Meditation for the Antsy

A field of flowers. An ocean of crystal blue. A sandy beach.

Nope couldn’t picture it, let alone, sit still for it.

Since my diagnosis, I’ve tried to get into meditation. Being still. Being present. Centering myself. And then, two minutes in, I’d remember I have to return a phone call or pick up cat litter. Wham-o, just like that, I’m out of my meditative state. So much for my still, present, centered self. So much for any trace of flowers, blue ocean, or being beachy.

As I’ve hopped along the bunny trail of de-stressing, detoxing, learning healthier life skills and keeping cancer at bay, I’ve taken stabs at this mindfulness stuff. Already praying since childhood, I thought, what’s the harm in adding meditation/visualization? It could be helpful.

However, most of these “guided meditations” I’ve been encouraged to try, again, focused on nature, and on some flute playing in a forest somewhere.

Don’t get me wrong; it’s pretty. But I found myself soon thinking about a weird piece of trivia from my past. I’d be asking myself a question like, “Did I have physical education class for first or second period when I was in the seventh grade?”

Over and over and over again, I’d start out with beautiful scenery and then devolve into remembering who was my math teacher when I was nine. After numerous attempts, it finally dawned on me to stop with the flowers, landscapes and mysterious flute playing and just skip right to whatever school memories I could entertain without trauma counseling.

No easy feat, by the way.

But I needed to stop fighting my mind when it wandered away from the pretty scenes. I had to channel it, instead, to those notorious school days.

I’m not talking about the bullying or the mean girls. That’s not helpful. I’m talking about something a bit more mundane, perfect for its meditative possibilities.

I’m a detail-oriented person. So, I first started to meditate on some of the details of my school building.

Originally built in the early 1900s and named after President McKinley, my high school had two major parts to it: the old and the new. The original old part of the school always struck me as being quite wooden with red painted walls throughout the small hallways.

Eventually, in the 1950s, because of the explosion of rural teenagers, they tacked on the newer addition. And, that part of the school struck me as being incredibly green and tiled. I don’t know. Maybe there was an unconscious desire to celebrate the complimentary color wheel or promote Christmas all school year long. Whatever the case, as a scurrying adolescent, I remember making hundreds of treks, zigzagging from red and wood to green and tiled classrooms, connected only by a bland library.

My first school meditation, beyond a building, focused on the class schedule from my senior year, mainly, the route it took small town, public school student me to get from class to class.

I remembered all of those treks, Mondays through Fridays, to and from seven periods of classes and classrooms. And, my senior year stood out the most. Maybe because it was equal parts “yay, I’m almost out of here” and “I’m soon going to be an adult; uh-oh.”

Regardless, focusing on that last year of high school, I visualized myself at the start of the day. Arriving at 7:45, I’d wind my way up two flights of green- tiled stairs, to greet the long expanse of the second floor, which housed lockers for grades ten through twelve on the left side, classrooms on the right. So, there I was, getting set for first period, French II, which was almost directly across from our lockers. Not much zig, not much zag.

After about fifty minutes of being called by my French class name and feeling like an ignorant American, the bell rang and I’d start my first really big zig zag of the day, from the new to the old part of the school: art class. I’d plow down the length of that long, green- tiled hallway, dodging my fellow adolescents, weaving through the library connector. I’d go down one flight of stairs, lined with red painted walls, through a dark wooden area which sported four major classrooms. My art class was in the room closest to the original old steps, exiting the school. I’d walk into the wood-centric space and proceed to draw and paint.

Art class was one of my favorites. The fifty minutes sped by and, before I knew it, I’d have to clean my brushes of acrylic paint, mentally prepare myself for my least favorite class, Business Math. I’d hightail it back to the edge of the old school, bordering on that connecting library.

This classroom was an odd mixture of early 1900s wood and not- quite- sure- why- they- decided- to- add- it, 1970s wood paneling. An arsonist’s dream come true, possibly? One lit match and poof! The whole thing goes up like a tinderbox!

I had a lot of those kinds of wishes as, for the next fifty minutes, time crawled. Did I mention how much I hate math? No? I hate math! Math hates me! It’s a mutual hatred society.

Okay, so the bell rings again, mercifully, and I skedaddled from the too-wooden math room, winding through a white tiled hallway, half a flight up from the library. I descend three small steps and again, look at the long, green hallway on the second floor, with one of three classrooms close to the end of it. I make my way to fourth period, Choir.

Located in the newer part of the school, not surprisingly, this mostly white, “soundproof” classroom was right next to the band room. As the choir began doing “Me-May-Ma-Moe-Moo” vocal warmups, we’d often have to compete with the sound of a tuba. Almost always, a tuba. I never actually saw the tuba.

Anyway, after a musical (?) fifty minutes, the bell rang, signaling feeding time for the animals. Lunch.

Do I go to the cafeteria, located on the first floor, in the old, red, wooden part of the school, to enjoy pizza burgers and whipped potatoes? Of course not! Senior, remember? Cafeteria lunches were something only seventh and maybe, a couple of eighth graders did, before they reached the age of reason.

But being a senior, top of the totem pole? Where did we convene? Remember that three-classroom cluster, comprised of the choir and the band rooms? Well, that one remaining room was heralded as the senior room. I remember we were the first class to enjoy such a privilege.

Not that it was much to exalt. A classroom, with scattered desks and chairs, including one beanbag chair (not sure how and why it got there). And, when we weren’t going off campus to a local restaurant or grocery store (or, for some, smoking, drinking, possibly getting pregnant in a sketchier part of the school property or parking lot), we’d herd into that space and feel ever so adult as we huddled in cliques and had disdain for one another. This would go on for about forty minutes and then, ding!

Fifth period has arrived: Senior Social.

How can I explain this class? Part sociology, part history, part “To Sir with Love”-themed, we- gotta- get- these- kids- ready- for- the- adult- world.

Huh. Ready for the adult world.

This was my one and only class held on the first floor. I’d take the two sets of steps and go downstairs in that green-tiled part of the school and camp outside of the classroom, three doors down. Eventually, our teacher would surface, unlock the room and, for the next fifty minutes, we’d learn all about current issues, sex education, birth order and how to do taxes. Eclectic.

Bell rings again, signaling my sixth period class: English. Another favorite, neck and neck with art. Up we go again, to green-tiled, second floor, three doors down and closest to the bathrooms. This classroom was especially green and white. I don’t know if this was intentional from those 1950s blueprints, but I must admit, all of that green did have a soothing effect on me. Not that I really needed it in this beloved class with my favorite teacher. And focusing on words. I loved words. Those fifty minutes also flew by until the next bell rang.

Where to now? Study hall, held in this same classroom, with the same favorite English teacher in charge of the motley crew. As motley as rural can be, anyway.

Not surprisingly, I loved seventh period study hall. I spent most of it, doing my homework, getting hall passes to finish some art project, wa-a-a-y in the older part of the school. And, because my favorite teacher was also my drama and speech coach, I spent time writing and reciting lines, essays and speeches.

This last period of the day was a great way to wind down. Some would even say meditative?

If you’ve hung in there with me all of this time, first, thank you for that.

And second, why am I taking this stroll down memory lane when it has nothing to do with you and your challenges, you may ask? Well, by virtue of taking these strolls, concentrating on various details of the rooms, the routes and everything else occupying my senses, I am, indeed, meditating. I’m actually doing it!

And that’s really the point of mediation: to concentrate, to do it, to focus on something that gets you out of your stressed head and transports you to another dimension. You may not choose to go with the high school dimension. But is there another time, place and set of details you can comb over? Call up as many exacting memories as you can. What does that look like for you? Go there. Be there. Forget about the flowers and the beach. Work what works for you.

Namaste. I bow to the light in that!

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

Just Bloom

The Baked Cake

Cooking was not my forte. Yet, there were a lot of ingredients to this cake.

An enmeshed mother-daughter relationship with my mother? Check.

A significant health crisis, impacting my elderly mother? Check.

A significant health crisis, impacting me? Check.

Universal truths of humanity I cannot avoid? Check.

Mom was a “Baked Cake,” especially within my caregiving experience of her.

In 2009, my mother had a stroke. Now, she resides in a care facility. Mom can no longer walk without a walker, spending most of her time in her wheelchair.

And since then, I have been her health care agent. I have attended appointments, care conferences and have made decisions as that advocate. She has often questioned and challenged me, asserting I’m overreacting and being “silly” at my attempts to keep her safe and healthy.

And like many caregivers to their elderly parents, I have been stressed in a kind of no-win situation way. It has been within this context, I have learned much about her, myself, our dynamic and what I can and cannot control.

The Baked Cake: It’s Not About You:

Information-intel- is the focus of this first caregiving learning lab. There’s stuff that has absolutely everything to do with the elderly person: their physical, emotional and mental needs, for example, and nothing to do with you and me!

In the years since my mother’s stroke, I have discovered some startling revelations. Some of this information was purposely withheld from me; some of it was withheld because of sheer ignorance.

But, regardless of the origins, those revelations still created “a-ha” moments.

Without getting into the personal specifics, much of what I learned “after the fact” about Mom centered around her fear and shame-based choices. And that has nothing to do with me.

And, because she is now at this stage of life, meaning, being physically affected by her age, her stroke and her corresponding health issues, her “baked cake” condition concludes that expecting change, insight or some personal overhaul from her is, therefore, unrealistic.

Many of us caregivers can often find ourselves in this painful reality. Ships have sailed, opportunities have passed by. Now what?

The Baked Cake: It IS About You:

Congratulations, we have arrived at the next phase of “Baked Cake” caregiving: our own personal reflection. How do these caregiving challenges- and, more importantly, how does this vulnerable person we care for- affect us?

It’s not a self-indulgent concept to dismiss.

Beyond sentimentality, love, and, of course, being spiritually in-tune with our Creator, we also need to get real. Not from a weaponizing standpoint, but from a truth perspective. And truth can be ugly.

I’ve learned some unsettling truth in recent years, be it my mother’s backstory or simple health facts. I’ve needed to address its impact on me. There’s been much focus on my mother’s status as being a “vulnerable adult.” I, also, need to concede I am a flesh-and-blood mortal.

The Baked Cake: You Must Take Care of Yourself:

Mortality? Vulnerability? Rubber, may I introduce you to some screaming road?

Yes, we may passively assent to taking care of ourselves. But, in practice?

Well, that’s trickier, isn’t it?

Indeed, for years, I convinced myself that Mom was the fragile one. I was healthy enough to withstand the rigors of this caregiving thing.

And then, in July of 2017, I received my Breast cancer diagnosis.

Since then, life has profoundly changed. And part of that includes my mother.

Diagnosis, treatment and my foray into “survivorship” have all demanded I change how I relate to her and how involved I am with her.

If I refuse to make those changes, it could severely impact my health; I could die.

Many of us caregivers, especially us female caregivers, are shamed mercilessly if we do not expend all of ourselves for someone else, like our parents. Refusing to do just that, in fact, can get us labeled as the “bad daughter.” No one wants that moniker.

But, again, reality. Cancer. That is a formidable opponent. Divine healing is wonderful, but it does not negate the natural mandate of Mark 12:31:

“…Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself...”

We are instructed to take care of our temples, our vessels. We are, yes, to “love one another,” but love them as we love ourselves.

Let’s be brutally honest here. In the caregiving context, if we demonstrated the kind of love to “our neighbor” that we show ourselves, social services and the police would be called.

That would be considered abuse. We wouldn’t dream of treating someone so shabbily. So why is it excusable to mistreat ourselves that way?

Demanding that nothing slow down or change for us, in the face of a life-threatening diagnosis, all our own?

Come on. That is insanity. It’s not scripturally sound, either.

We need to take our lives into consideration: our health conditions, our marriages, our children, our well-being. Prioritizing those needs means changing our caregiving choices. And that is not evil. It is being a good steward of what is entrusted to us instead.

So, yes, my involvement with my mother has radically changed. My body and my own needs have changed.

I must respond accordingly.

The Baked Cake: You Can Never Explain It Enough:

Hey, guess what? Mom doesn’t like these changes. And she certainly doesn’t want to hear me tell her “no.”

The next “Baked Cake” Lesson? Boundaries!

Here’s a dirty little secret: most of us, within our family dynamics, have unhealthy, sometimes even, nonexistent boundaries. This creates toxicity, sooner or later.

I tried, for years, to work on my issues, through prayer, community, therapy. Likewise, I took a stab at healthier boundaries. Those efforts did not go over well with my increasingly needy, vulnerable adult of a mother. My “no’s” were viewed as ungrateful. How dare I?

And then came my diagnosis. I could no longer just “will” myself into performance. Physically, everything changed.

Mom hates that reality. In the early days of my diagnosis, I earnestly tried to reason with her about these “no’s.” She wasn’t getting it. Her inability, denial, fears and unwillingness all contributed to her negative response. After exhausting myself repeatedly, I learned and applied a Twelve-Step recovery principle, “JADE.” And it compliments Mom’s “Baked Cake.”

“JADE:” Justify, Argue, Defend, Explain. Simply stated: don’t subject yourself to situations in which you feel manipulated to do those things. Mom’s cognitive ability has deteriorated over the years. She has more difficulty understanding things, especially if they are upsetting. And going around the same mountain was physically and emotionally taxing to me.

I learned, via my diagnosis and simultaneous caregiving, that I can never provide a “good enough” explanation for telling my mother “no,” therefore, displeasing her. She is not getting it, for whatever reason. And so, to take better care of myself (and her), I need to accept “what is,” rather than “what if.”

The Baked Cake: The Wisdom Ingredient:

See yourself here, in any of this?

You may not be battling a life-threatening disease, but you’re challenged, all the same, with your own loved one and circumstances, aren’t you?

Sooner or later, we all encounter the “Baked Cake” of life, that, seemingly, immovable person we love and care for. How will we respond?

Radical acceptance can be key. There are things we’ll never understand. There are explanations we’ll never have access to. Life and people will confront and break our hearts.

As finite human beings, we have limitations. We need help. Do we ask for that help?

As we deal with this “Baked Cake” experience, therefore, may we learn the healing ingredients we need to both survive and thrive.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

“Things Don’t Look Like They Do in Catalogues”

Magical thinking.

When I was a little girl, I wanted a miniature French doll in a catalogue. This doll right here. 

What wasn’t to love? The pink dress? The ENORMOUS matching pink bow in her hair? The pretty Bisque porcelain face?

So, yes, after a lot of pleading, a family member ordered the doll for me. After a few weeks, the much-anticipated package arrived in the mailbox. I ripped that sucker open, expecting to see my beautiful pink French doll. And I was startled/disappointed by its reality.

It was technically the miniature French porcelain, in the pink dress, with the gigantic pink hair bow. But the face…

As you can see by the photo, her little French punim was a bit askew. A few years later, when I first saw Pablo Picasso’s “Guernica,” I noted the resemblance. There definitely was a distorted face thing going on here. No ear in the middle of her face, but, as I compared the doll with the catalogue image, there was a discrepancy.

It was then and there my family member taught eight-year-old me a life principle, “Things don’t look like they do in catalogues.”

It was also here where I learned these same family members could not believe the very advice they gave out.

Because… magical thinking.

This is Appealing:

Let’s begin with coveting, shall we?

We covet what we see. It looks desirable. We see something and decide we want it. The French doll was aesthetically appealing to me. Her face was beautiful; she was small. As a little girl, I wanted her.

The magical thinking concept, on a broader level, seems to equate aesthetics with solution. I found it noteworthy that my family member who ordered the doll for me, who uttered the statement, “Things don’t look like they do in catalogues,” still, however, bought into abusive and addictive dynamics. Rationalizing through mindsets of “It’s not so bad” “I can handle it” and “I want this more than I’ve wanted anything ever before” came into play.

Magical thinking.

Myopic tunnel vision, to the exclusion of everything else, was all numerous family members could engage in. They wanted the appealing thing to be the appealing thing, to stay the appealing thing.

And don’t we all want that?

It’s So Good; It MUST Be True:

After we’ve designated the chosen object of our coveting, next there is the determination that it’s so good, that it has such promise, that it, surely, must be true.

With the French doll, I believed the catalogue image; I had faith in it. I believed that’s what I’d be getting. I didn’t take into consideration that the dolls’ faces, one by one, would be hand painted. There would be some variation, which, for me, included the “Guernica” face on my doll. I expected the doll to be perfectly symmetrical and pretty. Exactly like the catalogue image.

Likewise, my family members counted on the premise of the “good on paper” focus of their attention. They focused on a happy marriage, a perfect child, certain realized dreams, like they were ordering them from a catalogue. There was so much hope pinned to the thing being the answer, there was no room for any other more complicated thought.

There was no room for imperfect life. No room for fallible human beings. No room for the reality of deception.

When it comes to magical thinking, it’s quite easy to be lulled into this assertion, isn’t it? We trust that we are getting what we’ve set our eyes on. No matter how jaded, intelligent or experienced we claim to be, still, there is that naïve wish, that childlike wish, perhaps, we all seem to carry.

This Will Make My Life Perfect:

Likewise, we can also trust in the illusion of perfection.

Ah, yes, the belief that this object of our affection will perfect our lives and remove all pain.

As a little girl, feeling lonely and overwhelmed by abusive family dynamics, looking at that catalogue page, with the French doll featured so beautifully on it, gave me something to hope for. Something to look forward to. If I had her in my life, maybe I could stop being lonely. I’d just play with her. Maybe, she could make up for the scariness I was confused by.

Yet, when she arrived, I was still lonely and scared. And it wasn’t because she didn’t look like how the catalogue photographed her. She could have been an exact replica of the image, perfect and beautifully crafted in every way. When I played with her, she couldn’t erase my reality.

She was just a doll.

My family members couldn’t seem to grasp that concept on a broader level.

Again, things like marriage, children and financial security, in their three- dimensional reality, just did not look like they did “in the catalogue.” That magical thinking overpromised… and underdelivered.

The Promise Versus the Delivery:

Each of us are vulnerable to that magical thinking reality. It can be subtle; it’s not always about believing some obvious fairytale. It’s the little mistaken thoughts and beliefs that can often wreak havoc. Each day can be another opportunity to believe “something” will come through for us. What is it today? A relationship? A shot at status or power? A purchase or a material possession? What looks great “in the catalogue?”

How devastated will we be when reality does not deliver its perfect, soothing solution, as promised?

That’s what it’s all about.

Life dictates we adjust to the imperfect, to the flawed human condition. That means there is no pristine catalogue image solving our lives. That means we’ll get the much-coveted thing with the Guernica face.

That means that we need to face ourselves and our issues, regardless of any catalogue, regardless of what things look like. Accepting “what is” more than “what we wish it was” can give us a better shot at experiencing what we want in life.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

Keep Going!

Perfect is Boring

Envision

All that we’re been exploring this week, in the seeing things, has been a drumroll leading to our final word/concept around sight: envision.

This word is all about potential and challenging the future. Challenging ourselves.

For those of us with disordered eating and image issues, we may be used to “challenging ourselves,” via strict diet, fitness, routines and regimens. We may think we have even mastered that approach.

Yet “envision” goes deeper than the physical, than the image we can see. “Envision” challenges what’s possible. What is possible?

And that’s often the issue for many of us; some of us no longer believe things are possible. So, we stopped looking for it. We settle; we despair. We are convinced by the “worst-case scenario,” to the detriment of all other outcomes.

No one is seeing everything accurately; no one has emotionally, spiritually and mentally 20/20 vision. We are all on the spectrum of sight. It’s not about perfection. It’s about an ever so slight adjustment, tweaking, dare we say it, change, in our viewpoints. These modifications can happen. In fact, they’re happening all the time, whether or not we’re aware of that fact.

So, wherever and however you are today, embrace the truth that you aren’t seeing absolutely everything out there. There is more.

There is more to you!

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse