor?  While I suspect that’s true, it was not my take away.  When life gives you a virus, write a story? While that is always a possibility with me, it, too, was not the lesson.  No, for me, it was all about the arrogance of “I” and my attachment to my ego.

I can persevere.  I have plans. I am busy.  I must do this. I, I, I . . .

I had to let go of my perceived control of life, and allow life to unfold without me.  I had to humble myself to a virus.  I was forced to face the fact that I am not in control–not even a little.  As the hours ticked by, the dear faces of my daughter, Madelyn, and John, appeared, hovered, checked, covered, and cared for my withering ego and temporarily waning body.  Daylight dimmed to darkness; night hours stretched out with simmering suffering; the sunrise eventually, but slowly, slithered through panes of glass; and still, time ticked on without me.

And perhaps, that is one of the greatest gifts of the holidays, or “holy days.”  A designated day to renew our faith and set aside time to rest–preferably not ill– and recharge, gathering with the ones we love, and perhaps even, swap a story or five.  Time spent together– savoring the sweet, simplicity and comfort of laughter, love, and the present moment without any focus on “I.”