Here and Now at The Laughing Goat

I spend part of the morning at my new favorite coffeehouse, The Laughing Goat. Near Pearl and 17th, the coffee is great and the ambience hits a sweet spot for me somehow. I usually sit at the front tables to soak up the sun’s warmth. The tabletops are a subtle rich mixture of orange-brown-green metallic color. A sign over the espresso bar says “Be Nice or Leave”, and further down the bar the light fixtures are covered with a warm orange-brown crinkly fabric that reminds me of Cecropia moth cocoons. Flyers advertise poetry night on Monday evenings, the Beat Bookstore a few doors down, live Jazz on Wednesday nights, and more.  The walls are black-painted cinder block and artwork in orange and turquoise covers the walls. There is a Buddhist shrine in the front window with an orange shroud, incense burners, candles and prayer flags. Bluetech rhythms swirl from the sound system. On a high shelf, a white ceramic goat stands with a toothy grin and a green and gold saddle on its back, seasonally sporting a red Santa hat with white trim.

All in all, a good place to write my New Year’s resolutions. Aside from the usual self-exhortations to work out more on the treadmill (the only technique guaranteed to get my heart rate up to the desired level), eat less crap, write more, etc. etc., my main resolution has to do with…paying more attention to what I need and want in the present.

As I type this, Emily the Cat lies in front of the computer, batting at the cursor as it moves across the screen, along with, occasionally, the (hah!) mouse pointer. She has only recently discovered the wonders of the computer, after I changed the screensaver to a marquee message in light blue English Gothic lettering, the message being simply: Here and Now

Whenever the screensaver kicks in, “Here and Now” gyrates, whirls and tilts against a black screen in a manner far more enticing than a mere mouse could ever be. Emily bats wildly at this message, much as I do several times every day.

My main resolution is paying attention to what I need and want, Here and Now. This may seem like a no brainer to many people who are well-versed in knowing what they want here, now, there and everywhere, but for me—a person who throughout my life has focused on making everything run smoothly, helping everyone find what happiness might be possible for them, earning what approval I can and never earning enough to satisfy me—it is not a no-brainer.

Much can be learned from Emily the Cat, who consistently focuses on what she needs and wants here and now, whether it be her morning treat, to be let in, to be let out, to be petted on a warm lap. At the moment she would like to catch in her claws the odd little vertical line that scoots randomly across the screen, sometimes backing up for a moment as I fix a typo, then jerking forward again in teasing fashion. Come to think of it, she wants the cursor here and now, but she cannot have it—ever (though at least she knows what she wants). So this analogy has perhaps fallen to pieces right before my horrified eyes, and yet it amuses me, right now this second, so it hasn’t been a complete loss.

In hasty conclusion, I do believe there’s simple joy in Here and Now…let’s see if I can remember that this year.

Cardinals and Snow

As I gazed at my Starbuck’s latte and pondered what I would say in the Christmas letter this year, I noticed a phrase printed on the side of the cup: “We invite you to LISTEN to your DESIRES and to RENEW your HOPE. To see the world not as it is, but as it COULD be. Go ahead. WISH. It’s what makes the holidays the HOLIDAYS.”

This contrasts with the Buddhist philosophy to neither hope nor fear, to let go of longings and be mindful of the joys available in the present moment. Can one let go properly (the lesson I keep working to learn over and over again) and yet retain hope and optimism? It seems that in order to renew hope one must begin by paying attention to the present moment and being mindful of all there is to be grateful for, here and now. And there is an optimism perhaps in Max Ehrmann’s phrase from Desiderata: “no doubt life is unfolding as it should.”

If a therapist were consulted, she might say that the first part of the Starbuck’s exhortation, the part about listening to one’s desires, is a very good plan, especially for those who have a tendency to try to make sure everybody else has the oxygen mask in place during the plane emergency and end up almost passing out from oxygen deprivation themselves.

A meditation on one’s own desires seems selfish and not in keeping with the holiday season—unless perhaps you have lost hope and you need to find a way back to the vision in the shining child’s eyes, seeing a Christmas morning where all wishes come true. For the Christmas book this year, my book club chose “A Redbird Christmas” by Fanny Flagg (also the author of “Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistlestop Café”). This is an unabashed fairy tale in which good people and a young child hope when it seems that all hope is lost, and end up with a Christmas miracle beyond their wildest imaginings involving redbirds and snow in the Deep South.

I have always associated red cardinals against a snowy background with Christmastime. I remember when I was around seven my mother wrapped a package especially for me and taped a red cardinal to it, carefully cut out from an old Christmas card. I don’t remember what was in the package, but I remember the love and thoughtfulness represented by the cardinal decoration. I also remember watching all the birds, including the cardinals, flock to feast on the sunflower seeds my Dad placed out on the upper deck bird feeder during the coldest, snowiest days of winter at our Sugar Lane house back in Southern Indiana. Those birds had reason to hope each year and also seized any opportunities in the present as well. So I will have my cake and eat it too, combining hope with mindfulness of the present. No doubt events are unfolding as they should.

So I wish that everybody who reads this has a great holiday. May all of you take a deep breath, be present, and renew your hope in the coming New Year.

Be Not Afraid

Over the past many weeks I’ve had a severe case of blogger’s block which I am now working to overcome One Word at a Time. During this period I’ve been immobilized by an emotion that actually kept me from eating it was so bad (hardly anything can keep me from eating, more’s the pity). I even was losing weight for awhile. The emotion causing the loss of appetite was creating quite a hellish situation for me, with constant stomach twinges, depression, and more.

I got some time off from work over the Christmas break, and was able to gain enough perspective to realize that the emotion freezing me in my tracks was fear. Fear of the future, fear of failure, fear of the death of my loved ones, fear that people I respect will not respect me back, fear that am not worthy, fear of writing a blog that was boring or full of bullsh*t.

I’ve since been spending a lot of time analyzing this fear, how it lessened with a change of scene and routine, how focusing on the present moment can reduce fear, and how amazing it is to be trapped in your mind without the ability to step back and see how it is churning in unhealthy ways. Fear can keep you from enjoying life, from taking risks, from loving, from blogging. (My rule about my blog, for better or for worse, is that it cannot be personal day-to-day drivel and whining, but instead has to share something that might actually be useful or interesting to multiple other people. Normally this rule has not kept me silent, but clearly recently it has.)

Winston Churchill said: “When I look back on all these worries, I remember the story of the old man who said on his deathbed that he had had a lot of trouble in his life, most of which had never happened.”

So, here are my top 10 ways to stop being afraid:

10. Recognize that it is fear you’re feeling, and then try to articulate what it is that you fear.
9. Delve into the fear; take it to its ridiculous extreme. See the distortions and exaggerations in the fear.
8. Exposure yourself at every opportunity to the thing or activity you fear. Immersion in the fear will cause it eventually to lessen (especially good with things like fear of flying, fear of spiders, fear of public speaking).
7. Focus on what is happening right now this minute; be here and now. Look around - is there anything here and now that you fear?
6. Help somebody else with something. It is harder to be afraid when you are focused on helping somebody else.
5. Breathe.
4. Talk to somebody about your fear. When you start saying things out loud sometimes they are less scary.
3. If you have a cat, see if the cat will sit in your lap (they are finicky little things so good luck) and then pet the cat. It is hard to be as afraid when you are petting a cat. Full disclosure: Emily the cat is in my lap right now.
2. Get moving. Take a walk in the sunshine. Work out the fear.
1. Draw on spirit, if you have a spiritual focus. Consider the connectedness of all humans and how many of them are feeling much worse fear and anguish right now than you could possibly be feeling. Be grateful for everything you do have, as you breathe in the fear of all humans, and breathe out the hope that all may experience inner peace.

Do you have fear-bashing techniques I haven’t listed? Feel free to comment.

Emily the Cat, or YACPB (Yet Another Cute Pet Blog)

Emily the cat is the 11-year-old surviving sister of Charlotte the cat--Charlotte of the mangled foot due to curiosity about an exercise bicycle in full spin. Emily was left behind when Charlotte died a couple of years ago, and her eccentricity has increased exponentially now that she is the last cat left.

Cats are not supposed to be needy or lonely. But Emily is. She sits expectantly by my side as I read the paper or work on the computer, awaiting the chance to climb up and drape herself over my right shoulder, purring all the while. She can get a little testy when I set her back down, and she’s not above a quick angry growl and baring of the teeth to make her feelings clear.

Emily the cat misses my children, who have thoughtlessly gone off to college and left her behind. They would let her sleep on or near their heads each night, purring loudly into their ears. I am not as liberal.

Every morning at precisely 9 a.m., my husband (who claims to want nothing to do with Emily the cat and assures me that there will never be another cat, ever) prepares a special treat for her in the kitchen. Although the treat no longer comes in cans but in plastic pouches, the sound of the can opener brings Emily running, certain it is treat time.

Emily cries. A lot. She cries to be let in, and cries to be let out. She cries to be allowed into the pantry where there are surely mice, although she has never produced one. She stands in the echoing spiral staircase well and lets out long, drawn out yowls. She cries at 4 a.m., certain that if she can only be freed into the darkness that hunting opportunities will abound.* She cries to be let back in at 4:03 a.m. having realized that it is 7 degrees Fahrenheit outside and snowing steadily.

If it takes awhile to rouse a human to open the door and let her back in on a cold, cold night, she will make staccato comments as she trots inside: “Rowr. Rowr-rowr-rowr-rowr-rowr.” Her message is clear. And my role is clear: to obey.

*I fear that she is more likely to end up the hunted rather than the huntress, since mountain lions, coyotes and foxes have all been spotted in our South Boulder neighborhood.