Wednesday, October 14, 2015

"Why isn't radical acceptance fixing me?" and other silly thoughts about self care

So lately, the universe seems to be throwing mindfulness in my face from all directions. And I am doing my best to catch it, but sometimes I instead get hit in the face.

I've been watching the free online mindfulness summit this month and it's fantastic. In one of the talks, though- okay, in a lot of them - the speaker said, But you can't be mindful of a thought and be trying to get rid of it. That won't work.

Dammit. Why not?

I know this. What we resist persists. The point is to see and acknowledge the thoughts, but see them as separate. Watch them travel by. Wave at them.

And beat them with a bloody stick and then stomp my foot when they haven't gone away yet.

Wait. No. That's not right.

I want to take better care of myself. I've been in shut down mode lately. My skin is breaking out in a rash. My shoulders constantly ache. My mind is constantly running and jumping and screaming in my face. I''m snapping at my kids. I'm not getting my work done. I'm a disappointment.

So. I need to take better care of myself.

So I get out that stick again and start beating myself until I feel better.

Great plan.

I love to write. I love to learn. I love to meditate. I love to run. I love to do yoga. I love to read. I love to sleep.

But for goodness sakes, if I try to do it all in one day I'm just going to melt down more.

So here's my message for all my sisters out there who are beating themselves with the same stick.

It's enough. Take a breath. It's enough. You're enough. You are loved. Thanks for sitting with me and taking that breath.

It's enough.

Tuesday, October 13, 2015


I'm not a huge fan of socks. Or shoes for that matter. If I could go straight from flip flop season to Ugg season, I would be content.

But fall insists on happening every year.

Since I am an adult, I can suck it up and put on some socks and shoes every day for a few months each year. My children have not yet reached that point.

"My Crocs!" They cry every day when it's time to leave the house.

"It's fifty degrees out."


After much sweet talking, finagling, bribing, and wrestling, I can usually get their feet covered and get them out the door.  But as soon as we get home again, the shoes come off (which is encouraged) and so do the socks.

And they disappear into the abyss.

We bought BG a 12 pack of socks a month ago. Two nights ago, we were headed out to a dinner party, and the socks she had worn that morning were gone, so I ran upstairs to grab a new pair.

No socks in her drawer. 20 different socks in the clean laundry basket, but no matches. No dirty socks on the hamper.

I let out a blood curdling roar. My husband called up the stairs, asking if I was okay and pointing out that perhaps my reaction was a bit irrational.

I exhaled. Grabbed two almost matching socks. Added kid socks to my shopping list.

Fist bump, Sisyphus. I'll trade you that rock for some socks.