Thursday evening ramble

I'd rambled earlier about the concept of small traumas, and the body's (the soul's?) tendency not to distinguish small inconveniences from significant problems. I added, in that ramble, that the mind can help the soul along, although sometimes the mind doesn't feel like it. Sometimes the mind wants to wallow a little bit, and that's okay. But ultimately, we do have some control over how we react to things, even though not all of us realize it or choose to exercise it. And sometimes the process can't be rushed; but the intermediate step is acknowledging that the choice is there and that it's somewhere we want to get. Example: "I understand that being furloughed is not the end of the world, and in my head, I understand how lucky I am that this is a temporary arrangement. But my soul is nonetheless wallowing. I am ready to move from the wallowing to the perspective of 'this too shall pass,' even though I'm not there yet." We can all find examples of people who have it worse, but that's hardly comfort (in fact, it feels like reverse schadenfreude, even if you don't only gratitude, and not happiness, in it). It's one thing to know that someone, somewhere is hurting or starving, but even if it's not that far geographically, it's far conceptually. That suffering person's world is so different from ours. Even knowing that we choose gratitude as a perspective for ourselves and not out of compassion, it can be hard to summon when you're in a bad situation. Sometimes it takes a loss of what you have, or a perceived loss, to viscerally appreciate what you do have.

[I'll interrupt this ramble to refer you back to a post in which I excerpted Jonathan Franzen's essay on losing David Foster Wallace and finding comfort in the birds, which his late friend couldn't bring himself to do:

David wrote about weather as well as anyone who ever put words on paper, and he loved his dogs more purely than he loved anything or anyone else, but nature itself didn’t interest him, and he was utterly indifferent to birds. Once, when we were driving near Stinson Beach, in California, I’d stopped to give him a telescope view of a long-billed curlew, a species whose magnificence is to my mind self-evident and revelatory. He looked through the scope for two seconds before turning away with patent boredom. “Yeah,” he said with his particular tone of hollow politeness, “it’s pretty.” In the summer before he died, sitting with him on his patio while he smoked cigarettes, I couldn’t keep my eyes off the hummingbirds around his house and was saddened that he could, and while he was taking his heavily medicated afternoon naps I was studying the birds of Ecuador for an upcoming trip, and I understood the difference between his unmanageable misery and my manageable discontents to be that I could escape myself in the joy of birds and he could not.

I think about that often, and I'm sure that's not the first time I've reexcerpted it, whatever else I think of Franzen. It's just so powerful. But I digress.]

***
The day my mom broke her rib, I heard her say, "how wonderful everything was up until today." She wasn't in perfect health even before the fall; in fact, we'd been to the emergency room the night before, as well, for a different instance of excruciating pain. But once the new normal came through, she longed for the old normal. [She's doing much better, in case you were wondering.]

On Tuesday, I was in good spirits. I was burnt out and I needed some rest, even though I still would have rather been at work. I also needed to run some errands that were better suited to the middle of the week. But once I did those, and finished my book, and had a few naps, I was really ready to go back to work. By mid-day Wednesday, my spirits were falling, in spite of my best efforts to maintain perspective. And, in my defense--if I need one--I was equally upset for everyone else affected as I was on my own account. But I was also bored. And because I'd had places to go (well, mostly the mulch yard), I'd come to appreciate the value of getting out of the house, even for a little while. (It's also not exactly peaceful here, with all the construction). So this morning, as I ran out of nori, I decided to go to the Korean market. On the way back, I'd stop at the Afghan market and get tahini and Assam tea, and maybe I'd stop at the mulch yard again, just because I'd be close. And then--why not? it'd be on the way back--Whole Foods.

So there I was at H-Mart, having passed the produce unimpressed (once you go CSA you never go back, except in the winter when there is no CSA; I did get some tarragon) and picked up a few boxes of silken tofu and a package of masa harina (why the f* not? I'm bored). But don't listen to anyone who tells you you don't need a tortilla press, unless you really know what you're doing. That dough is a mess. I tried to roll it between to sheets of plastic and it worked, but then it was impossible to peel off. But I digress. I got the nori, and then went to look at pulses but decided I could do much better (and more organic) elsewhere. At checkout, my mind circled back to pulses... and I thought for sure that I forgot to turn off the chickpeas before I left. F***.

I ran to my car and drove as quickly as I safely could. The lights were with me, and most of the traffic was with me, but that was one of the longest half-hours of my life. I'll spare you about other aspects of keeping calm (I'm a bit believer in "stress is optional," so even if the worst had happened, stressing would not help; keeping a clear enough head to drive safely but quickly, would). I'll also preempt your question: yes, I chronically needlessly stress about having left my pulses cooking, even though I've only done it once, and there was enough water in there that it was fine, but once is enough, and I need a system to make sure not only that it never happens again but that I don't needlessly stress over it until I can get home to check. I'm thinking checklists at both doors, at least until checking becomes a habit). But (surprise!) I digress.

As I calmly drove to H-Mart, thinking about how I had all the time in the world, I actively, consciously made a point to count my blessings: I'm so grateful that I don't drive to work every day, especially not on the beltway; I'm grateful that traffic's not worse now; etc. As I frantically drove home from H-Mart, thinking how it could be okay (there was enough water to boil out and put out the stovetop; enough windows were cracked open that any smoke could get out and Gracie could get some air), I didn't need to convince myself of my blessings. It was a "I'm so happy with what I had just yesterday" moment: a house not on fire, a safe cat. It was the kick in the @ss I needed and asked for: help me get emotionally where I know intellectually I want to be. And that place is genuine, heartfelt gratitude for the things I hardly have to think about not having.

The stove was off when I got home; the cat was fine. My heart was still pounding, but my spirits were higher.