In the lull that’s needed to process the big events of life (my visit over the weekend from my Norwegian friends qualifies), I saw a wonderful article in “More” magazine about satisfaction.
Here’s what was said in the Table of Contents blurb: “What price happiness? Are modern women too self-centered to be satisfied? Are we crippled by freedom?” The article’s written by famous feminist and best-selling author Naomi Wolf. Wolf looks at the question of whether women are, as some studies have claimed, less happy now than they were 40 years ago. She posits that we’re much more likely now to claim our dissatisfaction than we were then.
She grabbed me with this description of a possible exchange between successful women:
“If someone in this realm asks me how I am and I smile and say, “Everything’s good, thank heavens! Kids are healthy, partner’s great, work is going well,” people gaze at me blankly for a beat, as if I have just gotten off the bus from a small town in a forgotten agricultural region.” They are more likely, she said, to answer the question with a “list of complaints: too busy, too tired, workload too heavy,” and so on.
Then she asks, “Does this habit of seeing and talking about what’s wrong – at the expense of noticing, let alone being grateful for what’s right – mean that modern Western women would want to return to their mothers’ more limited, prefeminist lives? Of course not. Nor does it mean that feminism made women unhappy. It does mean, though, that there are certain contemporary pressures working against women’s contentment and those are worth paying attention to.”
“Certain contemporary pressures.”
One of feminism’s claims is having given permission to “drop the façade of perfection; permission to articulate what was not, in fact, OK.”
Then she mentions a few movie heroines: Melanie Griffith’s Working Girl, Julia Robert’s Erin Brockovich, the heroine of the more recent Precious, and Hillary Clinton. She wonders how appealing any of them would have been if they’d tried to adapt to their circumstances.
“Feminism has defined a smart woman as one who is questing and aspirational. Satisfaction with the status quo is for saps.”
I could quote on and on, including some good stuff about the difference between the brains of women and men and how women succeed without it meaning that the current model of success is the right model for their satisfaction. There are many nuances that Wolf captures well. But the more common things are the ones that gave me pleasure. It really did provide a satisfied moment to read these words about questing, complaint, and the status quo being for saps.
You’ve got to choose your own version of happiness, I guess.
I’ve seen a lot in the past week about mine. Man. When you see your life through someone else’s eyes for a few days, while at the same time you get a rare chance to step outside of it, it calls up questions of gratitude (or ingratitude as the case may be). All the things I complain about are, more or less, the result of me choosing my version of happiness and having it work out the way it has. Gee…you mean I can’t have this choice and that other too?
I think it’s what Wolf is talking about a little. You choose for the successful life and you lose time and certain freedoms. You choose time and certain freedoms and you can lose the rewards of the successful life. Somehow you keep holding onto the hope that you can have it all and that hope tends to grow your dissatisfaction. I mean really. I’ve been thinking a little more practically lately and asking myself why I ever thought I’d make a living writing. I am not that ambitious or talented or prone to writing what sells. And that’s looking at things strictly from the perspective of how I’d like to earn a living and with none of the spiritual stuff thrown in. And yet Wolf isn’t saying to accept this, or that the non-acceptance signaled by dissatisfaction is a plague. She’s suggesting, more or less, that the “model of success” can be changed, and that the dissatisfaction may be part of what’s needed to change it…or at least that it’s part of the process.
Angie put the magazine out for me as I left for Colorado. I had no space in me for magazines at the time. I left it in the bathroom. I didn’t have any space as I awaited my visitors from Norway. Now they’ve gone and I’ve got space again.
It feels kind of bizarre to write about this when so much happened over this past week, but I’ve not sat with all that long enough yet. I wanted to write thank you notes tonight and have them waiting (at least electronically) when my friends got home. But I’m not ready. I don’t know what to say.
Something in me has been re-ignited. The article, and its questions, fit somehow. I’m simply not sure how.
Wolf, Naomi. “What Price Happiness?” More Magazine, April 2010, 108-109.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Inner Urges and other Hard Stuff
In October of 2002, Richard Scruggs, an ex-Navy Seal from Florida, drove to Minnesota to meet me because I’d written A Course of Love. It was a very strange idea to me: that someone would drive from Florida to Minnesota to meet me. It was a strange idea to my husband too. “This guy could be a kook,” he said.
I’d read both ACIM and the books available about Helen Schucman’s experience before my course was even a glimmer of an idea. And because my Course of Love followed Helen’s Course in Miracles, and was presented to me as a new Course in Miracles, I knew this kind of thing could happen. But I was unprepared for it.
I was helped along a bit by Richard’s down to earth attitude. He seemed almost as excited about heading into St. Paul on Highway 61 when the Bob Dylan song of the same name came on his radio, as he was about whatever had drawn him to come.
In two days, visitors from Oslo, traveling for the same purpose, will be here.
My course has not yet sold 10,000 copies (at least not in the U.S. printings), and I’ve joked that it’s about the best kept secret in the universe. But for those for whom it speaks with that certain Voice that can’t be denied, it’s a big deal. Worth traveling for. Worth enduring Donny’s scrutiny.
Donny’s a short but burley American-born Lebanese guy who does heating and air conditioning for a living and whose favorite pastime is shooting. When he met Richard he just had to walk in and out of the house, making his presence known, getting that short chance to check out this guy who might, for all he knew, be a real weirdo.
Right after the passing-through, Richard suggested that we meditate and walked right into my suburban living room with the cream carpet where no one ever sits, to make good on his idea. At the time, meditating wasn’t something I did. A little later I played him my favorite ZZ Top tune direct from the TV room with its recliner and cat hair. It was so bizarre. I just didn’t feel as if I fit the picture of who I was supposed to be. And I wasn’t terribly peaceful either. I was more than a bit concerned about why my course wasn’t reaching people, and having every bit as much conflict as Helen had with those who’d helped me manifest it.
I was, in short, a bit of a mess.
Eight years later when my Oslo visitors suggested the visit, I was nervous for other reasons. After not having worked a paying job since the course came, the housing crash and recession left Donny’s business in a slump and I had to make a little money…just to make ends meet. There was no extra for things like carpet cleaning or entertaining out-of-town guests. With Angie and Henry here, life around my house is pretty chaotic too.
I almost turned down the visit from the two lovely people I’d been corresponding with, and who are hard at work on a Norwegian translation of the Course of Love series (the first foreign translation of the entire course). Then another friend told me this. He said I had to remember how close people feel to this Course of Love – so close that they’d travel halfway across the world. Their feelings were drawing them, he said.
So I relented. I told Storker and Tone of my circumstances and that we’d likely need to meet at the hotel if we were going to get any private time. Sensible arrangements were worked out…and I’ll still have them pass through the house to meet my husband and probably even to share a meal on the stained carpet with my chaotic family. I’m feeling okay about it, and didn’t even work myself into a tizzy trying to get things looking better than they are.
It’s the second time in recent months that I had to be frank about my situation. It’s worked out great both times and I highly recommend it. If you’re asked to give a talk and can’t wait months to be reimbursed for your travel expenses, you might as well admit it. If your hosts want you to come, they’ll likely send you a check for your plane fare before your charge card bill arrives.
But being honest about where you’re at is worth a lot more to you than that.
The funny thing though, and I want to admit this somewhere, is that it’s hard. I’ve been seeing a therapist about the conflicts of life, mainly life with my daughter and Henry. When I worry that I’m too hard on myself or too hard on my daughter, the therapist says, “It’s hard to live with adult children.” It’s normalizing to hear that. “Oh yeah, it’s just plain hard.”
It’s also hard to hear, as I heard from the speaker’s agent who turned me down, that “No one is interested in channeled writing.” I could quibble over the word “channeled” here, as I’ve done so often, but it’s beside the point. He called channeled writing “controversial,” and it felt like someone being frank with me. It wasn’t something I didn’t know. I told him The Given Self isn’t channeled, and he said I could send it along, but I knew it wouldn’t matter. I’ve been typecast, and “channeled writing” has been relegated to being a trend that has passed.
So on the one hand, I’ve got visitors from Oslo, and on the other a perfectly pleasant man whose job it is to know such things, telling me “No one is interested.” It doesn’t matter how interested my visitors are, and it doesn’t matter all that much how grateful I feel to have had my part in bringing A Course of Love to the world, or how proud I am to have written The Given Self “in my own voice.” Sort of like it doesn’t matter how much joy and delight I get from Henry. It’s still hard.
When I gave my talk last month…I encouraged other people not to let their messy lives stop them, not to fear being who they are right now, and not to forget that there’s wisdom that comes with adversity…not only when you’ve moved through it. It would have been nearly impossible to be there at all if I hadn’t been honest with my host, and it would have been a lot harder to say those things if I’d said no to my visitors from Oslo because of my carpet or the cash in my wallet.
My mother and mother-in-law are both impressed by the visit from the people from Oslo. No one around here thinks of me as special. “Those people would come all this way just to see you?” They don’t have the sense of what’s really happening as did my friend who wrote with the reminder. There may not be scads of people who know about this course or who think The Given Self is the cat’s meow, but those who’ll travel great distances (literally or figuratively) for the draw of spirit, are impressive.
Oh, impressive may not be the best word for it, but shoot, we all feel our draws and take up our travels, and there’s something that feels so darn good when you follow an inner urge. No matter how goofy it may sound to the folks at home who might wonder why you do the thing you’re bound to do, you are, somehow…bound…to make that trip, or that leap, or to say yes.
And when you do it, no matter if it feels like one of those, “I must be out of my mind” things, or even just one of those, “How can I when…” things, it feels pretty damn good.
I’d read both ACIM and the books available about Helen Schucman’s experience before my course was even a glimmer of an idea. And because my Course of Love followed Helen’s Course in Miracles, and was presented to me as a new Course in Miracles, I knew this kind of thing could happen. But I was unprepared for it.
I was helped along a bit by Richard’s down to earth attitude. He seemed almost as excited about heading into St. Paul on Highway 61 when the Bob Dylan song of the same name came on his radio, as he was about whatever had drawn him to come.
In two days, visitors from Oslo, traveling for the same purpose, will be here.
My course has not yet sold 10,000 copies (at least not in the U.S. printings), and I’ve joked that it’s about the best kept secret in the universe. But for those for whom it speaks with that certain Voice that can’t be denied, it’s a big deal. Worth traveling for. Worth enduring Donny’s scrutiny.
Donny’s a short but burley American-born Lebanese guy who does heating and air conditioning for a living and whose favorite pastime is shooting. When he met Richard he just had to walk in and out of the house, making his presence known, getting that short chance to check out this guy who might, for all he knew, be a real weirdo.
Right after the passing-through, Richard suggested that we meditate and walked right into my suburban living room with the cream carpet where no one ever sits, to make good on his idea. At the time, meditating wasn’t something I did. A little later I played him my favorite ZZ Top tune direct from the TV room with its recliner and cat hair. It was so bizarre. I just didn’t feel as if I fit the picture of who I was supposed to be. And I wasn’t terribly peaceful either. I was more than a bit concerned about why my course wasn’t reaching people, and having every bit as much conflict as Helen had with those who’d helped me manifest it.
I was, in short, a bit of a mess.
Eight years later when my Oslo visitors suggested the visit, I was nervous for other reasons. After not having worked a paying job since the course came, the housing crash and recession left Donny’s business in a slump and I had to make a little money…just to make ends meet. There was no extra for things like carpet cleaning or entertaining out-of-town guests. With Angie and Henry here, life around my house is pretty chaotic too.
I almost turned down the visit from the two lovely people I’d been corresponding with, and who are hard at work on a Norwegian translation of the Course of Love series (the first foreign translation of the entire course). Then another friend told me this. He said I had to remember how close people feel to this Course of Love – so close that they’d travel halfway across the world. Their feelings were drawing them, he said.
So I relented. I told Storker and Tone of my circumstances and that we’d likely need to meet at the hotel if we were going to get any private time. Sensible arrangements were worked out…and I’ll still have them pass through the house to meet my husband and probably even to share a meal on the stained carpet with my chaotic family. I’m feeling okay about it, and didn’t even work myself into a tizzy trying to get things looking better than they are.
It’s the second time in recent months that I had to be frank about my situation. It’s worked out great both times and I highly recommend it. If you’re asked to give a talk and can’t wait months to be reimbursed for your travel expenses, you might as well admit it. If your hosts want you to come, they’ll likely send you a check for your plane fare before your charge card bill arrives.
But being honest about where you’re at is worth a lot more to you than that.
The funny thing though, and I want to admit this somewhere, is that it’s hard. I’ve been seeing a therapist about the conflicts of life, mainly life with my daughter and Henry. When I worry that I’m too hard on myself or too hard on my daughter, the therapist says, “It’s hard to live with adult children.” It’s normalizing to hear that. “Oh yeah, it’s just plain hard.”
It’s also hard to hear, as I heard from the speaker’s agent who turned me down, that “No one is interested in channeled writing.” I could quibble over the word “channeled” here, as I’ve done so often, but it’s beside the point. He called channeled writing “controversial,” and it felt like someone being frank with me. It wasn’t something I didn’t know. I told him The Given Self isn’t channeled, and he said I could send it along, but I knew it wouldn’t matter. I’ve been typecast, and “channeled writing” has been relegated to being a trend that has passed.
So on the one hand, I’ve got visitors from Oslo, and on the other a perfectly pleasant man whose job it is to know such things, telling me “No one is interested.” It doesn’t matter how interested my visitors are, and it doesn’t matter all that much how grateful I feel to have had my part in bringing A Course of Love to the world, or how proud I am to have written The Given Self “in my own voice.” Sort of like it doesn’t matter how much joy and delight I get from Henry. It’s still hard.
When I gave my talk last month…I encouraged other people not to let their messy lives stop them, not to fear being who they are right now, and not to forget that there’s wisdom that comes with adversity…not only when you’ve moved through it. It would have been nearly impossible to be there at all if I hadn’t been honest with my host, and it would have been a lot harder to say those things if I’d said no to my visitors from Oslo because of my carpet or the cash in my wallet.
My mother and mother-in-law are both impressed by the visit from the people from Oslo. No one around here thinks of me as special. “Those people would come all this way just to see you?” They don’t have the sense of what’s really happening as did my friend who wrote with the reminder. There may not be scads of people who know about this course or who think The Given Self is the cat’s meow, but those who’ll travel great distances (literally or figuratively) for the draw of spirit, are impressive.
Oh, impressive may not be the best word for it, but shoot, we all feel our draws and take up our travels, and there’s something that feels so darn good when you follow an inner urge. No matter how goofy it may sound to the folks at home who might wonder why you do the thing you’re bound to do, you are, somehow…bound…to make that trip, or that leap, or to say yes.
And when you do it, no matter if it feels like one of those, “I must be out of my mind” things, or even just one of those, “How can I when…” things, it feels pretty damn good.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Shifting Gears
I drive a 2001 PT Cruiser. It’s silver and basic: no sunroof, plain gray cloth interior, and it’s beginning to show its age. I named the car Maurice, figuring that name was a close male version of Mari and because I like “Space Cowboy.” I enjoyed the idea of the car representing my male “action” side, but the pronoun “he” has never fit, so Maurice ended up being called “she.” Now she is breaking down.
She’s had this problem for a long time that no one’s been able to diagnos. Donny thinks it might be in the computer. It’s a sporadic problem. She’ll drive great for weeks, sometimes months on end, and then one day, the engine light comes on and she can’t shift gears. It sounds like her transmission is going. It’s the kind of thing where I’ll come home and report to Donny that I think it’s really bad this time and Maurice is on her last legs, and then he gets in her and says, “The car’s driving fine.”
The last few weeks Maurice has been more off again than on. I try to see if anything makes a difference. It may sound superstitious, but both Donny and I thought she acted up more when the spare set of keys was used. That was one idea and I quit using the spares. Then I noticed that she really didn’t like idling, so I turn her off at the bank’s drive through window. And lately I’ve been wondering if it could have anything to do with using either the fan or the air conditioning (which means I’ve been taking the heat).
Tonight, after a problem free day, the light pinged on and she lurched away from each stop sign and did not like the climb to even thirty mph. As I accelerated, the mph needle sat at zero and then made sudden leaps all over the chart. I had both windows open and really didn’t want to close them, but the rush of the wind, even going that slowly, made it hard to listen for her shifts. After a bit of strained listening though, I realized that it took accelerating to about 35 mph for the shift to happen, and then, if I took my foot off the gas, she purred along until the next stop sign.
By the time I was heading for home, I was getting taken by the idea of listening for shifts. Then as soon as I started writing this, the darn car felt as if she became a metaphor for my life.
From the male action side of me being a little stalled, to lurching after each stop sign, to terribly sporadic behavior, she fits the bill of the metaphor, and the metaphor fits the general milieu of my life.
For one thing, the speaker’s agent isn’t interested. That’s okay. Seems kind of dumb to get started with something when I’m all over the map, lurching and chugging. For another, I’m not quite ready to retire Maurice. I know I may have to sometime soon. Besides the internal issues, I pulled out of the garage into the poor Cruiser the other day. I crumpled up the front bumper and called my husband with an apologetic “how could I be so dumb” and he, as usual, didn’t think or say much about it. We can both live with a dented bumper. But then the first time I went to open the passenger door, I found I couldn’t.
We were out in the driveway tonight, with a big tow chain running from his truck, and me gently backing up and pulling forward over and over again until we got it just right and the door unstuck.
Backing up. Going forward. Isn’t it absurd? The poor car’s got my juju.
But the door’s unstuck.
She’s had this problem for a long time that no one’s been able to diagnos. Donny thinks it might be in the computer. It’s a sporadic problem. She’ll drive great for weeks, sometimes months on end, and then one day, the engine light comes on and she can’t shift gears. It sounds like her transmission is going. It’s the kind of thing where I’ll come home and report to Donny that I think it’s really bad this time and Maurice is on her last legs, and then he gets in her and says, “The car’s driving fine.”
The last few weeks Maurice has been more off again than on. I try to see if anything makes a difference. It may sound superstitious, but both Donny and I thought she acted up more when the spare set of keys was used. That was one idea and I quit using the spares. Then I noticed that she really didn’t like idling, so I turn her off at the bank’s drive through window. And lately I’ve been wondering if it could have anything to do with using either the fan or the air conditioning (which means I’ve been taking the heat).
Tonight, after a problem free day, the light pinged on and she lurched away from each stop sign and did not like the climb to even thirty mph. As I accelerated, the mph needle sat at zero and then made sudden leaps all over the chart. I had both windows open and really didn’t want to close them, but the rush of the wind, even going that slowly, made it hard to listen for her shifts. After a bit of strained listening though, I realized that it took accelerating to about 35 mph for the shift to happen, and then, if I took my foot off the gas, she purred along until the next stop sign.
By the time I was heading for home, I was getting taken by the idea of listening for shifts. Then as soon as I started writing this, the darn car felt as if she became a metaphor for my life.
From the male action side of me being a little stalled, to lurching after each stop sign, to terribly sporadic behavior, she fits the bill of the metaphor, and the metaphor fits the general milieu of my life.
For one thing, the speaker’s agent isn’t interested. That’s okay. Seems kind of dumb to get started with something when I’m all over the map, lurching and chugging. For another, I’m not quite ready to retire Maurice. I know I may have to sometime soon. Besides the internal issues, I pulled out of the garage into the poor Cruiser the other day. I crumpled up the front bumper and called my husband with an apologetic “how could I be so dumb” and he, as usual, didn’t think or say much about it. We can both live with a dented bumper. But then the first time I went to open the passenger door, I found I couldn’t.
We were out in the driveway tonight, with a big tow chain running from his truck, and me gently backing up and pulling forward over and over again until we got it just right and the door unstuck.
Backing up. Going forward. Isn’t it absurd? The poor car’s got my juju.
But the door’s unstuck.
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