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Teachers can be found in every aspect of our daily lives. I’ve recently noticed that there is a rich trove of lessons in simply paying close attention to my complaints and disappointments, the times when the world fails to meet my expectations. Like many of us across the country as of late, these complaints have often centered on the extreme heat and whether we experience physical comfort in the face of soaring temperatures and humidity.
Our air conditioner decided to go on strike on Father’s Day. It was a sweltering day if you’ll recall, temps were in the mid 90’s with the heat index hitting 99 degrees. It was not a big surprise as no A/C in production has ever registered its protest at a convenient time. Our older home was built for cross ventilation, if only there had been a breeze. The thermostat on the sleeping floor registered 101. The emergency service was overwhelmed with other striking units throughout the city, and we decided to tough it out. We enjoyed the gifts of air conditioning during our Father’s Day celebrations at a local restaurant and movie theatre and then headed home with some trepidation to face the sticky, endless, humid night. That’s when I began to observe what I’m calling “comfort creep”. When my house was built over a century ago, air conditioning was not a thing, and furthermore, layers of modest, heavy clothing were a thing, even in the summer months, and especially for women. Complaints about the heat were not fueled by some comparison to refrigerator worthy temperatures to maintain comfort. The heat simply was something one dealt with. I, having grown accustomed to a certain degree of comfort, feel quite entitled to always be in a state of gratification. Cool in the summer, warm in the winter. And, like most modern humans, if I cannot make some adjustment to rectify my discomfort, no matter how minor, my mind begins to travel to some ugly places. What is the cost of comfort creep, I wonder? Are we less resilient, more anxious, more irritable when the conditions we live in can’t be quickly modified to serve us? How does this apply to not only my physical discomfort, but my emotional and psychological discomfort as well? How do I refrain from falling into a constant state of complaint or disappointment, or buy a first-class ticket on the “catastrophizing train”? Let me be clear. I was under no real threat. There are many throughout the country for whom the lack of adequate cooling is a life-threatening phenomenon. This is not the case for me. I was just warm. And pouty. Yet, as I observed the mind, feeling helpless in the face of even minor discomfort, I began to spin many a tale about other possible threats. I survived my toasty night. Of course. And I came out of it with a little better understanding of my own nature. Turns out, I can survive a night of sticky, poor sleep and function relatively well. Turns out that I have newfound gratitude for the ways in which my needs do get addressed, but only if I am mindful of that abundance. This is not a proud admission, knowing how many of our fellow humans are chronically doing without true necessities with little hope of respite. I cannot imagine the resilience it must take to live unhoused or without food or proper medical care, or any other of the true challenges that people face daily. Being a little hot and sticky, tossing and turning for a night on the couch is not a true crisis. It is a conditioned response for which I am trying to offer myself compassion and from which I am hoping to learn. I proposed to my family a regular sojourn into discomfort so that we can reset our expectations and remember our own fortitude. So far, no one has taken me up on this, but I’ll keep trying. Blessings on your journey, Louisa
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A funny thing seems to happen to me pretty regularly when I find myself working on a creative project. It occurs often enough that you’d think I would be prepared for it by now – but it always seems to catch me a bit off guard.
There is always this weird moment when I utterly doubt that it will come together. At all. Ever. This is generally followed by host of predictable thoughts: “I need more time” or “why did I ever think this was a good idea?” or “this time, it’s just not going to work”. When I was working in theatre, this was such a common occurrence in the mounting of a production that it was an expected part of the process. Usually, the weekend before opening, right around the time of tech, which is the big push to bring all the elements of a show together before previews, it seems downright impossible that the magic will happen on opening night. The costumes need adjustment, the set isn’t finished, the sound cues are wrong, the blocking doesn’t work with the lighting plot, the tempo of the music is off, or the actors keep blowing their lines – there is just no way it’s going to work. We all collectively teeter on the brink of what surely feels like disaster. But that is the very purpose of a technical rehearsal. Not only to focus the lights, work out the cues, or figure out where the scene changes are taking too long – but also to have it all feel a bit like it’s going to hell. That’s when the alchemy happens. After all, this is when the many parts come together and coalesce into a whole - and that synthesis will always require a bit of chaos. Wouldn’t this whole process be easier if we didn’t fear chaos so much? If we could recognize its value as the predictable and welcomed “moment before” the magic? Understand it as a necessary experience needed to allow the clouds part, the lightbulb to go off, and something much better than we expected or planned on to emerge? After all, before every moment of certainty is a moment of confusion, of not knowing, which we undervalue or label as failure. We don’t recognize that chaos and messiness are essential ingredients in the process of alchemy. How lovely would it be to have the predictable frustration of a production tech and its organized disorganization in all the other parts of our lives! “Don’t fear the chaos, move toward it – somewhere in there is the answer!” For me now, these moments happen when I’m up against a creative deadline and I just can’t find it… whatever “it” is. The whole of it, the through line, the way to the teaching just doesn’t quite fall together or feels obscured in a deep cloud of confusion. I just have no idea how to bring it all together. But I don’t have to know. I have to trust. This isn’t something you can think your way through. You have to give up control and trust the material, trust the process, trust yourself, and, most importantly, trust the chaos. That’s what brings the magic. Blessings on your journey, Louisa |
AuthorLouisa has always enjoyed writing and is thrilled that she now has a way to share her musings with a larger community of like-minded seekers. Her writing is often an extension and exploration of the struggles she faces in integrating her own spirituality, scholarly study, life experience, and nuggets of brilliance from her teachers in the hopes that it might alchemically transform itself into something approximating wisdom. Archives
October 2024
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