Tag: self improvement

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Digging for Courage: A Busy Sunday

I’m quickly coming to love the new opportunities afforded through Zoom technology.

I attended Sunday School, a salon-style discussion on Coriolanus, and an Aroma Freedom Therapy (AFT) session today.

The parable of the Good Samaritan was the brought up in Sunday School and has been a theme in our house for weeks. Are we simply following the rules of society by social distancing and self isolating? Are we acting in love when we celebrate junk food binging and how many empty bottles of wine we have on the counter? Regardless of what you have been told is right, does it feel right? Does it feel right to sit in your comfortable house with your spouse and children and type in ALL CAPS at neighbors who may be in genuine pain as they watch an insane world alone from their couches?

It doesn’t feel like we are treating ourselves or our neighbors with the same love that Jesus walked. I pray for answers of how to live in love at this time when the rules of society have become so burdensome.

With these puzzles on my mind I turned to finish watching Donmar Warehouse’s production of William Shakespeare’s Coriolanus. Some lines spoke to me:

“That’s sure of death without it, at once pluck out/The multitudinous tongue; let them not lick/The sweet which is their poison.”

“Anger is my meat.”

“For I will fight against my cankered country with the spleen of all the under-fiends.”

“He is grown from man to dragon.”

“Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome/And occupations perish!”

Shakespeare always had something for today. Coriolanus’s mother curses Rome with a disease that will destroy its economy. It’s a reminder that nothing, not even coronavirus, is new under the sun.

The fear and anger of nearly every character speaks to the air breathed by so many articles and posts. The willingness of the people to follow elected leaders, first one way, then another, speaks to a modern populace more likely to parrot rules than question narratives.

I admire Coriolanus’s singularity of purpose. In the most confusing world I have ever faced (quite something for a dad who became a widower at age 38), I am lost for purpose. I have found myself loving people more in being separated from them. “I shall be loved when I am lacked,” serves as a mirror to my heart.

At the same time, I see that love as a rarer thing. I read as neighbors bark rules at neighbors and never pause to ask, “Why?” At least not asked deeper than to repeat words from the same leaders and media who have lied us into countless wars among ourselves and against others.

Yesterday Coriolanus warred against Aufidius. Today he wars by his side. Tomorrow? Betrayal and death. It’s the guaranteed outcome of every war. People against people and a wreckage of property and lives strewn about.

The difficult questions pile up. They are all useful, all pointing me where I need to go.

These questions took a backseat as I went on a two-hour driving adventure with my sons. For for the second leg, they agreed on listening to a Jordan B. Peterson lecture. The subject was Toxic Masculinity and afforded us many topics that will no doubt create numerous conversations in the coming days.

After dinner on-the-go and a long day, I thought I was used up. I grabbed the phone as I changed into pajamas and discovered that my friend, Julianne McElroy, was just going online with a complimentary AFT session. She had told me about this technique of combining essential oils with classic psychology, but I had never tried before. In a quiet blink, two hours passed and I was standing in tree pose, taking claim of a greater understanding of, and compassion for, the world.

It was a Sunday of firsts. The kind of busy exploration that my mind craves. Yes, we got out of the house, but much of my gratification was found at home today.

My mind expanded and my blessings multiplied. I have taken the first steps on my next journey.

God bless and thank you for reading,

Jason

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Love and Respect Yourself

Hi,

I just read your post about hating your body. My life changed when I realized it wasn’t my body, or habits, or temper that I hated, but my actual Self. “Hate” may be too strong of a word for me, but I was lacking in self-love to a destructive degree.

I read Louise Hay’s You Can Heal Your Life early this year. I can’t recommend it enough. Diet, exercise, and “healthy” routines won’t fix your soul. Getting on a daily (as many times a day as you can stand) regimen of self-care and self-love will bring all the changes you want for yourself.

I can tell you, it was disturbing to discover how much I disliked myself. It’s not fun to listen to my self-critical voices (there are many), but engaging with that in myself has helped me find forgiveness for my Self.

The good habits come. When you really love yourself, you’ll treat yourself like someone you love! How ‘bout that!

God bless and thank you for reading,

Jason

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Grief and Comic Books

My sons used Christmas money to explore our favorite comic shop today. I remembered how I discovered the Hero’s Journey in a similar place, feeding my imagination for what one person could accomplish with the proper will.

We came home with piles of adventures and closed the day with a viewing of Avengers: Endgame.

The heroes who had survived cataclysmic defeat are the archetypes of grief. Captain America remains the eternal optimist, the unshakable hero who can only believe that good will come. Hawkeye gives in to darkest resentment, taking out his pain on the reality that has betrayed him. Black Widow works and works and works, she works herself to death fighting against the tragedy. Iron Man escapes from the past into his new reality, he discovers what he had before he lost so much. Thor escapes into self medication and pity, drinking himself into solitude.

Each of these archetypes has lived in me at times, but there is one character that I most aspire to personify. Bruce Banner turned inward, he stopped fighting the monster inside. He spent time with the Hulk. He learned about it. He learned about his darkest parts. In doing so he integrated his most destructive power with a mind focused on the good.

God bless and thank you for reading,

Jason

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Don’t Overdo

We don’t have a tree up, I haven’t acquired stocking stuffers, and I’m not sure where the stockings are.

These were all on my mind as I pulled this card from don Miguel Ruiz’s The Four Agreements deck.

Now I’m thinking of Halloween. Mary was Tippi Hedren from Hitchcock’s The Birds one year before we met. She took bloody pecks out of a stylish blazer, wired birds around her, and had more birds torturing her hair. It was brilliant.

We overdid it all. Costumes, hikes, meals, decorations…we never sat for more than an evening by the fire. Even that would be rife with problem solving and planning.I don’t know if that’s what left her depleted and unable to fight off the infection, or whether she knew in her soul that her time would not be long. Both could be true.

I’m finding my pace. I’m learning how to rest.

I’m going to do my nest today.

God bless and thank you for reading,

Jason

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A Night Out at the Bar

Alcoholism.

I’ve written very little about it since questioning whether I was an alcoholic almost a year ago.

I stopped drinking on Halloween night, 2018. It was two months before I felt my mind begin to clear. I was entering a romanic relationship with a woman who had a history with addict partners. With her help I stared down two decades of unhealthy patterns and concluded that I had a serious problem. In truth, maintaining the relationship was a significant motivation in my quest to make myself better. That and being a better father to my sons drove me towards therapy and weekly (at minimum) AA meetings. It was all helpful. It was all necessary for me to spend serious time exploring my past and working through my guilt and shame. Why would I quit drinking for this woman and my sons, yet I hadn’t for my wife and those same sons?

I was missing a key element to my healing and it wasn’t until the romance was ended beyond my wishes that I discovered that key. Suddenly single again, I set to meditating and reading more. I picked up Louise Hay’s You Can Heal Your Life. It spoke immediately to the hole inside me. I was lacking in a love for myself that was crippling my desire for self improvement. I took on the daily affirmations and listened with care to my self-critical voices. I found inside myself an ability to heal. I didn’t need the therapy sessions or AA meetings anymore, I needed to spend that time expressing love and care for myself. I found an internal drive to push away the things that did not nourish me. Identifying as an “alcoholic” was no longer appropriate. I had broken the patterns and swam in the darkness that had lead me to self medicate. I loved myself too much to do more harm to my mind, body, and soul with alcohol.

I went out last night and danced among the drinkers. There were friends there, but I was primarily there on my own. A lot of it was uncomfortable. I still feel like widowhood is a contagion, that people are too vulnerable to come near that pain. It’s often easier to be around strangers. The music was good and I fell into the bliss of moving to it. It didn’t matter who I was, or wasn’t, dancing with, I was experiencing the moment just for myself.

Not drinking turned out to be the easy part.

God bless and thank you for reading,

Jason

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Still Present

Mary visited me again.

This inspirational card has floated around our lives for more than a decade. I don’t know where Mary found it and I never paid much attention to it on our dresser or her nightstand.

Having no clear connection to our life together, I was tempted to toss it in my efforts to make room in our lives. Physical health and wellbeing has been paramount in our family transformation and I didn’t think I needed a reminder. I checked myself on how easily bad habits form and old patterns return and placed the card between our kitchen and dining room.

A day or so earlier, I was at Lanikai Wellness Studio for a yoga class and purchased a deck of cards based on Don Miguel Ruiz’s The Four Agreements. I have a long to-read list and thought this would be a good way to bring Ruiz’s wisdom into my life. I also hoped they would provide material for a new blog series.

I sat down this morning to flip through the cards for the first time. This same card was in the first ten I read. We didn’t own the book. We never discussed Ruiz. I didn’t discover him until after Mary passed and there’s no indication of his name or the book title on the cards.

This is my first real holiday season alone. A friend buoyed me through my first Christmas as a widower, but that friendship has been lost. As much as I trust where I am and the good things that are to come, the loneliness is weighing on me.

This week I came home from a brutal two hours of soccer. I was hammered in goal and on the field, nothing seemed to work in the back-to-back games. I was wiped out emotionally and physically. I was useless to my sons as they warmed up leftovers and served themselves dinner. I wondered what I was doing wrong, how I got to this place.

I had a dream that night that Mary had been in the stands watching our boys and watching me play. I ran over to the edge of the field to ask for help with something small. It startled me and I woke angry. I envisioned the stands again and I took her away. It wasn’t like a dream. I can see the empty spot at the end of the metal bench now. I could have told her how much I loved her, how blessed I am to have had her, how important she was, and is, to me, or I could have just smiled and enjoyed a moment seeing her again. But I erased her. I was angry at myself for a foolish fantasy.

So she’s back this morning telling me to take care of my body. She always protected soccer for me. She would come home from a long day of work, start making dinner, and send me out the door, no matter if the boys were being disagreeable or impatient, or if coats were still on the floor from our afternoon adventures. She was always there later to hear about my frustrations and successes on the field. I can hear her drowsy, mumbled, “I’m listening,” as she fought off sleep after a late game. She was listening, she was always present. She was so good at being present that she still manages it from time to time.

God bless and thank you for reading,

Jason

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Listen to the Impossible Story

Pull that crystal handle back on your time machine and go all the way back to 12 January, 2018. Go and tell me I’d lose my wife within a month and that before the end of spring I’d be in her parent’s RV guiding my sons on a journey I’d never imagined.

My reaction? Impossible. Mary’s healthier than I am and, God forbid, if I lose her I will be lost. I had considered my own death. I had considered the loss of a son, or two. I had imagined how treacherous the lives of those left behind would be, but I leaned on Mary so hard that I never had the courage to imagine life without her. She was my miracle, she brought me to Christ just by walking like him. She didn’t know a darn thing about soccer and made me a better player, turned me into a coach. She humbled me. She showed me what love could do.

Impossible. All of it. You could go back 13 years and tell me all of this. I would not have listened.

I’m glad you didn’t warn me. I’m blessed our tragedy came down the tracks over six days. I didn’t think about impossible: I prayed for a miracle while planning for the likely. Everything was possible in that moment Mary went to Heaven. I was a super hero. She gave me that magic space ring, that radioactive spider bite, that tragedy that turned Frank Castle into The Punisher. Okay, bad example…kinda. I am more keenly aware of my mortality than ever. This present is the only present I have to make the world better, or worse.

So, let’s make it better I say to myself. The first way to make the world better is by making yourself better (I often ignore this primary fact). The second way is to make your family and friends better (hard to do if #1 isn’t in order). The third way is to help those in your community, physically close to you, but strangers nonetheless.

I had internalized the hero’s journey. From comics to Joseph Campbell and Carl Jung to the Star Wars trilogy, I bought into it so much that I committed to taking my sons on a road trip adventure before Mary had taken her final breath. It was that thing that happens to us. Not internal, but received. The type of inspiration that told me there was something out there, that my work and my thinking and my mind were not enough on their own, that the work that must be done is opening oneself up to receive the message. That takes more effort and patience than you may think. Your desires and fears will cloud the message and pretend to be the message. Again and again I have found that praying to hear clearly is to ask for the greatest blessing. The more I listen to people; not their declarations, but their stories, the more I love people.

Impossible. We put this barrier before understanding at inconvenient junctures. But how many impossible stories have you heard? Or lived? Impossible isn’t a dream, it’s a mystery we haven’t explored.

God bless,

Jason

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My Darkest Place

A terrible drawing, to be sure. Not because I have zero talent, but because this is the direction I conceive my journey to be heading. The point Jung was making is that the journey upward is precisely equal to the internal depth one is willing to explore. My scribble is entirely downward, I even left the rest of the page for more roots and more darkness.

I don’t like dwelling here, I’m an amateur Dante trying to find the bottom of the crevasse so I can climb to the city on the hill.

Jordan Peterson talks about facing the worst part of yourself, the treacherous, jealous, even murderous part. I’ve thought hard about what I could do if I let myself be thrown into that chasm and give into the temptation of self loathing and turn it against the world. I’ve thought about how easy that path might be, how many excuses I could make for myself when it all falls apart. I don’t think I could hurt anyone else, but I became sure that I could hurt myself if I became my worst incarnation. I see that I could drink myself to death if I gave into every injustice, perceived or real.

That’s my darkest place. But like that doodle, there are a lot more roots to explore. I can’t rule out finding something worse, but for now, I find strange comfort in knowing how awful I might become.

God bless and thank you for reading,

Jason

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Hard Questions

Thank God we had a winning soccer match tonight.

Otherwise, I may not have been able to field challenging questions from my ten-year-old. He opened with mumbling and I was an impatient prick until he fell to tears and said, “I’m afraid of what happens when people die.” This wasn’t just about his mom, I could see it in his eyes, he was contemplating everyone’s death on an empathetic level that would be overwhelming to anyone. I remember contemplating pain in a similar way when I was his age, it was so frightening that I closed off my empathetic self for decades.

So I was faced with the light task of not ruining my son’s compassionate path to adulthood. I held him and we talked easily about Heaven, the inevitability of death, and the power we have to choose how to face it. He’s a smart kid, he’s worked out much of this, but needed to cry through it a little. We turned to the subject of Mary and how he thought he didn’t properly say goodbye. The last thing he really remembers about her was watching the first half of the Super Bowl in the hospital. With the Eagles winning, it was a nicely exaggerated happy moment.

I asked him to remember all the times Mom said, “I love you,” and how many times he said the same to her. I told him, “Mom taught me about always doing this because we never know when we won’t have another chance.”

We talked about how he and his brother bravely came to the hospital and faced the news that Mom probably wouldn’t survive. It took them all day to be ready to see her and they stood shoulder to shoulder to tell her goodnight.

I told him that it was the first step towards Mary’s peace with dying. She’d find peace with many other friends and family over the next 36 hours.

There were more questions about the details of my comings and goings and what happened at the hospital while they were at home. We both got our tears out.

I thank God again for the wisdom these circumstances has afforded me and my sons. We’re not letting this break us, but allowing it to make us stronger.

God bless and thank you for reading,

Jason

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“…a new phase, a new loss.”

C.S. Lewis does few brilliant things in A Grief Observed. Highest in my estimation is the use of questions with very few answers. He has a curious mind and allows it to ponder all the awful Whys, What ifs, How coulds, and Whens of his bereavement.

At no point does he try to universalize the process of grief. Even for himself, he doesn’t claim to find consistent ways of moving through the journey. When a turn in the valley appears to mimic a previous pass, he recognizes that it is in a different sequence and therefore carries fresh meaning, pain, healing, or various mixes of all. Each day is particularly exhausting, sometimes in the excitement, sometimes in the grinding, and sometimes in the slog.

It’s a book unabashedly about an individual grief and, in that way, more honest than most of the literature on the subject I’ve yet come across.

God bless,

Jason