Jumper Cables Are Not Sexy

BUT, odds are at some point your battery will go dead.

And, odds are it will be easier to find someone with a car than with a car and jumper cables. So, it makes sense to invest in a pair. I personally have three. Just kidding. I have no idea if we have them in our car or not.

However, I do have three sets of emotional jumper cables.

Paralyzing malaise comes in many forms. And one kind does NOT recharge all. Emotional jumper cables must be customized on a per person, per-emotion basis and tested frequently for reliability, proper voltage and in case we’ve outgrown their usefulness.

For example, when I am feeling OOH, overwhelmed, out-of-control and increasingly hopeless (think nut-less squirrel in mid-January) I seek out books on how to be more present, daring, intuitive, peaceful, centered, etc.

I’ve been on this personal-improvement merry-go-round for twenty years.

But lately, regardless of what I read, it has all begun to feel a bit flat. The language and sentiments seem to run together, bleeding into a murky sea of survival strategies. It’s not the authors or the books. It’s me. I’ve just OD’d on it all.

Even too much mint chocolate chip gelato would, well, never mind. You get the idea.

So, in my search for new OOH jumper cables, I re-discovered gorgeous mouth-watering cookbooks bursting with farm-to-table ingredients, savory spices and masterfully inspired meals I will most certainly never make.

They are mesmerizing, captivating– deliciously diverting.

For many, the not aspiring to make part would confirm the personal failure part. But despite my overambitious tendencies, I am completely satisfied just witnessing these glorious postcards of culinary adventures.

It’s like traveling to exotic lands without airport security or unpacking.

I have also recently substituted self-help for humor. Not that I ever lost my love of funny. But, historically I’ve used it only during happy feel-good times.

When I’m feeling hyper sensitive, dreadfully impatient or like I very well may blow up from anxiety, I try to steer clear of other humans.

Because who wants to be around THAT?

Better to re-organize the kids coats, hunker down on scheduling issues, fire off efficiency-driven work emails, AND, after staring down several bags of various salty carb products, try to figure out how in the hell THIS TIME I’m going to tackle becoming a better, happier person.

For anyone not plagued with this particular brand of insanity, it’s totally exhausting and takes forever.

Funny, on the other hand, works immediately.

So, I have decided that now, when I am feeling like it’s just not possible to drive my boys to one more paddle lesson, pick up one more pair of stray sneakers, think up one more chicken-based dinner (that doesn’t require switching supermarkets and five hours of prep) or attend one more tabata class, I pick up the phone.

Turns out telling people what a complete sell-out/ loser/ lamo/ idiot you are helps tremendously. There is usually a trade-off of imbecility. Sometimes even a top this component. And at the end of it, somehow beneath the laughter is an abiding sense of common humanity and forgiveness for what we still struggle through.

It is funny and light-hearted, but also in some amorphous, intangible way– profound. And healing.

Conversational humor and mouth-watering cookbooks are hugely effective for overwhelmed and out-of-control hopelessness, BUT, when it comes to dazed and confused, they are powerless.

When I feel lost and without meaning, two things revitalize me. Writing and routine.

Writing helps me navigate my experience by shining the flashlight of truth in corners I didn’t know were there. It reveals all kinds of transformational detail I’d never otherwise see. Sure, it starts off a bit aimless and forced but if I commit for long enough, the writing begins to lead me in directions I never could have imagined.

Writing inspires me to see the world differently. Instead of making it through each day, each day begins making it through to me– the abandoned robin’s nest, the knocked over stop sign, the hearts my youngest son has woven into his signature.

These details become breathing messages and metaphors– provide meaning and beauty amidst the rat race of to do.

Routine comes in handy when even writing begins to seem pointless.

When working out, eating healthy, washing my hair and even leaving the house (yes, occasionally it comes down to a rather basic question of self-care) seem like senseless acts of repetition, routine is paramount.

Certain things need to be non-negotiable.

I allow myself to consider the possibility that in order to evolve as a family we must rent a bungalow in Italy, start a tomato garden and home school the boys for seventh and eighth grade. BUT before I call our realtor, I go to the gym.

I give myself permission to consider the possibility that I have become a puffy, pudge-ball and should resort to wearing nothing but muumuus. BUT, before I fill up my Hawaiian fashionista on-line shopping cart, I quit eating almonds and chocolate for two days.

My third and final pair of emotional jumper cables I use for deep grief.

They also works for despair and depression– any emotion really where there is virtually no energy. When I don’t have the motivation to pick up the phone, a cookbook, a pen or a routine, I rely on self-kindness.

It took a long time not to feel guilty, self-punishing or pitying for these more morose feelings but time has a way of mellowing even the most stubborn. For me, self-kindness comes in a variety of forms from baths and naps to nature and animals to still, quiet, unstructured time.

I may be ill-prepared if my car battery dies, but emotionally I’m pretty well equipped.