Why Are You Here?

In bed Sunday morning at quarter to eight I felt anxious that I was late. I had nowhere to go, nothing to do, but the feeling rose in me nonetheless. I closed my eyes tight but darkness made the anxiety stronger. Then I asked it a question:

        Why are you here?

Yeah, I talked to my anxiety. Usually I battle it, push against it, try to tamp it down. I try to stop anxiety, kick it in the knees. What else is there to do with something I fear? These things rarely work but are the habits I've developed. Today I took a different tack. I talked with it the way I want people to talk with me.

        Why are you here?

In case you're worried, my anxiety doesn't reply. There is however a child-like voice in me that said, I don't know. And with that my anxiety began to drain away. It didn't disappear in a flash but I felt it ebbing. Having asked the question, gotten something of an answer, I opened my eyes and felt ready to get out of bed. I had writing to do.

One Last Stocking Stuffer

Dad used to do my brother's and my Christmas stocking stuffers. He shopped at hardware and dollar stores, often duplicating gifts year to year. Duct tape and black electrical tape. Utility razor blades, glue, picture hooks, and Velcro. Almost every year I opened a scraper and a tire pressure gauge. A can of WD-40 filled the top of my stocking nearly every year.

My brother and fill each other's stockings with Dad gone the last three Christmases. This year I asked for duct tape, glue, razor blades, and pads for chair legs. No scrapers and pressure gauges, but I needed WD-40. I filled my brother's stocking with Crazy Glue, a pocket tape measure, chrome polish and other things Dad would have bought including a tiny can of WD-40 but he forgot mine. He apologized. I told him not to worry.

Yesterday I took Mom for coffee. I sipped my Americano while updating her phone and showing her how to read notifications. Mom is better than all her friends with her iPhone but needs occasional tutorials and phone maintenance. We chatted while working that through, stopped at the liquor store to get bourbon cream for her afternoon cocktails, and went back to her house where I helped put away some boxes, emptied dehumidifiers, and replaced the battery of a chirping smoke detector in her basement. (Mom worried the chirp was a mouse. A very regular and electronic mouse. Those are the worst kind.)

She had a fresh battery upstairs. I took it down to the basement and snapped it in. After testing the smoke detector I took a moment in Dad's workshop looking around to feel his presence. Mostly I felt absence. On the workbench was a can of WD-40. It was full like it had never been used. I held it for a moment maybe a minute then took it upstairs where I said goodbye to Mom, went out to my car, and drove home.

Before starting to make dinner, I texted a picture of the can to my brother: "Dad got me one last stocking stuffer." I hit send and stared at the message smiling with my eyes fogging over, my breath catching. I sniffed and set the phone down on the kitchen table, its screen still on. I cut vegetables for soup. The onions had me crying.

Practice Makes Better

I'm an irregular meditation student. Years ago two pros came to my school to meditate with my students and me. That was good. I took a six-week meditation class that ended in a half-day silent retreat. That was very good. But I haven't maintained a regular practice. I've written Morning Pages every single morning since July 5, 2014, but have yet to string together ten straight days of meditation even for five minutes a day.

In the last two weeks I've come back to meditation. After Morning Pages I set a timer and sit for five minutes. This morning I returned after a couple days away. Thoughts came to me, mostly plans or things I feel obligated to consider right away. I work to gently set them aside saying, You can wait. The thoughts are like my children when they were young wanting immediate attention as I was occupied. I asked my girls to wait, rarely more than a few seconds, then gave them my attention. They've grown up just fine. Perhaps my mind can grow in the same way.

After today's brief meditation I wrote:

To care for the mind is to care for the whole self.
To care for the body is to care for the mind and thus the whole self.
To care for others is to care for the self and the whole world.

Sitting meditation for five minutes this morning has enlightened me that tiny bit. It's like sunlight after the Winter Solstice coming sooner and lasting just a little longer. Change comes slowly and is sometimes difficult to notice.

I don't promise I'll keep up with the meditation. I know I haven't yet decided this thing. I'll have decided if it becomes as automatic as my Morning Pages. This note is just a reminder to myself that I feel better having sat for five minutes. It's a reminder that I need these ways to feel better in order to make my way forward and through to where I'm still not sure.

Passing Inspection

I drove my wife's car to the dealership for inspection. The service door opened and I drove in and parked. Two men greeted me smiling. "Good morning," one said as the other took my keys and directed me to the service desk. Another guy said something to one of my guys who laughed and gave a high-five. I went to the service desk.

Four workers were each talking with a customer. A fifth said hello on his way out to the garage. "Last spot on the end, sir. I'll grab some numbers from your car and be right back." Less than a minute later he returned. A woman at the next station smiled at something another worker down the line said.

My guy told me that I didn't yet need an oil change or tire rotation. "Just the inspection today. We can have that done in no time." He was efficient, chipper, and engaging. I asked how busy the day would be seeing that all five of them were already engaged. "Not too bad," he said. "Even when it's busy that's good." Down the line a worker and customer laughed loudly. I smiled. My guy directed me to the waiting room. "I'll come get you when it's ready."

I had brought my laptop intending to write but was too distracted in the waiting room. Mercifully the television was off but there was constant movement through the waiting area. The service desk was out to the right, bathrooms to the left, coffee and the hallway to the showroom left of center, and a business office in the middle. The office was the main distraction. Someone in there seemed to have just returned from an absence.

I watched through the cashier's window and the door as it opened and closed. People smiled and laughed. The talk was light and relaxed as at a party or family gathering. I heard please, thank you, we missed you, hey did I tell you?, laughter, and the sounds of happiness, caring, camaraderie.

No wonder I couldn't focus on writing. I was too confused. I'm at a car dealership, I thought. Do people dream of doing this work? Do they feel called to it? Can they be satisfied doing it? I now hear the condescension in those questions and apologize. Blame my ignorance and confusion and know that I'm not looking down now. When my guy said the car was ready I was relieved to get away from my confusion but sad to leave a place that felt so good.

I'm on vacation from my job and absolutely dread going back. We are stretched too thin and worn out there. No one is happy and we have given up putting on brave faces. Some of us are looking for other work. It's a dark, angry place that is the primary source of my depression and declining health. It pays the bills and affords us healthcare but that's not enough. I enjoy moments on the job but far too few. The punishments outweigh the benefits. I want more. I want the car dealership.

The dealership must be run by people who get the best out of good people by giving them what they need, valuing them, and treating them with respect. What I felt and saw there doesn't happen by accident. Good families don't just happen and the dealership was clearly a good family. I'm not looking down any more. No, my neck is getting stiff from looking up at what I want and the kind of place toward which I need to move.