11 March 2014

Gratitude and dissatisfaction


My hair, with the (neater) hair of dear friends Janet and Zafer
 I love my hair. I think that each time I see it in the mirror, whether it’s behaving as I wish it were or frizzy and annoying. Each moment when the wisp of a complaint wafts by my brain, I catch it with a kind of outrage—is this how you speak of a dear friend who is leaving for such a long trip? Apologise! And all of this happens right at the back of my brain, both the complaint and the backlash against it. It’s as though internal self-critic is being edited by an advocate of appreciative inquiry. I find it amusing to watch my internal voices talk to each other. (You might find it rather more troubling than amusing, but bear with me before calling the authorities to take me away…)

Watching this little interplay between different voices in my head has been illuminating. I think often I would have ignored the fact that so much of the chatter that comes at me from me has a somewhat negative spin. Michael has noted for years the little twitch of displeasure my eyebrows give when I glance at the mirror. My eyes are drawn to this or that imperfection as they scan my face and body. And I think eyes are generally like that, and too often our minds are drawn to those imperfections in our lives as they scan our lives.

This desire we have to notice the negative, to search for imperfections and try to stamp them out—I figure it’s this desire that brought us fire, seedless watermelon, and the internet. It’s been our friend. But now I wonder if there are ways it is more foe than friend, at least for me.

Because while it’s true that the fact that I’ll lose my hair in the next three weeks adds a special poignancy to my relationship with my hair, it hasn’t changed my hair texture in any way. My hair is still just as annoying and beautiful as it was before I was set to lose it. It’s just that now I feel grateful for it because it’s suddenly temporary.

But we are all temporary. Every conversation, every relationship, every day, every lifetime—all just a speck of sand on the massive beach of time. This morning I have gotten up after a good night’s sleep in a lovely hotel in Sydney. I have eaten eggs perfectly scrambled, drunk fresh and vividly orange carrot/ginger/apple/turmeric juice, and answered email from people I adore all over the world. This has been a perfect morning in its own way, and now it’s over, more temporary even than my hair. Next I’ll go and spend time with clients I have come to love, and then that will be over. The sun rises and sets and this day is gone forever.

I know, though, that my eye would want to travel to the things that are absent in this day. Michael and the kids are too far away across the Tasman. Other loved ones scatter across every continent where eyes read these words. There are many more of you absent than present. It is a heartily imperfect day in that way. And, ironically, my hair is particularly frizzy. But there is something in me, some sort of grace, that is spending way more time smiling at the imperfections and letting my eyes and my mind linger on the touches of perfection, the corkscrew curl, the sparkle of laughter, the lingering taste of rose petals in a sweet, the cloud of cinnamon that scents my clothes because I packed my new green tea in my suitcase.

What do your eyes rest on as they travel over your face? What does your mind pick out as it travels through your day? How could we hold the terrible beauty that we are all temporary, that the day passes and you don’t ever get it back? How do we divert our attention from our distresses and losses to those things in our lives that are jewels?  Cancer seems to help with that, but I don’t suggest it as a method to develop your own appreciation. I’d love to hear what you do that helps you live more in gratitude and less in dissatisfaction. You can write to me while I try to defrizz my curls…


6 comments:

Maryanne Hill said...

Jennifer,
Your writing is just beautiful ... and I hang on every word. Today has been a very difficult day for me - yet nothing in comparison to individuals battling life long battles and health concerns. They say, you don't appreciate what one has until it is lost. Gratitude is under rated ~ I have learned to praise every morning and night. First thing I do at the beginning of a day ... and last thing at night.

Tonight ... grateful to be part of the Gunther/Garvey family ~ a beautiful, beautiful family. Diverse in calling and experience ... but grand in every way shape and form.

But tonight Jennifer, I am in awe of your ability to write during your journey ... painful (I imagine... although your words show more hope and life than most individuals) I love reading your text and it is slow, because I want to hang on every word. You are an inspiration to me, and I gather I am not alone.

Tonight my gratitude runneth over - Sleep well tonight, knowing that there are many prayers and words of love and friendship are shared ... for you ~ between your family and friends. You have touched many by your blog ~

David McCallum SJ said...

Jennifer, sincere appreciation for this reminder to mind the mind!

Blessings and affection,
David

Unknown said...

Thank you for sharing this so eloquently. I have been trying lately to remember gratitude, to set the intention, and somehow in this human form I still slip into self-absorption and angst that remind me of my inner adolescent. Today you reminded me not to get stuck...and I'm grateful for that. Sending love to you :)

Anonymous said...

Maryanne,you've spoken for me,too.There's an Irish tee shirt that says"He speaks so eloquently that when he tells people to go to hell, they actually look forward to the trip".Jenny,as you write that you wouldn't wish cancer on anyone, it certainly has opened up your lyrical style that resonates with so many of us.In difficult situations I have asked God for the wisdom to cooperate with His grace.It seems you're doing just that.Keep up the good effort.Love,Patty

Kathy O said...

Jennifer, your words are so wise and moving. Your unwanted journey seems to be giving you the lovely but harsh gifts of clarity and keen awareness. I try to hold those brief moments of shock -- the breath-catching knowledge of my fleeting time in this beautiful, magical, poignant existence. No way to hold onto it, just notice it when it rushes through me, like a wind blowing right into and out of my core.

I'll continue to send whatever support I can in my thoughts from the other side of the world and hope they reach you!

Kathy

Anonymous said...

Dear J,

(this response is from last week - i saved it to post upon our return to Vienna - as the tech gods were encouraging me to put my phone away in our last few hours in NZ)

Jennifer:

Your words floated across my screen as we spent our last night in your newfound home, getting ready to fly to Sydney tmr and on to Vienna a few days later.

I've thought of you often these last few weeks, even more so as we kayaked our way through the stunning Tasman, navigating our way thru Kiwi country or the Godzone, ever present of the precious few days we had here and how quickly they passed.

Thank you for your swift, candid and encouraging reply - many told us we were nuts for trekking through Australia and NZ in less than 2 weeks, but you said heck go for it and we did! There is never a perfect time or place or space - this was the time we had so we stepped forward, into the moment. W/ all our savings spent, we did wonder at our impulsiveness; your words help shape a different narrative and perspective. I'm so glad to be in touch again. Thank you for your words and for sharing yourself as you do. Hopefully the 'next' time we're down in the Godzone, we'll be able to take in some of this land zusammen :) Thinking of you. Avina