Less Tension

This past May, I started playing tennis.

I've played backyard "smashfest" tennis (we'd stand at the baseline and swing away for three hours and hit about 10 shots in bounds) with my brothers before but I have never been serious or systematic about learning the game.  So to get outside more and run around, I grabbed my racquet and signed up for group classes this summer.

And it took only two short months for me to develop horrible, awful tennis elbow.  I've never, ever had that issue in the past but holy cow; had I been smart and listened to my body, I would've been sidelined for awhile.  Instead, I pressed ahead.  It wasn't until early November that I started taking a lesson with a different coach who, within about 12 minutes, said, "Your grip is way too tight.  I bet you're feeling that in your elbow."

Yes, sir.  Yes I was.

The next four lessons, every time I stepped up to the ball, he would say, "Katie, loosen your grip." "Katie your grip is too tight."  "Get loose." "Take a deep breath." "KATIE. LOOSEN. YOUR. GRIP."  For two hours, this mantra played on repeat.  Sometimes I'd get frustrated and completely annoyed. And then, after I realized I was not going to cure this in an hour, I started internalizing it.  It became like a heartbeat.  And when I really concentrated--I mean like beads-of-sweat-forming-on-brow-from-thinking--and I promised myself I would get it all together, and I let go and relaxed...magic. That shot would drop just on that baseline with power but also with finesse.  I think that happened, like, twice.  But in those two times, I could both see and feel the balance, the interplay, of strength and release.  I needed to play tennis to understand yoga.

Because this was such a mantra for those two hours, I found this message appearing to me at other times throughout my day and one day it finally landed as though I had never even heard it before.

 "Katie, loosen your grip.  You're holding on too tight."  

I almost laughed at how obvious the message was, as if the Universe was like, "um, right...I wondered how long it would take you to realize that I wasn't channeling this to you because I think you'll make it big at Wimbledon some day." DUH. Everywhere I looked in my life, I could immediately see tension. And of course I knew it was there all along.  I'm not so unaware of myself that I can't see I'm tied up in knots all the time.  But I was seeing it in a new light; maybe there was another way. Was I worried about things out of my control? Yes.  Was I holding on to anger and frustration about things in the past? Yes.  Was I feeling under-appreciated  without good reason? Yes.  Was I wanting things to be different? Yes.  I mean, like, every nook and cranny of my life had tennis elbow; so much fretting, so much fear.  I was suffocating everything to the point that no day or occurrence or moment had a chance to be seen as joyful or hopeful. And everything was showing signs of the wear and toll of tension.  Like a body gets tight, achy, and generally out of sorts, that's exactly how I felt about life in general; my heart and mind were boxed in, cramped, and struggling to breathe.

This diagnosis for my tennis game was nothing short of revolutionary.  In the moments I was able to let go, I tapped into power and grace that I didn't even know I had at my disposal. But loosening my tennis grip has been one of the steepest challenges I've ever met.  Finding it requires so much quiet, calm patience because gripping your racquet is very much like breathing: fundamental but not necessarily something you ruminate on with every swing.  So now when I approach the ball, I have to think on every shot, "am i gripping too tight? Loosen."  If I don't think it, I am surely gripping too tight.  And Ramon is right there to say, "Katie.  Loosen your grip."  And the only way to cure it is to not get tight when you realize you're not doing it.  This is about changing a response that feels innate.  In life, I know, most of my successes and what I'm known for is my brute strength (I'll push through, I'll get it done, I'm a workhorse.) Now my approach requires that I forge a new path...one that isn't something I'm familiar with.  One that seems very counter-intuitive to the goal.

Loosen.  Loosen.  Stay Loose.  Loose.  Loose. Loose.

And of course, that's true for life too.  To apply this there's a vigilance that I have to choose to maintain.  But the outcome will always be worth it.  I have had few moments of such joy that could equal the times that I hit that tennis ball correctly and see how beautifully graceful that shot is...and it's usually a winner.

I'm just starting to understand what loosen could do for me in my life but it's obvious that it could be a real game-changer there, too.  The mantra has been switched on.  Now it's time to practice.

Reflections

I have always written.  I started keeping journals when I was in grade school and I kept paper journals clear on through college and beyond.  And I didn't keep them.  It was not for edification or for some other reason than that was the medium through which I processed life.  And then there were the blogs...oh the blogs.  So much weird, wandering writing just sitting out there with no one looking at it.  Same purpose.  There is something to be said for sitting down and just thinking something through.

And then I wrote a dissertation, a process that completely changed my interior life.  Always an avid reader, I found myself shying away from that place of imagination; fantasy, fiction, and just the simple act of reading before bed all at once left me cold and, oddly, restless.  Similarly, always an avid writer and content with no audience but myself, my writing style and the process of it became stilted, rigid, and uncomfortable.  Words on a page, whether written by me or someone else, became restless and uncomfortable.  Imagine my loneliness (and other readers can and will).  What once was such a joyful space had transformed into something full of anxiety and unrest.

As I was wrestling with this the other day, forcing myself to read before bed (and actually winning that battle thanks to a series my friend Paul turned me onto by Andrea Camillieri, who is a man, by the way), I began to think that just like every other habit, reading and writing again are things I can cultivate.

But I have to try.  And I have to be willing to stick with it for awhile.  And I have to re-orient myself to that space and discover again that it, in fact, is not something to be endured, as writing had become for some many years in recent past, but that it can be and should be the chosen expression of one's best self, especially someone who revels and fascinates on the world of ideas.  

So I've been trying to figure out how, exactly, to go about this and sometimes when one asks, inspiration gives one a break and responds in very obvious terms.  There is a movement in writing called NaNoWriMo, which is a collective promise that writers make to themselves and others that in the month of November they're going to write a certain amount of words everyday for a certain total at the end of the month.

Obviously, I'm late to that bandwagon but inspiration told me that I should do this instead: 

Reflect on the same theme every day for the entire month of December.  If successful, do the same thing on a new theme for January.  Don't think farther ahead than January.

It actually spoke to me that exact way and it was so simple and straightforward that I'd be remiss not to take heed.   So that's what I'm going to do.  I attempted this only half-heartedly in November, trying to reflect on "less" and I nailed it in spirit as I only wrote four things of very dubious quality.  BUT, I'm going to take the last weeks of November here to get ready for December and I'm going to do the same with "less" for the rest of November.  There are no other rules except that I have to write something every day which is not a rule but instead a commitment.

I am very curious to see what happens.

And I am contemplating on asking others to try doing the same and seeing what happens then.  I've already got the December theme picked out.  I can wait to reveal it.  It'll be something I've never really thought about before.

A Tiger in Sheep's Clothing

I'm not one of those "animal" people. I mean, I like dogs and...[awkward silence]...and...okay, I'm proving my own point. I really only like dogs. But I do think that animal metaphors as they're used in some mythologies are very helpful when trying to decide what one is going to be in life. When people liken me to different animals, it sticks with me. I was surprised when, in the midst of one of those What kind of animal are you? games, someone told me I was a shark. Never in my life have I considered myself 1) marine in any way 2) a fish 3) a killer fish 4) with three rows of teeth. I was taken aback at the violence of it all. But as this person was talking I kept thinking, "Well, you're a squirrel and I'm a shark so I win," which I suppose proved her point. I've also been likened to a rabid golden retriever and an owl and on one of those Buzzfeed quizzes I was very proud of getting an elephant for its wisdom. My most proud animal-related moment though was being called "Tiger" in Kindergarten and it has stuck with me for decades.

I remember it like it was yesterday. It was in the fall, I had just started Kindergarten and every Wednesday and Friday we would either go to the library and sit on the "whistle chairs" (the coolest bean-baggish, chairs in the shape of whistles) or go to the gym and run around. One of those days, the Independence Fire Department came in to do a "stop, drop, and roll" workshop. I was wearing my favorite maroon corduroys and what they're now calling a "ringer" t-shirt that you'd wear to play baseball. I had just gotten my first pair of glasses. For the early 80s, I was working it. And I got to do the "stop, drop, and roll" demonstration. And afterward, the Chief (who I also knew as Mr. Mack but he was actually Fire Chief Mack) clapped me on the back and said, "That's it Tiger. Way to go" and shook my hand...and I remember how much like a tree branch his arm was (even though in actual adult life, Mr. Mack was about 5'6" and very sinewy...I might call him "bandy"...he was a tough little guy...). Henceforth, I was Tiger in my head. And even in my most stress-filled moments throughout High School, when I needed to have a little talk with myself about digging in, would refer to myself in my own head as Tiger. Tigers win with efficient grace.

But over time, Tiger got lost. I think I realized it most pointedly about a year ago. I was grinding out my dissertation, completely alone, and when it was time for a dig in moment with myself, there was no Tiger in there. Even after finishing my graduate work, there was little light to find. Every day was another chapter of sleeplessness, restlessness, anxiety. It felt like my apartment walls were closing in on me but I was reticent to go anywhere because I knew I looked miserable. Now the bigger question pressed itself back at me, "What are you going to do with yourself?" "What's your purpose?" "What do you mean here?" The holidays I thought would be so full of joy and light felt very tenuous. I could feel the pressure of expectations. "Katie, why aren't you happier?"
There is nothing more heartbreaking than watching people who you know love you suffer on your behalf. They hang in there for you, they hope the best, the ask how they can be helpful and there is no answer for them except to hang in there a little longer. Keep calling even though I might not answer. Keep rooting for me even though I'm not giving you a good reason to right now. Some things you just need to walk through on your own. Even more heartbreaking than watching them suffer for you is knowing they'll keep doing what you ask because they're good and kind and they make you wonder if you'd do the same for them (and thank God for the momentary relief when that very small answer comes back "yes of course").

Never ever in my earlier life did I think I'd wrestle with depression. When you're an alpha "doer" the world is your oyster. All problems tackled to the ground and pinned in submission. There's a certain fearlessness that comes with achievement: the question is never "if" and always "how." Somewhere between my achiever years of my teens and this particular moment in my life, I became less brave. That happens, I know. It's so cliche. You become and adult and everything gets conservative. You have stuff to care for, like your reputation and your FICO credit score. Nothing good will come of you waggling your bravery in the face of financial America. You'll pay for that, literally, in the end. I think my depressedness (which should be pronounced de-press-ed-ness) came from a very deep, very small kernel of knowing that I was no longer Tiger. I was, in fact, a sheep: stupid, lazy, smelly, only good for my wool.

What to do? How does a tiger shed sheep's clothing? Are there ways to get back to the Tiger I want to be? Have I missed that chance? I haven't missed the chance. But the choices I start to make in the next year will be crucial...and they have to be tiger-oriented. Otherwise, I'm going to waste away into the herd...and I've got too much hunting left to do.

Defining Moments

2 people I know, dying.  2 people I know, moving.  Countless people I know, restless.  Inspired moments, few...or maybe plentiful depending on the perspective.

I suppose everyone in every point in every day in every era deals with these things: a feeling of constant change; fluid motion; tumult.  But when it's you and it's your view and your people weathering the storm, it feels novel.  And like every storm I've ever seen, renders me powerless but also awestruck.  There's something there that I cannot bend to my will.  And it can make powerful things seem powerless; bend the strong at the knee; make you rethink everything you thought you knew.

And feel sad.

Maybe that is the greatest noticeable effect of being at a loss for control.  I feel genuinely sad and, frankly, I'd rather not.  I think I've been conditioned, to a point, to run from sadness.  Seems now that that's a shame.  Sadness is real; just like pinching myself to remember I'm alive or focusing on every breath to remember each is vital, sadness signals something real.  It is not white-washed.  It isn't glossed over or frosted with fake smiley-face insistence.  Sadness signals life.  Just as true joy or love signals life.  Sadness is a miner's canary for realness that should be celebrated...that could be celebrated if we weren't so trained to flee from it.

At this point I'm entitled to say I cannot imagine looking the end in its stark reality and accepting it.  I have not had the requirement of that consideration although I've watched others stare it down.  Everybody loses there.  The end will come.  It's the meaning that haunts.  It's all of the expectations that haunt.  But it is not the joy and happiness that haunts.  That remains.  It will remain.  And we are its keepers and protectors.

Where there is sadness, there was also joy.  Where there is darkness, there will be light.  And we will not just remember but we will carry on and live with as long as we continue to breathe and step one foot in front of the next.

We always are if we can imagine it.

Another Beginning

That's really all we have, right?  We can always start over--as often as we need to.  Sometimes we're pushed gently to it and other times it just seems like the right thing to do.

I have blogged for years.  Sometimes off, sometimes on.  I have scraps of writings all over the place in emails and notebooks and several blogs.  I've always wanted some kind of respository for them; a place they can call their own and maybe live for awhile.  And I had that for a long time in one place.

But the time is right for me to do something new.  I've just finished a ten-year project.  In a lot of ways I'm looking for a new project and I have no idea just yet what that will be.  But I need a place to put my thoughts, somewhere "out there" as opposed to "here in my head" so I can pressure test them as something different from just those fragments of ideas that run through my day.

My past "places" have been that: places.  And temporary ones--tents to be exact.  But this new start needed a new perspective.  So this is a process--the process of homing in, of seeking and finding a focused end.  It sounds very disciplined but just like the pigeons who do the same thing it's more like a directed wandering.  They know where they start and they know where they need to go; how to get there can take many forms.  And maybe should.

It's homing in--find that way.

To homing.