I lay awake at 2:32 a.m. last night, pondering the maelstrom of bizarre stressors that have been heaped upon the world, and myself in particular.
Collectively: Economic turmoil, financial ruin, crippled health care system, and probable pandemic illness. Me: All of those things (not financial ruin yet, but plenty of freelance work worries), plus Mom diagnosed with early-onset dementia.
I've given up, people. As I was saying to one of my dearest friends, who just happens to be having a breast biopsy soon (ding!), at some point you have to acknowledge that things being bad have nothing to do with the self-messaging you are conveying. In fact, they are bad. And I don't see any reason why we should have to feign happiness or calm if we're not feeling that way, or even try to attempt it under these circumstances.
In fact, the thought of starting a yoga practice, as I had been planning to, makes me giggle. Instead, I just picked up a Pilates book and video from the library. Leg kicks! Crunches! That what I need, to better weather the slings and arrows.
Judith Warner explored this in a column a week or so ago, pointing out that too much serenity may actually rob us of our natural human state, which often includes being pissed off. And if you're not constantly pissed off these days, you're not being mindful; you're zoned out.
I say, just try not to whale off and hit someone. Control road rage ( which I did admirably when a Mountaineer pulled up next to me as I waited at an intersection, thereby blocking my view until Her Royal Rudeness was able to make her big wide left). Try not to drink to obliteration. Take your mind off things with a good book. Mindlessness. That's my goal.