Today is my half-sister Beth's 61st birthday. Beth is confined at times to a wheelchair, and has to lie down in bed to rest a lot. She experiences boredom, naturally, and said when she's staring up at the ceiling, she imagines a painting there and puts herself in it. I told her about my boredom with running and how my dream state hadn't been a reliable retreat recently and I didn't know what to do. She said I needed to focus on what I "really want" from all this and that my real problem was wanting too many things at once.
She's right. I do want too many things at once. I always have, and then I expect I can craft a single strategy to bring them all home in perfect unison. Problem is, I'm a whiz at this at work. If you've seen me launch a brand, you know... I function like a theatre director - very visual in my process, lording over the script, the casting, the rehearsals. I get a sparkle in my eye and people naturally follow. Then when we're in previews I call the press and stand in the wings, arms folded, nodding as the audience laughs exactly where I meant them to. The critics always say the same thing when it's over, "Innovative!" "Rising Star!" "Inspiring!" I feel good for a second... and then I'm on to looking for my next project. How many jobs have I had? This is what I do.
So I think the same should be true in my personal life - that I visualize the outcome I want and then get to work on production. But it never goes that way. In my personal life, the actors are intractable, the script gets translated into weird languages, we lose backing, the theater burns down, you name it - it goes wrong. I can't get it to all come together in any organized fashion. What do I have to do to get my devoted husband, my kids, my dog, my house, my book deal, and my perfect body to all show up on stage at once? As opening night approaches, I sense it's not coming together perfectly. Who is that annoying guy playing my spouse? I don't want those uncreative children with acne and buck teeth! A poodle! No! I said a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel! CASTING! Get casting in here right now!!!
I step back from the stage and feel overwhelmed by the circus in front of me and think - I can get out of this - it's not too late. I decide I don't want a debacle on my personal resume, so I bail - whatever stage it was at - and kick everything to the curb. As my cousin Polly would say, I dodge the bullet. The actors grumble and want severance. Stage hands call the union. I end up taking the darn poodle home out of guilt, and stare at it for years - a barking reminder of my mistake. Of course, I'm taking this metaphor way too far but you get my point. This whole system isn't working for me because fine - maybe I should dump the poodle, but the whole circus? Every time? I'm ending up with nothing.
Beth said I'll never get anything I want if I'm not willing to get out of my director's role and just be in touch with what feels good.
We brainstormed on the phone. What do I really want? What makes me happy? It came surprisingly fast and not what you'd expect. Yes, I want all the things listed above, but moreover, I want to feel peaceful - and the two things that make me feel most peaceful are flowers and sunshine. Next I asked myself what I really wanted from running. Again, it came with ease. I want an amazing, healthy body. Kinda simple. Beth said to just focus on these three most important things and trust everything that comes along after it will organically be something I can appreciate. I've got to put my elaborate picture of other requirements for happiness aside because it's simply too big to orchestrate and not realistic, fundamentally. People go for that picture all the time and they are mostly unhappy in a short pass, divorced, broken, angry, stuck and bitter. I'm not any of those things today - I am happy - and don't need to get involved in any messy systems. I can hand pick disparate parts and let the show unfold as it will, cockeyed maybe, but a good fit for me and one that can sustain itself with some of its own momentum. This all made so much sense to me. It felt like freedom.
Then she said, let's make a place where you and I can go together while you're running - a happy place with flowers and sunshine. So, I built one, modeled in part after the real life Luxembourg Gardens in Paris where I've had a few memorable afternoons. The quality of sunshine there is delightful. There are fountains, a long reflecting one, and another with boats and children in striped tops playing. The flowers there explode from carefully planned banks. They look like they could be wild, but they're not; they're ordered and varied with precision to create the perfect balance. The colors pop against a blue sky. We put a mountain with snow in the background because it was our perfect place and mountains with snow are sweet to look at. And we replaced the classic park chairs in real Luxembourg Gardens with two deep, soft loungers we could sit in and spend an hour or two just hanging out. The air we filled with the sound of birds singing and, in the distance, the low murmur of French friends in conversation.
I'm going to go to our imaginary Luxembourg Gardens tomorrow when I'm running my 8 miles. I'll sit with my sister for a bit and get some peace. We'll just admire the flowery scene and feel golden sun on our faces and not worry about a thing. We'll sip lemonade and eat croque monsieurs from a picnic basket between us. And when I'm done with my 8 miles, we'll say "see you later, sister" and I'll pack the basket up and go home. It's going to be a good time.
I've been so incredibly scared about going out there and trying for 8. I couldn't picture it on the stage in my mind, how I would pull it off with the resources I have, and what was my motivation; but now I've simplified my priorities. I'm doing it to get in shape and, along the way, I hope to get some peace. I have a date with sunshine, flowers and my sister. No matter what, that act will get a standing ovation from me and I don't think I'll want to run away when the curtain pulls for intermission. Now, I'm not scared at all.
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