On Saturday my mom was telling me a story about something upsetting that happened. She was still feeling unsettled and I immediately did the thing to her that I get so mad at her for doing to me.

Luckily I only did it in my head. I’ve been playing with this particular pattern, so I caught myself before letting the words tumble out.

In my head, I had been thinking: Well, at least since that upsetting thing happened last night, it probably won’t happen again this weekend and so you won’t have to worry about it. i.e. I know you’re feeling really raw and emotional and scared, but just stop. Because… check out this shiny new perspective and cheer up! Yayyy!

I know exactly how unhelpful this is because of how annoyed I get when someone tries to bright-side my own suffering.

You know, when you’re really upset about something and someone says “Well, at least–” And then some variation of “…check out the rainbow following this storm, blahblahblah.” Spare me.

But the worse thing, the thing that causes me much more struggling and stuck, is the way I do this to myself. Because then it’s basically unconscious, and the effect is that instead of acknowledging the pain of a situation, I hightail myself away from experiencing the here and now, skipping ahead to some future positive reframe.

Having a positive outlook usually sounds like a good thing. And I doubt I’d trade mine in for gloom and doom.

I can only imagine how useful this perspective would be to my grandmother coming of age during the depression and losing loved ones in world wars. And then later raising six kids on a shoestring. And then losing my grandfather much too soon. And and and. And life provides plenty of occasions where resilience is adaptive.

And there can be a shadow.

Like when optimism is really just disguised avoidance. When I unconsciously force a positive outlook on myself at the wrong stage of the self-work process, it’s more like frosting over… well, something that one generally doesn’t frost.

Because I skip the step of acknowledging my own suffering, the negative emotion goes unprocessed and gunks up my system. It’s me trying to skip the step of meeting myself where I am. The more I work on my stuff, the more I recognize this as THE pivotal step.

A few weeks before this conversation with my mom, I’d had an epiphany. I was feeling really frustrated with my own rainbow-spouting optimism, and suddenly I saw so clearly how, when it comes to this pattern, I am my mother’s daughter and she is her mother’s daughter.

We are a family of bright-siders.

And once I spotted the pattern, I immediately started wondering about how I could play with it. And then I immediately started playing with it by considering the benefits of this particular pattern.

Like that resilience. My grandmother is so beautifully resilient. And I’ve always appreciated inheriting that quality, finding it in myself.

SCREEEEEEEEEEECH. (Sound of wheels halting inside my head.) Wait. The benefits?! Did I really leap that quickly into bright-siding myself again? Yes. I did. It’s a pattern.

But then I actually started laughing.

Later on in the conversation with my mom, I shared with her where my (sick?) mind had gone when she was telling me her story. And when I told her the story of my recent epiphany, we laughed so hard together. Probably because we are bright-siders. Good to know.

This morning I was thinking that it’s been a year since I moved into my sweet, little, ramshackle beach place. (Emphasis on the shack.)

And about how scared I was to sign the lease. And about how, before I even let myself go look for a place, I decided I needed a steadier freelance gig and immediately went out and got myself one. (Funny how things show up when you’re absolutely resolute.)

The day I got the gig, I drove down to this neighborhood, found my place, and the next day I signed the lease.

A month later, I wanted out of the gig. Four months later, I quit.

Turned out, I didn’t really need the gig.

Not anymore.

This pattern is awfully familiar. It reminds me of a post that I’m always wanting to link to, except I haven’t written it yet. It’s about how I left my my corporate career — I thought I needed a plan, a foolproof one. Heh.

Once I had just such a plan, I left. Once I left, I scrapped the plan.

What I’m taking from all this…

I could try to pretend that making changes doesn’t scare me. I could try to convince myself that I don’t need security or stability.

It wouldn’t be true, though. Trying to squash the fear wouldn’t make it any easier to make that leap. The squash feels more like quicksand, pushing forward and then being sucked back. And the change I want just looms on the horizon, always the same distance away. Far.

What if I could take the pressure off of finding a permanent fix? What if instead, when I’m craving a change, I could give myself permission to set up a little scaffolding? Just enough to feel safe enough.

Having that support could actually make leaping possible. Also more fun. And more immediate.

But now that I’m aware of this pattern, will I still mistake the scaffolding for the permanent fix? I wonder if I’ll remember, even as I’m putting it up, that it might come right back down again.

It’s no secret: I love Shiva Nata. But no matter, I had been evading all of its charms. No practice for me.

I was still using Shiva Nata concepts to have epiphanies like crazy, but I sidelined my physical practice. I got spooked.

Back story: A couple of years ago I started getting aural migraines. First a swirly ball of doom commandeers my vision and then becomes a pounding headache. I don’t get them very often, but it freaks me out every time.

Back to present: Sometimes the brain buzzy sensation that comes after Shiva Nata would remind me of that migraine aura, and the reminder would spark the anxiety the aura brings with it.

Part of me knew that Shiva Nata wasn’t going to cause a migraine. But it didn’t really matter–I was willing to give it up in order to avoid being reminded of that panicky sense of losing control.

Which reminded me…

A few years ago I read this really useful article by Martha Beck. (So useful that I spent forever digging up to share with you. She writes about neural connections and everything! Read it.)

The idea is that sometimes we put a lot of energy into avoiding stuff that reminds us of something else. And then we have to start avoiding the stuff that reminds of the new stuff we’re avoiding.

Avoid and avoid until, little by little, the world we’re willing to experience is sadly small.

Turning away from pain isn’t necessarily bad. But in this case we’re not really healing that pain because we’re too busy building a tower of new things we have to avoid because they remind us of the pain.

Comforting reminders

My friend K used to get migraines. She once told me that she hated making the drive between our two hometowns just before sunset because the angle of the sun through tall pine trees would create this rapid shadow! light! shadow! light! disco ball effect, reminding her of the start of a migraine.

Open mini-blinds have the same effect on me. So, Shiva Nata and open mini-blinds remind me of a migraine, which is scary.

But they also remind me that the shadow cast by pine trees at sunset reminded K of migraines, too. And this reminder is such a relief: Oh, this isn’t a migraine. This is just reminding me of one, like pine trees reminded K. Phew!

Not that I’m leaping into the scary.

At all! Like right now, I’m sitting in a cafe. A slice of sunlight was slapped up across my computer screen, making me crazy. So I closed the blinds.

And after a few weeks of avoiding Shiva Nata, I intentionally waited until Rally to practice. I knew I would be safe there, surrounded by kind, supportive people + Head Shivanaut : )

I was right. Waiting was a good move, and it felt amazing to get back into the swing of the dance.

But now, all of this has me wondering where else I’ve turned away from perfectly lovely things, because they remind me of old things that are.. less lovely.

I made friends with the tamale guy at the farmers’ market last Saturday. This is embarrassingly huge for me. Not making a friend so much – more to do with how it happened.

I was waiting for someone who was standing in the world’s slowest line. (With the world’s oldest, sweetest farmer.) So I busied myself looking through tamale flavors at the stand across the way.

After muttering a cold, inaudible greeting when I first walked up, the guy was pretty much ignoring me. He probably assumed I was just another sample-scarfing stop-and-run, which I very nearly was.

But then I noticed one of the tamale packages was marked Tinga. I’ve only had something called Tinga once before – on special at Mijita in the San Francisco ferry building. It was amazing. And then they never had it again.

(San Francisco locals & visitors: Get thee to Mijita, please.)

Well I got so excited at the sight of a Tinga tamale that it thwarted my usual know-it-all tendencies. (My pervasive hesitation to show ignorance about something. Really about anything at all.)

And when I asked about the Tinga, the tamale guy got super animated – he explained the traditional dish to me, and then proceeded to school me in the best way to prepare that particular tamale.

(Steamed, then lightly pan fried in olive oil, and stirred into scrambled eggs for extra oomph.)

We laughed and bonded, I bought some tamales, and we bid farewell like friends. That interaction (and the tamales) pretty much made this particular farmers’ market experience.

And without my question about the Tinga, I would have missed out. For sure. And by no fault of his. (See sample-scarfers above.)

No — I’m usually the problem. Because I am not a good question-asker. I am a very good know-it-all.

I have some issues with being vulnerable. Or knowledge-vulnerable? What do you call the habit of never wanting to appear as if you don’t have all of the answers? Beginners-mind averse? I like what Martha Beck calls it: The Kindergarten Complex. I’ve got it.

In my work life, after plenty of experience fumbling around and spinning my wheels, I’ve pretty well learned to ask questions as soon as they arise.

But if I walk into a new coffee shop, I have an overwhelming need to pretend like I already know the protocol. Yes, it’s weird.

And this defense mechanism would be funny if it weren’t so counterproductive. I’m not sure what I’m try to protect (ahem, ego?), but it doesn’t exactly endear me to friends and family. Or strangers.

If I pretend I already know how to make tamales, there are a few obvious consequences: I miss out on the connection with the tamale guy, and my tamales come out dry and blah. But it has me wondering about how it extends to other, more subjective, situations.

Like: What about pretending (to myself) to know that I won’t be good at something before I ever try it? Or that someone doesn’t like me, without ever being the one to wear my heart on my sleeve?

It just can’t end well. Maybe I’ll try to play with this pattern in some easy, low-risk ways. Like asking more questions at the farmers’ market tomorrow.

Does anyone else do this? Pretend to know your way around a coffee shop?

I read Daniel Coyle’s The Talent Code the first week of 2010, and I still think about the premise at least, oh, every single day. Hands down the most influential businessey read of my year.

Not to build it up or anything.

Premise: Remarkable talent is possible for all of us. That means you. And me. Seriously. Genius isn’t native or innate, but instead within our reach. We can develop talent through deep practice.

Deep practice is a specific way of engagement — a method of concentration and effort in which you’re intensely focused on doing something as perfectly as possible in order to create pathways in your brain that favor exquisitely crafted skill, and eventually grow talent.

Of course it’s inspiring to learn that, if we’re willing to put in time and effort, it’s possible to become incredibly talented at something that we’re passionate about.

But more important for my own spark of inspiration is the knowledge that deep practice involves dwelling at your edge. Attaining mastery requires concentrating intently on your mistakes in order to adjust course. Focusing on flaws is (for me at least) almost always inherently uncomfortable.

And that’s okay. The mistakes and accompanying discomfort are expected and required.

My perfectionistic self finds so much freedom in this understanding. What a lovely offering of permission — to really and truly bomb, fail, and suck throughout the creative process.

I think of all those writers who find the experience of writing to be excruciating, but still can’t stop themselves. That stinging discomfort mingled with satisfaction sings of deep practice.

And Coyle clearly illuminates this highly technical, biological process of talent acquisition without oversimplifying or sacrificing meaning. For example, by the end of the book you’re able to make sense of this oft-repeated phrase as if you were fluent in neuroscience-speak:

Skill is insulation (myelin) that wraps neural circuits and grows according to certain signals.

And, you will be psyched to get your myelin wrapping circuits like a Christmas-present-wrapping Elf on speed.

(As a Shiva Nata junkie, my mouth waters at all this talk of neural circuitry, at discovering further proof that our patterns are generously flexible, and the implications for changing habits.)

Coyle describes concrete, actionable steps in the acquisition of talent, and the conditions that allow greatness to thrive in talent hotbeds like Brazil for soccer players and Renaissance Italy for painters.

And he explains the process of ignition – how we’re sparked by motivation that makes us so hungry to master a skill that we’re willing to subject ourselves to this occasionally awkward deep practice.

And woven throughout the book are compelling stories of toil and triumph so inherently motivational that there’s no need for excess sentimentality – Coyle inspires without becoming gushy or annoying.

This book honestly makes you want to go out and suck at something. Something that, more than anything, you’re desperate to master.

Then, last night, I read this bit from Julia Child’s My Life In France, of her experience learning to cook:

Of course, I made many boo-boos. At first this broke my heart, but then I came to understand that learning how to fix one’s mistakes, or live with them, was an important part of becoming a cook. I was beginning to feel la cuisine bourgeoise in my hands, my stomach, my soul.

Spoken like a revelation: Deep practice, all the way.

Have you read anything fantastic lately? What can I add to my towering stack of books?

I ate a chocolate croissant on Sunday. I’ve been wanting one for a month, since seeing “It’s Complicated” on Valentines Day. Watching Meryl Streep & Steve Martin bake and delight in a batch of chocolate croissants in that sweet Santa Barbara bakery planted a seed that was bound to grow.

Not that I’ve been resisting having one, or denying myself the pleasure since then. I just haven’t spent the time or energy to fit the chocolate croissant into my life. Today I happened to be hungry and near one of my favorite bakeries at the same time, and the puzzle pieces fit together just right.

It was deliciously buttery and flakey and about the size of my head. It was actually so chocolatey that I had to scoop out some of the center and leave it aside, knowing it would make me sick to eat it all.

So I savored the treat, and at the same time I was aware of some angsty guilt and foggy thoughts about all of the (refined sugar and flour?! eek!) reasons why I really shouldn’t be eating it.

Sometimes I have to go ahead and do it anyway. In fact, I had a hunch I would feel uncomfortable. And being all judgey about a simple croissant is one of the reasons I chose to indulge.

My eating has been pretty clean lately, and for me there is such a thing as too clean. Because, you know, I can make broccoli an unhealthy decision. Too clean can carve a rut every bit as formidable and controlling as overindulgence can feel reckless and out of control.

My judgmental thoughts and free-floating guilt are leftover from old, painful patterns. They still like to say hello, but they’re transparent and flimsy, they’ve lost their impressive sheen. Which means that they no longer control my next move.

I guess I’m not as impressed because now I believe that I’m allowed to eat a chocolate croissant.

I still wonder why I sometimes need to consciously choose to make myself eat the croissant.

I think it’s about reminding myself that I am allowed. And remembering that although chocolate croissants taste delicious, they are only a slice of the sweetness available in any moment.

Butter and chocolate are yummy. But when you deny yourself something, the buildup is extreme and sensational. And the fantasy represents more than a simple pastry could ever deliver.

I’m also going on location next week for a production shoot. Which means catering and craft services instead of green smoothies and veggie salads. Basically, very little control and plentiful junk.

I used to set up so many conditions to feel safe and empowered around food. And then panic at the idea of having less control over my options. Eating a chocolate croissant now is a way to remind myself that balance is safe, and that taking the middle way is sustainable and nourishing.

So yeah, I’m structure-resistant. And it’s not just about that pendulum swing of rigid productivity versus slacker rebellion. I think it also has to do with thinking I shouldn’t need help.

Because I want to be one of those people who is perpetually mindful and productive. And since I think I should already be there, I’m not allowed to ask for directions on how to get there. Not a helpful cycle.

So instead, maybe I can be someone who creates a safety net, like a sailboat, while I am mindful and grounded. Something I can turn to when I’m scrambling around all bijigetty and overwhelmed.

Instead of Structure: The rigid plan required to keep my attention-challenged inner slacker in line, I’m trying to build A structure, like a container. One that can hold space for the things that are important to me. And one that can remind me what those essential things are.

Because even when I’m doing something I’ve decided is important, I pretty much always have some nebulous sense that I should be doing something else. Some whispy guilt hanging around regardless of which action I choose.

Like, I know my day goes so much better when most of my morning is spent doing things that don’t look much like work. Things like journaling and Dance of Shiva and meditating and hiking.

Everything flows so much better from there. Stuff gets done. Things jive happily. Except…

Ozzie. Scary, right?

It doesn’t stop Lizard Brain Ozzie from unleashing a cacophony of frantic shrieking:

What do you think this is, Leisure World? We have a LOT to do. Hiking doesn’t pay the bills or save the world, you know. Sheesh.

(Once he got a load of how hilarious I found the coolest puppet on Earth Kelly’s assistant, Ozzie demanded his online debut. Not to be laughed at… No, no, no. To terrify all of you.)

Anyway, this vague, wispy, annoying sense of guilt is so counterproductive. And so widespread.

I know a guy who wants to spend more time reading. So he lets issues of The New Yorker and Atlantic pile up around his house. And, as a guiltifying reminder, actually carries heavy stacks along on his commute. To encourage himself to spend more time doing something he already wants to do.

There’s got to be a better way.

I think for me, it means stepping back and building my structure from way up high. While I’m centered and thinking clearly and have the perspective to say “this, this is important.”

And when Ozzie freaks out and yells: You shouldn’t be blogging, you should be working! You shouldn’t be hiking, you should be blogging! I can ban him from the bakery offer him a cookie.

And then maybe I can turn to the mindful part of me (the one who built the sailboat/bakery) for directions. Hmmm. Any ideas? Do you ever think you “should” be doing something else, even when you’re doing something that seems perfectly “legitimate”? How do you deal?

Even if you’re prone to seasickness. Or, erm, emphatically structure-resistant like me.

Maybe I should back up, yes?

One of my prevalent life-sized patterns is to swing wildly from one end of a pendulum to another. Back when the main hitch in my giddyup was food and body-related, it looked like this:

Deprive self of favorite treat. White-knuckle it. Watch “helplessly” while grand mal gorge ensues.

And repeat. Ad nauseam. (Oh, and quite literally, add nausea.)

So when I left my corporate career, the one where I tracked my billable time in six minute increments, I abhorred the idea of enforcing a rigid structure to my work schedule.

In some wildly illogical diva moment, I decided I couldn’t be creative on demand. I needed boundless space and freedom to allow inspiration to strike. (Cue laughter. I know, Twyla, I know. I’ve seen the light. I’m getting to that part.)

Plus, I was still carrying some issues with the whole concept of productivity. Because when you’re doing work you don’t enjoy, ramping up your productivity just means doing more of it. Gag.

But then! When you start doing work that jazzes you up with energy and enthusiasm, there is so much you want to do! You wonder if maybe there’s something to this time-management brouhaha.

Because the lack of structure wasn’t really doing it for me. I had a swirling sense of time passing without anything concrete to show for it. Not to mention a swirling task list where Urgent, Trivial, and Important things got all tangled up until I couldn’t tell them apart. Recipe for dissatisfaction.

And that’s where having a sailboat is coming to my rescue. A wha?? A sailboat: A gentle, flexible structure to my day. Actually, Eileen’s time-management plan is a sailboat. My business is a bakery*.

(Cryptic much? Sorry. *Adds to list of eight jillion things to blog about in order to link to in order to blog about other stuff.*)

I’m happily discovering that creating structure is the exact thing that gives me freedom to create. Ah, darling paradox. And it’s not that I always follow the schedule perfectly. At all. But that’s okay.

Because while I’m immersed in some kind of flailing procrastination (check-check-checking perhaps) I know that I’m not doing something else. And, even better, I know what that something else is.

And, this is the important part, I know which activities I deemed essential back when I decided to craft this recipe for productivity in the first place. Ahhh, satisfaction.

Okay, more on this sailing, baking, producing stuff next time. Are you a structure lover or rebel?

I went hiking one morning last week after rain had left the canyon slippery and sludgey with mud. After ten steps, my tennies were caked and heavy and I was sliding and clomping. Um, anti-graceful.

And I had this fleeting thought that it was ridiculous to be hiking. Like I was doing something wrong. Guilt attack. Apparently I was going to somehow break nature or something by walking in the mud.

I’m familiar with this (little) girl in trouble gig. And since I’m playing with the idea that every little thought yanking at my attention isn’t unconditionally true, I wondered what this one was all about.

Because really, Monkey Mind? Break nature?

And what eased the wave of guilt was to play this thought all the way out. What if I had stayed home because of the mud? Then what would I be telling myself?

I’m pretty sure that if I had stayed home, the tune would sound more like:
What a baby. A little mud? Good one. Pathetic excuse for your laziness. Please.

Lovely. So the Guilt Monger will fight either side. And realizing that I can’t dissolve the guilt by choosing to act differently is counterintuitively freeing.

Fine, guilt. If you’re going to hang around either way, might as well do what I want.

So I went on another hike this morning, again after heavy rain. (Dear Divine Meteorologist, I live in Southern California for one very sunny reason. Thank you.)

Anyway, three minutes in, my foot sunk so deep you could hear slurping as I yanked it out of the hole, muddy to my ankle. Gross. And so funny. Funny because, again, not so graceful. But also because I had already out-philosophized some of that guilt.

So I feel guity when I hike in the mud. Dirty shoes and fragile nature. I feel guilty when I use mud as an excuse to skip my hike. And then noticing both dissolves the guilt so that I get to laugh.

Do you ever notice this teeter-tottering? Does it help you ignore the irrational resistance?

Yeah, this is about changing my coffee drinking habits. But of course it’s kind of about everything.

Okay, so this habit changing stuff is hard. Also exciting, interesting, confusing, enlightening. At least if you’re doing it somewhat consciously. At moments I’m actually have fun with the process. Fun! I know, I’m weird. Seriously. And then, of course, other moments are chock-full of resistance.

Let’s let the resistance play its record first. The songs go something like:

Oh, here we go again. Depriving yourself of everything you love. We know how this one will end: Coffee in the morning, coffee in the evening, coffee sprinkling down like rain. Gooooo Coffee!

Then there was the day in the coffee shop that the lady in front of me ordered a 6 shot americano. To which my mind* said: See? We really aren’t that bad. Let’s treat ourselves to a triple, shall we?

(*The irrational part of my mind who loves to make excuses 6 ways from Sunday. The part I’m giggling at. And (stumblingly) learning to take lightly. If 6 shot americanos are your thing, rock on.)

Next up: Well if you’re going to do it, then get it right. Just give it up, and get it over with. Go big or go home. If you have so much as one sip, you totally suck. (You suck anyway.) All or nothing, sister.

Sister? Yeah, when that All Or Nothing tune starts playing, I notice that I kind of forget about the reasons I want to ease off the caffeine in the first place. The lack of sleep, the jumbleyness of my thoughts, the trouble focusing on creative tasks.

Suddenly, giving up coffee becomes something I get consumed with excelling at. Let’s achieve decaffeination! Recipe for disaster that culminates in flogging myself for every single stolen sip.

Then there’s this funny part of me that feels like I’m faking any withdrawal symptoms, dramatizing the whole thing. It goes something like: Okay, I know science says that coffee is a stimulant. But really. Get over yourself. This whole “I’m tired” thing is complete bull. Suck it up, get to work.

So there are all of these old interwoven patterns of belief and behavior wrapped up in this seemingly simple coffee habit. The enlightening part is noticing all of it, without necessarily believing every song the resistance sings.

I’m just trying to be curious: Oh, so that’s where I tripped myself up every single other time. Huh.

And then. And then! There are all of this incredible perks of changing a habit. Little bonus changes and shifts that snowball and lead to those invigorating aha moments I’m constantly coveting.

For example, by 4 pm yesterday, I felt like I was swimming through cotton. (So, you know, please excuse the spelling errors and overall rambleyness.) I responded to some e-mail, tried to read a bit.

Finally I set my work aside and decided to go for a hike in the canyon behind my house, hoping that maybe some fresh air would help me relocate some of my own natural energy. (Apparently there is such a thing: Being powered by sunshine and nutrients and all that. So they say.)

And, wow. All of the rain we’ve been having decorated the hills with lush, soft, baby green grass and little purple flowers. I had no idea. I’d been so hopped up in my highly caffeinated afternoon activity frenzy, I hadn’t even noticed.