How to enjoy practically anything

On my bike ride this morning I was benefiting from a practice I call, “find a way to enjoy this.” It’s a great tool for getting through tasks you’d really rather not be doing at the moment. In fact, it works for practically any moment of malaise.

It’s simply this: instead of concentrating on how much your butt hurts, whether your knee is going to start aching soon, and how strong the headwind is, you tell yourself, I will find a way to enjoy this.

Most times, that’s all it takes. The complaining part of your self shuts up and the self that is open to the present moment takes over. What happens then is the annoying aspects of what you are doing cease to matter.

If you need to, you can concentrate on things about the situation that you actually like. For example, when you are working on a budget, think of how the certainty of numbers has a calming effect. Enjoy the gleam of the toilet you’ve just cleaned. Take the opportunity to bless each artifact of your existence while you dust it.

But the mantra, I will find a way to enjoy this, often works on its own and the annoyance and worry drop away without further ado.

Yesterday I was repeating it every five minutes when I was helping to work out the final round of logistics for the upcoming Congo Cloth Market at the big Mennonite USA convention in Pittsburgh next week. And then during the tedious negotiations with the designer on a cumbersome new feature on the website I’m responsible for. (I ended up talking with him about Africa.)

I must credit this mantra to my daughter, who learned it from our friend Sang, the irrepressibly joyous moving force behind the DoJo Kitchen Tai Chi and energy healing group.

And perhaps Sang learned it from St. Paul, who claimed, in words I remember from the King James Version of my childhood, “I have learned, in whatever state I am, therewith to be content.” (Philippians 4:11)

I haven’t tested this particular mantra in really hard times. But I know that it prevents daily annoyances and difficulties from festering into deeper unhappiness. And it increases one’s capacity for discipline, for doing the kind of work that may be rewarding in the long run but involves a lot of practice or tasks you’d really rather not do.

Training for a century ride or any athletic endeavor is not inherently fun. Any profession requires sacrifice, preparation, jumping through hoops, and bits and parts that too often end up on the procrastination pile.

Faced with these, the judging self (who has named the situation distasteful in the first place) turns away and sighs, woe is me, I hate this stuff. But the resolve to, instead, find a way to extract pleasure from the very same situation makes it magically happen. I stop complaining and dreading. My mood moves first into neutral territory and then I become open to pleasure.

Ahead of myself

I’ve been telling myself for some time now that I’m going to bike the Apple Cider Century on September 25, all 100 miles, with my husband and brother. But I’ve been having my doubts. I’ve been thinking I’ll never make it.

I’ve been biking pretty regularly but the weather has interrupted a lot. I don’t think it’s a good idea to ride in thunderstorms, do you? And I’ve been increasing my weekly mileage as well as my mileage per ride but only sporadically. And noticing how my body responds, which is not all that encouraging.

Last week, for example, I rode 17.3 miles on Sunday and 23.3 on Wednesday. Both felt pretty good. And then I went 20 on Saturday and felt awful. My legs protested strongly the last half of that ride.

I’ve been assuming that whatever I’m doing right now is not nearly enough to get me in shape for a century so I’m pushing myself. Finally today I looked up some century training plans and discovered that I’m doing just fine, I’m right on schedule or maybe even a bit ahead of where I need to be. And maybe I was overtraining last week.

The main difference from what I was assuming (based on what I remembered of century training 6 or 7 years ago) is that I should be taking four rides a week but only one of them has to be long. The mileage buildup is mainly on the long ride.

For example, in two weeks I should be able to take a 25-mile ride. The other three rides that week should be 10-12 miles each. No problem! Ten to twelve miles, including hills, is routine for me. Easy. Twenty-five is certainly doable if I don’t start out with achy legs.

Last week I took three longish rides. Mistake. No wonder my legs ache.

So much for trying to push myself, on the assumption that more is always better and that because I’m a little old and a little overweight I need to test my limits to be sure that I’ll be able to do this.

This happens to me sometimes. When I have a lot to do in a week my worrying mind often runs ahead of itself and skips a day. I’ll be thinking Tuesday when it’s only Monday. I get ahead of myself.

When I get ahead of myself some part of my anatomy, whether it’s my brain or my legs, goes on strike, simply lies down on the job and says, Stop! Take it easy. Less is more.

Haven’t I learned this lesson before?

Conversion

I am witnessing the miracle of spiritual conversion in some who are close to me and pondering again what that is about. I am thinking the most powerful miracle of new faith is the liberation from the prison of yourself. It takes hardship and difficulty, bumping up against your own limits, to bring you to the point where you are willing to call on the higher power because what else is there to do? And then you discover the infinite resources of Spirit.

I was raised in a strong religious tradition and never left it,  so I don’t often think about my own turning points—there have been a number; multiple conversions may happen throughout a lifetime.

When I was in college, faith seemed irrelevant on a personal level but interesting on an intellectual level. In my 20s it was background music—a frame for my years teaching as a Mennonite volunteer in Japan, my choice of husband, and our years teaching as volunteers again in Zaire.

I could not bring myself to proselytize in Japan, even to invite people to church. I didn’t see what I—or the church--had to offer to the smart, grounded friends I made there. The needier ones, the followers, were already in the church. In Zaire we were not connected closely to any church and were comfortable doing the Lord’s work in an entirely secular way, as if we were with the Peace Corps rather than the Mennonites.

It wasn’t until I was a stay-at-home mom of two young children, living in Iowa, overworked and lonely, that I experience my first real spiritual awakening. I remember the desperation of young motherhood. One day my landlady, who lived in the other half of the townhouse we rented from her, came into my kitchen and began lecturing me on the state of my floors and how to properly care for a stainless steel sink. After that I felt her critical eye on my housekeeping and child-rearing standards and the situation became unbearable. We got out as quickly as we could. We bought our first house as an escape. We didn’t even have the money for the $2,500 down payment, which we borrowed from one set of parents, I’m not sure which, or if we ever paid them back.

A friend who had done yoga for many years offered to pass on what she knew—there was no yoga studio in this small Iowa town in the 1970s. Yoga became my door into personal spirituality, my discovery that faith could be personal, sustaining, not just an intellectual exercise of assent. Yoga woke up my body and revealed the pain, the blockages. Tears and joy began to flow in equal measure. I learned that spirituality was not only, or not even mainly, or not even at all, about belief but about experience. Belief without experience was a sounding gong, a tinkling cymbal. I could actually experience the presence and power of Spirit.

Still, the church was important. It was not only about individual experience. Without the framework of a religious tradition I believe my spiritual awakening could have led me to greater individualism, back into the prison of self. Thank God for the church, a constant reminder that we are not alone, we are not on our own, it is not all up to us, and we can’t figure everything out for ourselves. It is not all up to them, either—our fellow believers, the leaders, the authorities. There is the constant conversation of Divine and human, the invitation to attention, surrender, conversion.

Do less

This is one of those days that gets darker as it advances. As the clouds thicken my intentions for the day shift down, my ambitions shrink.

I put on biking gear when I got up at 6. By the time I got a load of laundry started, which I intended to hang out to dry after I got back, the air was stilling, the trees deeper in the woods were hiding in fog. I decided to wait a bit to get out on the bike. Now, when I might have been in the middle of a 17-mile ride, I hear thunder. My change of plan is vindicated.

I didn’t want to get on the bike at all. I was feeling tired but I thought I should push myself. I’ll never be ready for a century ride if I don’t start upping my mileage. But when I saw the weather I said to myself, with guilty satisfaction, Oh well there goes that idea, and sat on the swing with a cup of coffee. Now I see that even the laundry will have to stay inside today. Lalo the cat also had early ambitions and asked to go outside. But now he paws at the porch screen door and I let him back in.

I scan the online news, ignore the wars and natural disasters, and go for the latest psychoanalyses of philandering politicians. What were they thinking, indeed. I will never understand the John Edwardses and the Anthony Weiners. Should we have compassion for them? It does seem possible that whatever makes them successful politicians also puts their good sense to sleep.

Those who charm us into electing them are often risk takers. “If you asked one of these guys ‘What are the chances of you getting caught?’ you would see an underestimation of the risks,” one psychologist says. “And the severity of the consequences is underestimated.” Women, on the other hand, “tend to focus on the potential harm of the consequences.”

This morning I was being cautious, thinking about the potential consequences of getting caught in a thunderstorm. I don’t mind pulling back, tucking in my ambitions, exercising caution. I don’t mind doing less, achieving less, giving up on my plans. And I am simply incapable of engaging in the kind of risky behavior that gets these guys into trouble. That does not make me better, just different.

I have a dream image from last night: two huge animals, big as a house, loom in front of me.  They are identified as elk. I know they will not harm those who are in their presence though they could easily trample us.

I look up Elk animal medicine. Elk counsels building stamina and strength, pacing yourself so you don’t burn out. Elk counsels the importance of community, not doing everything yourself.

Perfect instructions for today. I will not push myself. I will sit awhile longer on the darkening porch, listening to the approaching thunder.

A game of dreams

Sometimes on these dream weekends the dreams of many become one dream. Here, for example, are the dreams of Day 2 of last weekend’s dream retreat, in the order they were reported. We had been talking the evening before about family patterns and relationships, children, and the young, vulnerable parts of ourselves.

Dreamer 1: I was playing a game with someone, jumping pegs that were black on the outside with green or teal translucent cores.

Dreamer 2: A member of Dreamer 1’s household was in this dream. There was lots of chatter. I was cutting long carrot and celery sticks in half, making them edible. A phrase: “Single life? Double life?”

Dreamer 3: We are at a store. My daughter, who may also be Dreamer 2’s daughter, plays a game by hiding green leather slippers we intend to buy by a sidewalk. Where are they? She says, “They are next to the 5,” referring to a hopscotch game drawn on the sidewalk.

Dreamer 4: All of us were watching games—there was a crowd. I am protecting my child on my lap. A man on my right has his hand on my leg. I think if anything else happens I must do something. We go to a store to get something but I stay with the child. An energy spirit comes to take the child. I scream for help, then body tackle the spirit, which turns into human form with 4 arms. I have no handcuffs so I tie the arms to each other. In another dream I am protecting children by pools. I hear English being spoken in this foreign land. I have to decide how to act. I must be polite though I am uncomfortable with the English speakers’ presence.

Dreamer 5: I was with schoolkids in a big office building. One student went to look for something and didn’t come back and I went to look for the student. I entered an elevator the size of a room, where people were working. I went down with them.

Dreamer 6: I woke with two phrases from the movie The King’s Speech in my head: 1) “I have a voice.” (spoken authoritatively)  2. “P-p-p-positively medieval, Bertie” (mockingly spoken to the stuttering future king, referring to the younger brother kicking the older one off the throne. At this point Bertie lapses into stuttering again.)

These dreams had particular meanings for the individual dreamers but when we looked at them together they spoke to all of us as one dream, with these themes and messages:

1)   Life involves playing games, that is, following patterns and rules established in families and society or by individuals or family members. Whether they are helpful, playful, or destructive, it is important to be aware of them, recognize them.

2)   Protect the children, the young ones around us and the ones we carry within us all our lives. Be aware, too, of the games these children play in the family and the way they set family patterns.

3)   Find your voice. Do not let a voice be silenced by mocking—which is also a game.

Summer time-suckers

It is just past 10 and I have already done 2 loads of wash and hung them out to dry, biked 11 miles, eaten breakfast, reconfigured the pickup arrangements for our CSA through phone and emails, and sat and thought about what I shall do today. This is a frontloaded day. Summer is a good time for frontloading. Cool, sunny mornings should not be wasted abed.

I guess I am a morning person although you wouldn’t know it by my winter habits. Put it this way: I like to wake and sleep by the sun. I haven’t used an alarm for years. In the summer getting up at 6 or 6 30 seems natural.

I don’t accomplish more in the summer. It is just that summer encourages the kind of activities that take more time, whereas winter activities are concentrated. Biking and lake swimming require more time than a 30-minute intense workout on a machine at the Y. Entertaining spreads out onto the porch and patio and into the later, still-light hours.

Growing and gathering food or buying from the farmstands, washing and preparing it, preserving it, take up hours and hours, more than a quick trip to the supermarket. Add driving time when the farm where you and your friends are getting produce is 60 miles away and you are delivering for the community. Add still more time for leisurely conversation when the farmer is Amish. My mother used to call this “chinning”—the kind of joking, gossipy, friendly exchange that requires a very relaxed attitude toward time.

But the most important, time-consuming summer “activity” of all is no activity at all. Sitting on the porch swing, thinking about whether it is time to take the hose to the cottonwood fuzz that is collecting on the screens. Having a glass of wine with your sweetie, watching the birds and the trees.

Oh. I guess I have to get some head work done today, too. On to that.

And then I will spray down the porch (which I can ignore in the winter), clean the house of the summer dust and spiderwebs, do the leisurely yoga class, and go to bed early so I can find time for all those wonderful, time-sucking summer requirements again tomorrow.

Planes, trains, or automobiles?

My brother says one shouldn’t complain about air travel, one should just drive instead. It’s less hassle and uses less fuel per person. He may be right but I’m not about to tell him so. In any case, when it comes to getting halfway across the country, we’ve gotten too accustomed to the speed of flying to go back to driving. Besides, driving exhausts me even more than flying.

My favorite means of transport for the trip to my daughter’s house, 150 miles away, is the train. I am on the train right now. I am writing. Later I will read and compose email messages that I will send later. I don’t have Internet access because I don’t have one of those awful little I-gadgets that compel you to do everything in miniature--impossible for aging eyes.

But I have a nice seat, a nice view, and the ability to multitask. My carbon emissions are way low. My ticket was cheap. What more could I want?

One thing: dependability. The train is like the rhyme my father used to tease me with:

There was a little girl

Who had a little curl

Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good

She was very, very good

But when she was bad

She was horrid.

When trains are good they are very, very good. Good is clean, cool (or warm), and on time.

This one came into my station (which is just 20 minutes from my house) only 10 minutes late. A good sign. But as I began writing it stopped dead in the middle of the cornfields. Bad.

Fortunately, within a few minutes the oncoming train we were waiting for slammed past. We’re on our way again. We may get to my destination nearly on time. Or not.

The usual delay is about 45 minutes for what is supposed to be a 2 hour 50 minute trip. That’s bad but not, I suppose, horrid. Horrid is when the three-hour trip took five-and-a-half hours.

Once my daughter and her infant boarded an evening train in midwinter that came into the station two hours late and was delayed another hour during the journey. Three-hour trip took six.

The moral lesson for Amtrak is the same as what we teach our kids: practice dependability. If trains were reasonably on time many more people would gladly convert to train travel, especially as gas prices rise. Yes the tracks are bad and there’s no money to fix them and the networks are too skimpy—it’s hard to get where you want to go. But as trust builds, so would usage, and with usage, funds and support.

Imagine trains that would carry you halfway across the country in the time it takes to drive, while you kick back and relax. Amtrak schedules say that is possible. In actuality, it never happens.

Meanwhile, on the outskirts of Kalamazoo, we’ve stopped again.

***

Later. (Sigh.) The trip tied my previous record—two-and-a-half hours late. The signaling system went out and we crept along at 15 mph for an eternity. No excuse. Horrid.