Defining what we (don’t) want

For whatever reason, I’ve encountered a fair amount of content recently emphasizing the importance of defining what exactly one wants and doing so very specifically.

This is not what works for me. And by this doesn’t work for me, I mean that it has, often, gotten me to exactly where I very specifically defined I wanted to be. And that end point, I’ve realized, has more often than not felt hollow. It feels like it doesn’t fit.

I think of Oscar Wilde’s quote: “There are only two tragedies in life. One is not getting what one wants. The other is getting it.”

In focusing on specifics, I’ve ended up feeling like I’ve not seeing the forest for the trees. I’ve focused so much on being in front of one specific tree that I had no grounding in experiencing the expanse of the forest and all its diversity.

What I have found does work for me? Having clarity around what I know I don’t want in a job, situation, my own leadership style or a creative engagement. That, in turn, turns me toward the vastness of opportunity. To flow, to grow and to experience, with presence, what’s in front of me. To see what I can try, where intuition takes me, what feels aligned and how I can learn and become in that moment.

Los Rápidos de Bacalar // The Bacalar Rapids, Quintana Roo, Mexico

I'm grateful to be able to feel this

Yesterday was the “celebration of life” service for my Tía Nora, who passed away from Lewy body dementia at age 74 the other week.

It was a beautiful service with speeches from my cousin, her eldest daughter, my other cousin, her niece for whom she was like a second mother, her grandson and my father, who also counted her as his best friend. I had been feeling nervous for the service, how it could open the faucet of emotions so fully, including ones I may not yet have felt and was fearful to feel.

It did elicit a multitude of emotions, and not in the way I expected. I did cry. And I was touched to see so many friends of my aunt, as well as my father—friends of our family—there, including on Zoom, in loving support. I felt a well of gratitude I’ve only touched before when friends and loved ones have shown up and met me, both literally and figuratively, in the most trying of times.

I felt strength and admiration at seeing my cousin, who oversaw my aunt’s around-the-clock care in her decline and at the end of her time, as my aunt’s only wish had been to close her life in her beloved in Guaynabo, Puerto Rico.

My cousin organized a service befitting of the beauty and spirit of my aunt, all while moving through grief that persists. Her words showed the love and appreciation they’d had for each other, the fun they’d shared and how my aunt had touched so many lives and was so beloved.

I laughed when my father shared favorite memories of his older sister and accompanying life lessons she imparted from their childhood growing up in Mexico, which my aunt had said were her happiest days. I felt the power of familial love at hearing the words of my cousin, her niece, and realizing how deeply we have cared for each other and how we have shown that, and how that has transformed our lives. And when her young teenage grandson spoke of his grandmother being there in the “best and worst moments,” I remembered, felt, what it was like to be that age, in the intensity and changes of life.

And in many moments, and even now, I feel all of these things at once. They say grief is love wearing a disguise. I think—I feel, after last night—that it wears many disguises, and comes to visit us often.

Sometimes it feels like we’re sitting on the bank of the river watching the water flow past; sometimes it feels like we’re the rushing water itself.

I’m grateful to feel this, all of this.

Pause, and recognize the moment

I’ve recently been tick-tick-ticking things off the to-do list. They’re all little line items in my day, and I’ve felt the energy, alignment and motivation to complete one after another, and another, and on.

And at the same time, they’re not these little, equal-weight things, really. Some are bits of closure that relate to choices I’ve felt unsure about for a while, for which it took time for clarity to arrive at decision. Some are the final pieces of action items related to a longer arc of a life choice that began unfurling in the back of my mind or corner of my heart months ago, even years ago.

It took a while to get here, whew! It’s all right on time—we’re always right on time—and, at the same time, there was a lot of searching, patience, conversation, reflection, change and courage involved in getting me to the point where I could complete that related task. Where it was the next step to take in a series of steps, and when it was the version of myself who was able to actually do it.

I’m sure it’s the same way for you, too.

I know from experience it can be helpful to look at a task as just a task as an antidote to overthinking, and to make it seem less insurmountable. At the same time, I’m realizing, and wanting to honor, the importance of pausing to recognize the greater moment. That one task was something a past version of me, a past version of you, didn’t do, couldn’t do, or wouldn’t do. It was a figment of the imagination, a hope for something that would happen, sometime.

So, I’m pausing to recognize the moment and say to myself, wow, good job. Wow, we did that. That took a lot (time, effort, energy, intention, avoidance, whatever!), and here we are. We’ve come far, and before we’re onto the next thing in the creation of the next updated version of ourselves, our lives, or our internal software and more, let’s just linger here a moment. Celebrate a little, celebrate a lot. Let yourself receive this moment in your life.

A related note from the stars: We’re currently in a series of astrological retrogrades, which are notorious as a time for travel mishaps and technical glitches. The invitation in these seasons is more around slowing to reflect, rather than pushing forward without pause. Whether you believe patterns in the sky can mirror energetic sentiments on Earth or not, I welcome the opportunity to bring the lens to my own life, and think there is a value in that. Not as prescriptive per se, to do or not to do; rather as a theme to explore, the same way reading a good book or watching a good movie can generate reflections on our own lives.

We can always order more fries

I spent last weekend in Marseille, the glittering multicultural port city (and the oldest city in France!) along the Côte d’Azur, where we met up with friends in town and on vacation from NYC.

We shared outdoor meals of steak and frites (bien sûre), fresh seafood grilled and sprinkled with herbs, and wine uncorked in the buttery hues of magic hour at sunset.

At one prix fixe meal at the irreverent and delicious Livingston (very much recommend; reservation also very much recommended), my friend Sophia recalled a conversation and moment so profound, it felt like it simultaneously altered our brain chemistry.

At a restaurant in Queens five or so years ago, we’d ordered a side of fries to share, eating as we talked. It got down to the last few fries and we were both hesitant, wanting and pausing, doing the little courtesy and denial dance of: Do you want it? No, no; go ahead! And on.

In a moment of quotidian brilliance, Sophia looked me in the eyes (maybe she took my hand, too; we can add that for drama!) and said, excitedly: “We can just order more fries if we want them!”

It was such a silly, sweet, obvious thing that made such a difference in that moment: Reminding ourselves we didn’t need to be scrimping like it felt was required back in our college days when we met. We had budget to do enjoyable, “extravagant” things like order the food that we wanted to eat—twice, even.

I’ve realized since that it’s those little actions of generosity we extend ourselves, whether they show up as an indulgent gourmet moment on a Saturday night with a friend or as another signal of abundance to ourselves and our systems, are what give us permission to inhabit our lives a little more fully, a little more playfully, and a little more presently.

To Sophia, and all the frites we have yet to order together

Do one less thing

My tendency to this point in life has been to “Always Be Optimizing,” (reference to Jia Tolentino’s essay of the same name), or, “over-functioning,” as is commonly described in today’s parlance. It’s something endemic to women and encouraged by society—and something that I am slowly learning to unlearn. In these slower summer days, I’ve been inviting myself to do one less thing. (“Inviting” sounds more supportive to the overall ethos of this shift, rather than “challenging.”)

I think of Coco Chanel’s mythic styling advice to always remove one accessory before leaving the house, and the idea that “less is more.” Rather than one more distracted task, rushed endeavor or push to add on, I’m pulling back, stepping back slowly, and removing a layer of effort.

It feels strange, and I know that’s my nervous system regulating, a pattern changing. I let the fullness of the moment fill the space of the empty action. What does it smell like right then? What else do I hear? How much more relaxed can I feel?

If you haven’t yet given yourself the permission or invitation out of constant function, let this be it. Do one less thing.

The degree to which I enjoy life

The degree to which I enjoy life, is the degree to which I let myself enjoy life.

I realized this recently when I was reflecting on how I experience the world so differently based on how I am feeling in my body. The events and factors are the same; it’s my perspective and relationship to the events that differs.

This isn’t physical, either, but more a felt sense. I was looking through old photographs from moments where I knew I wasn’t feeling great about how I looked, what I was wearing, etc., and I felt such compassion for that past version of me. She was in Mykonos, with some of her closest friends, wearing the cutest outfit on a sunny day by the sea, and all she could think about was how she maybe was gaining weight, how she didn’t look “right.”

And I remind myself now, even as I write this, that the only was I can “fix” or change that past situation is in the present, and by choosing to give present me more appreciation, more compassion and more ease in each moment. Because why am I not allowing myself to feel good and enjoy, a cornerstone human experience of which we are all innately deserving? How empowering, too, that it is in within my power to choose and determine that.

It won’t always be like this // It can always be like this

These two, seemingly paradoxical thoughts, I’ve found myself reminding myself of in sequence lately.

When I was running every Saturday morning with Venice Run Club, there was a neon sign on a store near the boardwalk that had this scrawled out. Or maybe it was an office; I’m not sure. It struck me how there is both a call to present appreciation—when I floated by dripping in the euphoria of “runner’s high”—and a promise of its passing, which I felt more of a promise in during painful runs (one step closer to over than before).

When I feel myself yearning to hold onto a moment, too, I invite myself to find ways to see how I can make it, in a way last or be accessible forever. What’s the essence of the experience that I could bottle up and have for any moment? And then I can find ways to recreate that in changing, present circumstances.

Most recently, it was sitting by the pool in Ibiza after a dip, lazily reading alongside lounging loved ones, relaxed, unhurried, peaceful and fully at ease. I don’t live there (yet), so it’s not an “always” situation. And, the feelings of it, giving the scene its texture, color and taste, are something I can take with me as souvenirs and recreate. Unstructured time outside, slowness, taking in the elements, appreciation and openness.

As I play around with it, I’m finding it can make life, in a way, a forever holiday of changing scenery.

An exercise in non-dominance

During the pandemic, when things felt both impossible and boring, I devised this little game to play for myself where I did things the opposite, and went through the day using my non-dominant hand. It was silly, frustrating at times, and overall, delightful.

I started drawing with my left hand, too, surprised by what resulted, and how it was often more fluid than my rigid, correct right hand. And then I’ve tried writing with my non-dominant hand, an exercise in subconscious journaling one essayist in The Book of Alchemy even recommended. Slow and steady, and see what happens. It may not look like much, and it always feels good. That side often (always) has something to say, I’ve found.

Today, my brain has felt like it’s stuck in some unhelpful loops, so I’m endeavoring to play the game again. Unscrew this lid with my left hand. Stir my coffee with the left hand, etc. It forces a slowness and awareness, and I find creates similar benefits in the way people will suggest taking a different route to work: Take our brains off autopilot and bring them into presence. Make a left instead, and our brains see a new world quite literally, because we see the world in a new way, senses heightened and details fresh.

On a yoga retreat in Mallorca, where temperatures hit 104 Fahrenheit and we had no air conditioning and felt like wet spaghetti, one of our guides encouraged us in group share to do the opposite of what we usually do. Speak up first if you always wait until last. Hold back from breaking the ice, and instead wait until the end. Because change is a choice we make in each moment, this pattern interruption I found to profound. Also probably the experience of reaching non-functioning metabolic levels under the Mallorcan sun.

There are some “opposite,” experiences in life I think are so important to have and seek out, for growth (of self) and understanding and compassion (for and of others), too. Some I had early on and were formative, like working as a diner hostess one summer and a shoe store sales attendant for a year in high school. Others, like being in the minority, I know I want to seek out more. (Travel helps!) These include:

• Being part of a non-majority group (race, ethnicity, language, culture)

• Holding a job in hospitality and/or service (I was both a diner hostess and shoe store sales attendant at points in my life

• Cultivating intergenerational friendships

There are others, too, like sensory deprivation (such as a silent meditation retreat, Vipassana) that others seek out for healing and self-improvement. Still, I think the everyday offers us so many opportunities and invitations to be a student and scientist of life, just as meaningful.

That’s a solution for later

I’ve started doing this corny thing (it’s summer; corn is in season, heh) with that phrase everyone says of: “That’s a problem for later!”

I’ve swapped “problem” with “solution,” because I’d like to take care of future me, or others, a bit more and not give her more problems. I may as well set it all up for solution.

Because everything is resolved in the end, anyway. All those perceived little problems, sorting themselves out.

Our best is always different

One of the tenets of the Toltec tradition, “spiritual warriors” indigenous to the Aztec Empire (my dear Mexico, country of my heritage!) and as passed on through Don Miguel Ruiz in The Four Agreements (10/10, or 4/4 recommend reading) is: Always do your best.

And our best is not absolute. It is not a fixed point of perfection, existing in a vacuum without condition. We are different in every moment, and it’s so important we honor that.

I’ve come to define my best in not just what I’m able to give, produce, squeeze and twist and wring out of myself at all costs. It’s about the quality in which I do something (joy, compassion, service), and how I feel as a result. How does it leave me? How are others left?

I’ve found this reminder so nurturing as I’ve tried to gently move myself away from the 24-hour expectation cycle so much society operates on. Sleep, awake, work and do, exactly the same, actually it better be better, again and again. As I’ve learned more, especially, about cycle syncing and monthly hormonal fluctuations for women (is it a coincidence's a woman’s cycle is ~28 days and so is the moon’s?) and attuned myself more to the seasons than the calendar months. What is being offered in this time? Who am I in this moment? What feels best, and is best, and how can I “do” my best?

Our “best” is always different. And that is for the best. Our best.

This is the practice

When a friend started meditating, for her, as it was for me, it was like the clouds parted. Clarity, peace, full-body ease. (Ohh, that’s the parasympathetic state.) Sparks of insight, fuller appreciation.

Almost immediately, she, like me, jumped into thinking: And how can I keep this up? How will I find the time, every day?

This, too, is the practice. Not just the sitting, closing the eyes, checking the box. It’s everything that happens around it. Being OK with not knowing; trusting a little more over planning a little less. Knowing it’s OK if it doesn’t get done, and also recognizing that you, your sensing, needs and desires, are worth prioritizing.

This, too, is the practice.

Everything you want is on the other side of fear

I’m still surprised when acquaintances, friends, anyone, will describe me as some version of: courageous, fearful, unafraid.

So many of my emotional memories from childhood are of being scared. Fearful to fall back asleep at night; fearful to stay awake. Stomach aches from anxious thoughts, wishing to shrink and disappear in so many moments, watching from the (literal) sidelines as other kids played.

And yet, that wasn’t the whole story. (It never is.) We all have our flavors, forms and shapes of bravery, and sometimes we forget that, I think. I was always ready for something new. I threw myself into hobbies and play groups, too, and I always threw my hand up in class, eager to learn, answer and share.

As my friend Dawn says, fear can be a beautiful thing. It can show us where we need to go, and where we’re meant to grow.

Fear has always been here with me, and I think because it loomed so large, I learned early on the befriend it. That I couldn’t ignore it, but I could work with it, and invite it to play.

Tara Moher talks of two types of fear from Jewish tradition and the Hebrew language: Pachad and Yirah.

Pachad is “projected or imagined fear,” the “fear whose objects are imagined.” That, in contemporary terms, is what we might think of as overreactive, irrational, lizard brain fear: the fear of horrible rejection that will destroy us or the fear that we will simply combust if we step out of our comfort zones.

There is a second Hebrew word for fear, yirah. Rabbi Lew describes yirah as “the fear that overcomes us when we suddenly find ourselves in possession of considerably more energy than we are used to, inhabiting a larger space than we are used to inhabiting. It is also the feeling we feel when we are on sacred ground. (www.taramohr.com/dealing-with-fear/my-favorite-teaching-about-fear/)

Fear, too, invites me to play. To go toward the things that scare me. It’s the flutter that’s motivated me to move countries, change careers, leave jobs, stay still, say yes, say no and enter relationships.

The quote says that everything we want is on the other side of fear. I’ve learned I never know what’s there for me, on the other side, unless I take the steps to actually go and see. From there I can choose, and we can always change, yes. And I’ve always become the better for reaching the other side.

Change is scary. It’s also exciting, full of possible impossibility and ripe with opportunity.