Mind Over Monkey

Awww

1956, my birth year, was a Year of the Monkey on the Chinese Lunar calendar. I was reading predictions for the coming year for my “sign” and honestly, I’m in for a rough ride. Apparently this is not a big year for earning money (great. I’m retiring from church in May.) I also am prone to injury in 2022 and should (and I quote) “stay out of forests.” As is my custom when reading such forecasts, I shrugged and muttered, “What do they know?” even as I've frantically redoubled my efforts to sell my writing, and taken extra care when passing trees. 

I always loved monkeys—or rather, my mistaken ideas about them. I’d ooh and ahh over adorable photos of tiny capuchin monkeys, with those big sad eyes reminiscent of a Sarah MacLachlan commercial. I’d laugh at the antics of chimps on TV and in movies (mischievous but affectionate). As a child, I daydreamed about owning one, a precious little thing draped over my shoulders. But it remained a dream, along with my occasional fantasy of owning a horse (inspired completely by reading National Velvet). Pets of any kind were out of the question at Cunninghams’, at least until we were old enough to take on their care entirely (it was all Mom and Dad could do to keep three small HUMANS fed and watered). 

I have since learned that most monkeys are biters with nasty tempers, and make very poor pets. I was so disillusioned!  I mean, I too have a temper (though I rarely bite), but I was hoping my spirit animal was, you know, otherwise sweet and lovely. 

In meditation, which believe it or not I have attempted on many occasions, there is something called “monkey mind.” It refers to those pesky, random thoughts that rocket around inside your brain, distracting you from serenity and peace. My monkey mind is so bad that I can actually hear my mental diversions as high pitched shrieks, like the ones that make a trip through the primate house at the zoo such a uniquely painful experience. 

This week, Thich Nhat Hanh, the wonderful Vietnamese Buddhist monk and writer, moved on from earth at age 95 (Thay was not much for talking about “birth” and “death”). He was a huge advocate for interfaith understanding (my favorite book of his, Living Buddha, Living Christ, lovingly and gracefully pointed to the similarities between these holy men he revered). He founded a monastery and retreat center, Plum Village, in France, that has long been on my bucket list to visit. The essence of Thay was (is) mindfulness, the art of truly being in the present moment, not stressing about past or future. 

Our current state of affairs in this world makes living mindfully more of a challenge than ever. I mean, who wants to live in THIS moment, when the past seems comparatively rosy and the future possibly promising? But, in honor of Thay, I’m trying. 

You hear that, monkey mind? Pipe down!

Pod Person

Vocab Word of the Day: Pod

Pod is one of those words that sounds wrong if you say it out loud it several times in a row. Try it. I’ll wait. Right?

But there’s more to those three little letters than THAT. Grasshoppers hatch from pods. Peas come in pods (not the same pods of course). There is a kitsch classic movie from the early 1980s, The Pod People. By most accounts it is howlingly dreadful, veering into the “so bad it’s good” territory. Maybe one of these years I’ll watch it, after I’ve gotten through the 10,000-film back log of movies I actually am interested in seeing. 

During the past few years, “pod” (along with “bubble”) has been used to describe a small group of people it is considered safe to be with during a pandemic. My pod includes my immediate family and a few vaccinated-and-boostered friends. “Pod” also refers to a group of whales. Now that I think about it, I became rather more whale-like as I sheltered in place, with that place’s easy access to snacks. 

Speaking of things “pod” related, I have been toying with the possibility of starting a podcast for several years now. Lord knows I listen to enough of them, and I love to talk, so there’s that. But I get stuck on one tiny detail: what do I have to offer the world as a podcaster? Various ideas flit through my head: humor, spirituality, humorous spirituality. Cooking. Spiritual cooking with humor. None of it sounds very compelling. Then I came up with: do a podcast WITH someone else!! My #1 candidate is my Rose. She is very funny, and we see the world quite differently, a lot of the time. Maybe we could interview each other’s choices of guests. Just to mix it up? But even writing this down, it sounds simultaneously too daunting, and quite possibly boring. 

There is something about me that dreams of pursuing hard things, things I often have no talent for, while distrusting the activities that come easily to me. If I can write funny skits, for example, without much forethought, they are automatically not nearly as valuable as writing, say, a white paper (which I would love to attempt just as soon as I find out what a white paper is.) It’s all part of the self-sabotage at which I excel. If I can do it, how good can it possibly be?

But back to the podcast. I don’t think I need a fancy studio. Marc Maron interviews very famous people in his garage. I HAVE a garage. I’d just need to clean it out. But then, like giving a mouse a cookie, I’d have to find a place to put everything. I would be quite elderly by the time that task was completed. But wait! How about a podcast for 90 year olds? I don’t think that’s been done! Maybe AARP could sponsor! 

I think I’m on to something! Check back with me in 2046!

Right Here, Right Now

Hurry up! Winter weather be done! Pass quickly, weeks, until I see my living-away kids again! Speed along, months, until I retire (nothing against my church job, which I have loved, but I am just eager to see what full-time freelance writing will be like.) 

This is ironic, because at my age life is rocketing by anyway, so why am I seeking to hasten the process? I liken it to flipping to the last page of a book I’m enjoying (DID they end up together?) and every time I do this, I realize I’ve spoiled the journey of discovery for myself. Maybe what I should do instead is try to be really alive and alert, and savor each moment. 

To that end, I loved an article just out in America (the Jesuit magazine) that referenced the late Indian Catholic mystic Anthony DeMello. DeMello shared so many wonderful meditation practices in his books, and one in particular has really spoken to me. Simplicity itself, but profound. Here it is: 

Sit down somewhere, take a breath, close your eyes and then listen to the world around you. Hear the sounds that have been surrounding you all this time, without you noticing them. Then, after a minute, open your eyes, and now focus on what you see before you. Maybe it is the streaks of light on the wall or a picture on your mantel, or the way the snow flops up against your window. Whatever it is, once again just try to sit there and enjoy it. Try repeating this exercise (listen, look). 

As a variation, he suggests, try spending some of a meal this way: Close your eyes and just taste the food in your mouth and smell its aromas. I had to chuckle at this, because my suddenly closing my eyes and zeroing in on my meatloaf would no doubt elicit noisy commentary from my young dinner companions: “What’s the matter with Nana? Nana? We’re sorry! The meatloaf is good! Now can we have dessert?” But I’d be game to try this exercise at some solo meal, whenever that may be. 

Aiden and Peter are changing daily. Observing their giant leaps forward in speech and understanding and physical agility is like watching time-lapse photography. And, while I try to recall their cute sayings and doings as much as possible, I am missing a lot I know. I wouldn’t dream of wishing their childhoods away. So let me make my peace with the fact that those amazing little lives are happening in dark winter and a pandemic, and I can’t just separate everything out. 

 So I won’t. 

 I look out my office window. Night is falling. I hear traffic in the distance on Pennsylvania Avenue, cars heading home. The streetlights are winking on. I can smell Ya-Jhu’s dinner cooking (NOT meatloaf). Downstairs the boys and Sher are playing a rousing game of hide and seek. This is my good life. And in this sacred moment, I know I am truly blessed.

View from my office window--I noticed!

Aftermath

For someone who is completely un-athletic, I sure participate in a lot of marathons and sprints!! Mind you, these are all the literary kind, but why quibble? Believe me, I get just as (long) winded when I’m writing as I would ever get running 5Ks! 

What usually happens in these endeavors is, I hop aboard someone else’s Big Idea Express. Then, once I’ve convinced myself that it’s too late to back out, I experience a high level of anxiety and stress. Why did I sign on for this? Why am I even pretending to be a humor writer/blogger/person of any talent whatsoever? But then, I get “in the groove,” as the young people say, and (usually) end up doing well (AKA finishing). 

There follows the aftermath, a cool-down period of days or weeks when I barely touch pen to paper. This is one of those times, and unfortunately it comes just as 2022 dawns. Instead of working on a new project, taking a class or attending a workshop, I’ve spent the first three days of the new year idling. Being the all-or-nothing gal that I am, I have gone from coming up with 35 comedy pitches and seven humor pieces, and 30 blog posts in 30 days, to zero output. I’m not even writing limericks or knock-knock jokes, and this, my first blog entry of ’22, is shaping up to be nothing special. 

True sports people (that is the term, no?) don’t let this fallow time bother them. They realize muscles need to rest and recover. They don’t automatically assume they have lost all ability, just because they aren’t still clocking world-record times and distances. But for a self-doubter, every minute not spent producing SOMETHING, is proof positive that nothing will ever be produced again. I mean, a few weeks ago I was cranking out “The Real Housewives of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood”, “Can You Chip in $5 to Save the Planet by MIDNIGHT Tonight?” and “Eulogy for the Expired Coupons on My Kitchen Bulletin Board” (all of which, ahem, were subsequently published on humor websites), and fancying myself the next New Yorker contributor. Today, it feels like my funny bone was surgically removed, and my only New Yorker contribution was the $$ I doled out for a subscription to the magazine. 

This time, I’d love to enjoy my aftermath, even a bit. It would be awesome to rest my poor brain once in a while, without guilt. Deep down I know that is the key to future productivity (taking a break). But still I panic, sure that the Writer’s Block to end all blocks is on my horizon. That has never happened, and I need to stop assuming it will. 

My sister C sent me a really cute door hanger that reads “Do Not Disturb: Writer at Work,” and now adorns the door of my home office. I think I may need a second one that proclaims “Do Not Disturb: Writer Doing Absolutely Nothing. She May Even Be Napping.”

Shhhh.