Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris

Said twice too many times yesterday and I began to wonder if it’s true, if that’s really how I feel: Misery Loves Company.  Granted it was said both times in an attempt to elicit wry amusement.  Granted maybe the phrase was stuck in my head the second time around.  Granted I said it to show what a clever girl I am.

Clever indeed.  So clever as to leave myself pondering the phrase and my intent the rest of the day. 

It’s an ugly truth, but one I suspect I am not alone in.  I do in fact take comfort in company in my misery.  Not an actual, physical presence.  Which occurs to me to be backwards.  That a hand or a hug or even a kind smile should afford me some comfort on my lowest days.  But it does not.  The comfort in company I take is the Soul caught with the same issue or situation that I am.  To know that, even if only one, someone else understands.  Some other person knows this same struggle I’m facing. 

Yet two questions kept my mind abuzz yesterday.  Am I miserable?  And, if so, I am trying to drag the people I know with me?  My immediate response was “maybe” and a vehement, outraged “no”.  But time passed and that response changed to “sometimes” and “maybe”.  The former was refreshing; sometimes seems reasonable and a little thought gave me certainty that my miserable moments have been on a steady decline for awhile now. 

But the latter gave me pause.  Because it’s one thing to discover a kindred spirit, to find a person that happens to share a struggle, to hear a person voice a frustration I am so familiar with.  And it’s another entirely to create or awaken or remind another’s misery.  I find myself whining and sharing my over-contemplation far too often lately.  And in the moment, I just focus on the urge to vent, the want for a witness.  But the emotions ease and I become concerned that I am, in fact, pulling someone else into my gray.

Go ahead and judge me for it.  You can’t be any harder on self than I am.  I know that it’s an undesirable character trait.  But I also know that it’s a human desire I refuse to be ashamed of.  It’s a survivor’s instinct; an emotional safeguard.  But I am not a man drowning, not any longer.  So while I can accept that natural instinct to seek company in the misery moments, I can also push back against it.  In fact, I think by accepting it, by recognizing it for what it is, I am all the more capable to catch and release the act before it actually happens. 

Because, yes, misery loves company.  And if we happen upon some in our dark days or moments, we should marvel and accept and find comfort.  But misery should not create company to console itself.  If anything, misery should seek the people or the words or the music or whatever rescue it can find that creates a little hope. 

And because I can’t let the moment pass without a little information… A 14^th century Italian historian, Dominici de Gravina, first gave us the sentiment: “It is a comfort to the unfortunate to have had companions in woe”.  And John Ray coined the actual phrase.  But Christopher Marlowe used the sentiment best in Doctor Faustus, the story of a man that sells his soul to the devil for money and power.  (No you won’t get any spoilers from me; I believe in reading.) 

Monday Morning

Today is not Friday.  Get over it already. 

I will not tell a lie: I enjoy Friday just as much as everyone else.  The lead off to the weekend.  The precursor to two whole days of not working and getting to use all of my time as I see fit.  It’s like a mini-retirement every week.  Not to mention, the weekend is when everyone else decides to have fun.  Parties and brunches and play dates and shopping trips.  And so on and so forth.

But don’t be mistaken as I wax on about the weekend.  I love my Mondays too. 

You can think of it as a compare/contrast thing.  Without that feeling of drudgery that often accompanies Monday, without facing five days of work, would the joy of the weekend be as great?  Or you can think of it as the first day of a fresh week, a day to start anew on that diet you've been meaning to start or to begin curb that bad habit you've been to kick in the butt.  Who needs to wait for the New Year when you have Mondays?

I like to think of it for what it is.  I’m no mathematician or statistician or the like, but even I can gleam that if I spend Monday through Thursday wishing for Friday, I’ll spend more than half my life wishing the day away.  My day.  Living for the weekend, instead of living for the moment.  Waiting so impatiently and focused for Friday that any delight during the week falls short. 

So if you’re dreading this Monday morning, think of the alternative.  Wake up and rejoice and carpe diem. 

What To Expect

You know I loathe expectations, right?

Time has exposed them to be set-ups for disappointment. Punishments for self, usually for the less than ideal actions of others. An insanity to inflict upon self. So what do I do but create a wildly lofty set of goals for 2014... 

I'll say it again. I loathe expectations. My intent is always to keep them low, so the good things seem great and the bad things are unsurprising. It's my brain in constant defensive mode, loving and protecting my little heart so vigilantly. 

But here's the key, folks. This set of expectations, goals, resolutions if you must, are solely within my own power. Barring some great shift of the world as I know it, accomplishing them requires little to no assistance. 

Don't get me wrong. I'd love my friends to support and help me, and I am quite sure that they will. But, save one goal, I don't need them. And this is the fact that makes me sure of myself. That I will accomplish the goals set and, dare I say it, exceed a few. 

Speaking of exceeding. I have a suspicion there are a few folks out there with few, or many, doubts as to my ability to accomplish these goals. Out of no malicious intent, just intelligent, healthy, good old American skepticism. If I were on the outside looking in, I would probably be skeptical too. But I'm not and I look forward to exceeding their expectations as well. 

I know where we are. The second day of a new year and it's easy to remain focused and goal-oriented. I'm no fool; I know it will be hard. But I have a secret weapon to success. The goals I have set aren't just some temporary 2014 resolutions. These are the things I want in the rhythm of my life. Habits and practices that will fully incorporate into my day-to-day and will maintain for the foreseeable future. Setting the high goals is just my way of giving myself a kickstart. 

This year, these goals, are about shaping me more into the person I want to be. More accurately, making the outer me, the perception I give off, match the inner me. And maybe this year will have the added benefit of stopping me from being my biggest critic and turn me into my own cheerleader instead. 

I'm ready. Are you?

Mom, There's a Man in the Chimney

I am not sure about Santa. I know, of course, that he is not real.  That there is no jolly fat old man with a snow white beard (of whatever ethnicity) that lives in the North Pole and makes toys (...the same ones in the stores, mind you) and has a set of magical reindeer. Yes, I know that much.  I also know that the spirit of Santa has and will persist at Christmas.  That the notion of magic during this holiday season can be very real and beautiful.  It becomes a tangible joy that people just can't seem to carry throughout the rest of the year, and that, my friends, is magic.  These are the things I'm sure of.

What I am unsure of is me and Santa.  Our story.  I can't pinpoint where it begins or where it ends.  While it's perfectly reasonable to lose sight of the spark of belief, I've found it's a little less than regular to lose the end of it.  To forget the moment it all unraveled and I discovered the myth.  But that is exactly where I stand.

The more I thought about it, the more concerned I became.  It's bigger than when I stopped believing.  It's the whole Santa story.  Because, to be honest, I don't really remember any of it.  I know for sure I was never interested in staying up to try to see Santa.  I don't remember the anticipation or excitement of waiting to see what Santa would bring.  No wonder of the unbelievable happenings up there at the North Pole.

I'd like to chalk up this hole in my memory as just that.  A gap, just another lost recollection from childhood.  A minor concern as memories go; I find it much more distressing when I can't recall where I placed my keys.  But there is this nagging feeling inside that the unbelievable was always just that.  A bit too unbelievable for me.

I'm sure I had some belief at some point, but what I'm not sure of is if I ever wholeheartedly believed like the other children did.  That the idea of Santa may have always seemed too amazing for my straight and narrow mind to fully accept.  I have always been a girl who could imagine amazing things, but believing in such things is outside my realm of experience.  I believed in Santa because my sister (let's call her Ani -- cause I like it and I'm pretty sure she doesn't) believed.  I'd wager a bet that soon after she found out the truth, I stopped believing too.

I can't imagine at any point in my childhood if an old man had appeared coming out of the chimney that I would have been anything less than terrified. Alarm bells ringing in my head and the immediate need to get parental assistance. Bag of toys can wait until I see some ID.  I can't imagine catching sight of reindeer flying overhead and trying to land on the rooftop being anything less than horrifying.  Reindeer are very large animals and roofs really aren't made to hold that kind of weight.  Plus they've got to poop at some point during that all-night flight.  (Makes that whole vision of reindeer flying overhead you've been holding onto since childhood change drastically, doesn't it...)

But contemplating all this, wrestling to reason out the Santa-sized gap in my mind left me feeling a bit empty.  If there was ever a kid that needed a bit of wonder, or at least an adult that needs to remember that feeling of wonder, it's this one.  To believe and be enraptured by something amazing and uncommon and joyful and magical.  In my memory, my childhood sits as simple phase of life.  A filler before real life began.  A quiet, boring space rather than a time of adventure and wonder and fearlessness.

And now... Now, I want my wonder.  I want to believe in the man in the chimney.  Or at least remember a time that I did.

The Morning Ritual

Yeah, it's been awhile.

Moving right along.

It's always nice to find a concept that fits something in your life so well. I've found myself struggling over the past few weeks (er, months..) to regain some control over my day. Trying to find a way to accomplish all that I want to and end each day feeling a bit less like something like a failure. Then it happened last night.  I was writing (make that the dreaded editing) in the living room and idly noticing some random interview on O's Super Soul Sunday that my roommate (we'll refer to her as Fergie from here on out) was watching.  At the end of the interview, and I guess this is typical for the show, some sort of mini-segment came on all about morning rituals.

Talk about a light bulb. Okay, I know it's not a novel concept, or even a uncommon idea. But that makes it no less of a light bulb to me. Because it was exactly what I had been searching for.  And naming it seems to have made a world of difference. A simple list of things to do every morning. Focal points, dare I say.

Just the idea of the morning ritual soothes me and that seems to be the first step towards feeling back in control.  I am fully aware and accepting of my need for control.  And feeling so not-in-control of my ability to accomplish during the day has slowly been driving me insane. The morning ritual can be the pattern that sets my day off in the right direction. A set of actions, activities, and nourishment that puts me on a productive path for the rest of the day. No longer walking out the door (or heading to the couch) for work and feeling like I've already wasted an hour or more of my day.

So honing in my morning ritual is my task for the week.  I specifically refrained from saying "perfecting", because that's an overly ambitious, impossible goal.  I think it's important to paraphrase Fergie's wisdom from last night here: the morning ritual will and should change as often as you want or need it too.  There's no hard and fast line.  I'm searching for the pattern that serves me best right now. That may change when the season changes, if my job or work schedule changes, as my fitness level changes, etc.  Flexibility, my dear folks.

And last night I focused on, what I think, is an integral part of the morning ritual: the nighttime ritual. Because it seems important. Reflecting on the day, which gives a moment to appreciate as well as monitor the success of the morning ritual.  Making the necessary preparations to make the morning ritual work smoothly.  And hopefully settling into a nighttime pattern that facilitates more sound sleep.  A full night's rest certainly seems essential for the success of the morning ritual.

The morning ritual.  Like a child, I crave the structure.  The morning pattern and the nighttime pattern, serving as bookends to the daily rhythm of my life.

Superid

Let's start with the Id. Freud used the term to describe our instinctual self. The part of us that is before we're even born. Its the thing that reminds us to breath and blink. Its the thing that makes our stomachs growl and our throats parched.

Freud believed that as we mature, the Id is always there but the Ego and Superego develop and overtake the Id. Freud, we must agree to disagree.

I propose the Superid and declare that it becomes the controlling component of our psyche as we get older. As adults, we are not controlled by the strictures and expectations of society. We are victims of our own needs. The Superego is there, but we dismiss for the Superid.

The inherent need to eat drives us to work jobs we hate or participate in illegal and life-threatening activities. The need to feel loved outweighs our common sense everytime. We stay abusive relationships. We get disrespected. And we stay. The sexual drive overpowers our morals. Fear prevents us from living to our fullest and achieving destinies. These rational responses. They are the most primal of emotions. The ones we are born with and only in our best moments do we shed.

Obstacle Course Driving

Forget the orange cones. Forget the driver's ed car. Forget parking lot challenges. The true obstacle course is on the nearest roadway.

There is a lever on your car, near the steering wheel, that moves up and down. When you move it up, an arrow flashes in your left rear light indicating you want to turn left. When you move it down, an arrow flashes in your right rear light.. You get the idea. Instead of stopping in the middle of the road then signaling your intent, you should use that lever 20 seconds earlier.

On every road (or at least most) there are lines. White or yellow. Dashed or solid. Regardless of their appearance, think of the lines as walls. You must keep your vehicle within the walls. C'mon, if the fastest people in the world can run full speed inside lines less than a foot wide, you can handle your car.

I know there is a speed limit. I know that exceeding that limit by say 20 mph is potentially dangerous. However being 20 mph below that limit can be equally dangerous. Remember to be safe and always drive at about the same speed as everyone else. If all the cars are passing you by, maybe you should pull over and regroup.

Now for all my drivers out there, let's take a moment to bond. At least 78% of women can't drive. At least 87% of people above the age of 60 can't drive. We know its true. I mean they can pass the driving test, but they consistently get too close to the curb. Nearly kill pedestrians on a daily basis. Honk at good drivers. Brake as they approach green lights. And remain happily oblivious. For all of us cognzant of this nightmare, if you are a passenger in such a vehicle, I suggest you buckle up, find your happy place, and pray.

Just take every obstacle course experience as a test of your reflexes and an opportunity to hone your superior skills on the road.