I’ve been going through something big with one of my kids. So big, that it occasioned a parent wellness weekend. Though born in Marin County, where words like “wellness” flow like water, I don’t much buy into that hippie shit. Maybe because I’ve done so much therapy, so much yoga, so many cleanses, so much self-care, that the language of that world is sometimes a turn-off. What’s that saying, “Live in Northern California once, but leave before you get too soft”? Yeah, well, I’m soft as a baby’s bottom but sometimes I feel the need to fight the stereotype.
Anyway, dragging my heels, I went to wellness weekend. It ended up being, don’t be shocked, transformative. The meditation, the yoga, the tri-fold breath, the mindfulness, it was all quite beautiful. And it got me closer to my feelings than I’ve been this year. I’ve got some grief lurking. The kid in question is alive and fairly well but my children are where I live. If they hurt, I hurt. And when the train goes off the rails, I should really take a minute to mourn the original destination. Hard to mourn, hard to feel, when you’re problem-solving, when you’re panicked, when you’re terrified. Hello, wellness weekend!
One of the exercises that weekend was constructing a personal wellness plan. I’m the only one of my neighbors not to have one, I’m sure. I was asked to pinpoint what gives me joy - sure, easy, so many things give me joy. The next step was to build a plan around those things - to make sure I actually do them.
On my list: see live music, dance, sing, publish here - all at least once a month, see friends socially weekly, read fiction daily, exercise in one form or another, drink at least two quarts of water, eat six servings of vegetables daily. So here’s what’s cool: all those things happen already. Also on the list (close your ears, kids, though guess what, here’s news, Mom is a human being), sex. That was also happening but then I went and cut ties with my distributor. And I’m probably going to wait to do that again until I’m really crushed out (another form of self-care - love AND sex, such a concept). A reach: only one alcoholic beverage per night if I’m on my own (two is my preference). And, find a time and place to cry - ideally once a week. This last one has not yet happened. I’m such a good crier, too. Like Holly Hunter in “Broadcast News”, sobbing on cue to clear the emotional system. I’ve got to make a plan to put on a sad movie and go for it but sometimes it feels safer to sit in numbness (I’m fighting the novocaine, I promise).
All this is, of course, self-love, something I don’t feel particularly adept at. I’m great at beating up on myself (what, you, too?), self-criticism, even self-loathing on occasion. But I’m a concrete girl, a utilitarian. Given a plan, boxes to check, I’m all over it. I’m terrific with lists.
There is power in writing things down. Particularly wishes or dreams or plans. It can help them manifest (another Marin word). Although I was doing those things above, I’m now more conscious of making sure they happen with frequency. And every time I do them, I know I’m caring for myself. And caring for myself, connecting with myself, makes me feel more connected with those around me, with the natural world, with whatever spirit in which I believe.
It’s too late for me, friends, I’m so soft I’m melting.
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