It’s a wonderful resource!

It was written in 1969 and therefore the language is dated, but I actually prefer Dr. Weeks’ use of the term “nervous illness” to the more clinical panic or anxiety disorder. I also love her thorough description of the parasympathetic and sympathetic system and her reassuring and supportive voice as she describes exactly what it’s like to suffer from chronic anxiety. I love that she acknowledges how exhausting it can be to spend years essentially poisoned by your own adrenalin — none of the other books I’ve read on the subject address that aspect of “bad nerves” at all. She describes better than any other writer I’ve read on the subject how a person with anxiety becomes hyper-vigilant in their own body (”Was that a palpitation? Is that a heart attack chest pain, or just a panicky chest pain? My nose is itching, and I think my lungs are tightening — am I going to go into full panic attack mode?”) — a phenomenon she calls “sensitization.” I want to raise my hand in the air and say “AMEN, Sister Claire! Someone gets what this is like!”

Weeks is also the only author or professional working with anxiety who validates my experience that, in the midst of a panic attack, the sufferer can actually see things move that aren’t moving. If she wasn’t deceased I’d write her a fan letter just for that.

Information is healing. It is certainly my experience that the more information I have, the more empowered I feel in every aspect of my health and self-care. “Nothing in life is to be feared, it is to be understood,” said Einstein (or was it Madame Curie?). I can’t recommend Claire Weeks’ books highly enough — they may be dated and they may be flawed in some ways, but no contemporary author that I’ve seen writes about the hows-and-whys of chronic anxiety with such clarity and compassion, or offers such good, no-nonsense advice about how to heal from it.

I wish I had read this book back at the beginning of this challenging journey. However, I shan’t complain — better late than never. I haven’t had a full-blown panic attack in almost a year, thanks be to God.

There is no shame in having anxiety, folks. Let’s not keep this a secret. Share it, talk about it, get help for it. I wish you well.

Keep talking, folks. Is this all about words, or do you see something more substantive coming out of this? Is the website bad? Were you drawn in when you visited it? Did it leave you more confused than encouraged? Do you, like Don, see something vaguely sinister here?

I am still very undecided and welcome your thoughts. I was particularly struck by Don’s comment because while I don’t necessarily agree with him, I love that he looked at the website through a critical eye and didn’t, as I did, go all warm and fuzzy without giving hard thought to what this movement might really be about.

Do you know anything about it?

Fifty-six years of marriage. Forty-two years of marriage. And most recently, sixty-nine years of marriage. I saw them as swans, mated for life with their necks intertwined. There is only one terrible thing about such a long and happy marriage: that it inevitably ends like this, with one weeping at bedside while the other closes her eyes, murmurs reassuring words, and turns her attention to her own dying.

They were so gentle with each other. He called her dear and she called him dear but pronounced it “De-ah.” They would often casually hold hands when I visited, sitting at their dining room table as we chatted — him 90 years old and her 88 or so. They met when she was a high school senior and were never apart again after that, until her death a week ago.

I caught another long-married couple holding hands over dinner the other night. In fact, this sort of thing is all around me in my parish. These marriages are evidence of something so beautiful and so possible and so ordinary, I draw life and hope from them as a bee draws honey from the flower. You can imagine me dressed in a little black and yellow striped outfit, sitting and visiting with my “old marrieds” and gently buzzing. A fat, grateful little bee, that’s me. Long and good marriages are under-appreciated in our society. I’m very much a hip, single chick and everything (snort), but retro enough to think think that long, sturdy marriages are an important part of the fabric of a healthy society (which is in large part why I work for marriage equality, duh!). Thanks to those of you who have good marriages, and who radiate the strength outward from your warm core.

After the funeral was over today, he and I sat at the collation and talked. “You’ll still come see me?” he asked, and of course I said I will. It’s well over an hour away and I can’t go often, but I’ll call and I’ll visit. When he got up to leave, we hugged for a long moment. “You’re a good girl,” he said to the top of my head. “You did a good job.”

Oh, how wonderful to be a “good girl” at almost forty-three years old. Far from being offended, I’ll absolutely take that to heart as a gift. And then just as I thought I was going to get away without a tear in my eye, I went to kiss his cheek. “Pucker up,” he said in his inimitable voice, thick with Boston influence and scratchy with age and character. We exchanged a smooch that I will always treasure for its evidence of spunk and sense of humor after the emotionally harrowing event he had just endured, and he walked toward the door carrying his oxygen, assisted by a walker, his daughter and son-in-law.

Those swans. Every minister hopes nothing more than for life-long devotion between any of the couples we marry, but the final act in that beautiful ballet certainly tears at the heart.

I didn’t write a book.
I didn’t start my dissertation.
I didn’t even get a book proposal finished. Hell, I didn’t start it.
I didn’t lose another ten pounds.
I didn’t become a great salsa dancer.
I didn’t read the books in my pile (but I read a different pile).

What I did do this summer was work really hard issues in therapy (and I don’t mind telling you that), adjust to having a very active puppy in my life, learn how to grill steak, go out salsa dancing twice, attend my first Zumba class on a personal dare, do a little bit of gardening, catch up with friends who had been neglected during my SweetieBang period, see a slew of films, watch Red Sox games, clean and organize my study (yes, praise the Lord I got THAT done), sleep a LOT, play outside, go to the beach and friends’ pools a few times, and feel my feelings — which actually takes a lot more energy than I have ever realized.

I continued to attend Weight Watchers meetings, held on tight and not easily to a 25-lb. weight loss, avoided retail therapy in favor of saving money for sabbatical travel, and blogged.

As the summer winds down, I give up on my big goals. I’m not going to achieve them. My will is strong but in this case, my soul had another agenda and its needs overruled those of my will and my ego. I don’t like it. I don’t like being out of control this way. I am generally a disciplined and ambitious person and when I set a goal, I accomplish it.

My soul, however, doesn’t care what my ego desires. It had a lot to communicate to me this summer, and it made me listen. There were entire weeks when I required almost absolute solitude. There were days I did nothing but sleep, listen, record what the insights I received in my journal, fix food for myself and the four-leggeds, let the dog out to pee and poop, and return to silent listening and journaling. I would make plans to DO something and find myself flapping helplessly around the house, absolutely unable to get myself together to accomplish whatever it is I had set myself to do.

This was definitely not my Summer of Love. It was, I suppose, my Summer of Prayer in some way. It was my Summer of Feeling, attending to my inner life after a prolonged period of trying very hard to figure out other people and to understand failed or profoundly disappointing relationships. It was a time to tiptoe closer to my essence than I have ever crept before, to genuinely question how much authentic regard I have — and have been encouraged to have — for that essence — and to ask if at the age of 42, I finally accept and embrace it.

I do.

I do, and I had no idea how far I have traveled emotionally and spiritually in order to be able to say that. This isn’t about self-esteem. It is about something far deeper: a soul giving itself permission to be at home in the world. This permission comes not from accomplishments or even from the praise, affirmation or love one receives from others. It is an existential resolution; a laying down of arms against oneself not out of self-esteem but out of justice and compassion.

The psychic and spiritual energy it took to finally and honestly acquaint myself with the truth of my essence, to deem it acceptable, and to sever relations with the Inner Critic who has dominated my inner life for most of my life, was tremendous. But it had to be done. For someone to make it her life’s work to preach the everlasting love of God and the inherent worth and dignity of every person to the world, and then fail to confront, challenge and exorcise a toxic Inner Critic who rules her spiritual life is one of the saddest and most common hypocrisies there is. I did not enjoy this work. For a woman of my flamboyant temperament, it is actually easier to indulge in energetic self-flagellation than to abide with the complexities of life without such distracting dramatics.

I am quietly grateful. First and foremost to my friends, for holding up the compassionate mirror for me all these years, and for helping to me to experience and know that being flawed and human is not something that deserves punishment, but rather understanding and love. I am grateful for the insights of Jungian depth psychology and for the teachings of Universalist and Unitarian Christianity, which brought me from intellectual curiosity about amazing grace to a direct experience of it. I am grateful for all the people and institutions that make personal spiritual growth a possibility for me, for the work of ministry that makes it a priority.

And I am grateful to you, dear readers, for participating in this fascinating 21st century experiment with me: to make private spiritual experience public almost as it is happening (rather than to share it years later as a memoir), to affirm the struggle we all share in real time, and to thereby strengthen and celebrate the interdependent web within which we are bound as a moment-by-moment, blessed phenomenon.

I wound up sitting next to a really nice couple. We started chatting about my book (The Madonnas of Leningrad), then we started talking in earnest about life and faith, and then the woman told me an incredible story about her family. She wanted some perspective about a suffering relative, I gave it, I was fascinated by her whole complicated and tragic extended family situation and asked lots of questions, we blabbed on and on about family, belief, grief, personality types, rituals of mourning… we went far and wide across the human terrain together while her husband listened kindly, chiming in from time to time, and providing details.

It turned out that it was the woman’s birthday (she is exactly my age), and she said that I was such a help to her and had made the night so special that she and her hub bought me dinner, promised to loan me a book, and also promised they would take me to her favorite restaurant in Charlestown sometime (which sounds totally up my ally — Moroccan cuisine in Boston, who knew?).

So now I have two new friends, and although I didn’t ask right out, I’m pretty sure they’re Catholic. Not that it matters, but it’s just nice karma if they are.

My anxiety was compounded by my dog’s breed: beagles are notoriously hard to train and for that reason, Greg and I were solemnly advised by the animal shelter never to let Max off his leash. “Beagles are one big nose on four legs, and they’re fast,” warned the shelter director. “The second he smells something exciting or sees a squirrel he’ll be off and tearing through the woods and you won’t see him for days.” All the beagle books said the same thing. I was petrified, as I have acres of woods behind my parsonage and a busy main street (it’s literally Main Street!) out the front door. But Greg reassured me that we could do it; we’d simply leash the dog every time we opened the door, we’d build an expensive fenced-in yard (for which my Parish Committee generously gave permission, even though the initial vision involved cutting a new door into the back of the mud room) and we would, in the words of “Project Runway’s” Tim Gunn, “make it work.”

Then Greg and I didn’t work out, and I got cold feet about caring for the dog on my own. I called my friend Judy who has three beagles and she talked me off the ledge. She described just how to contract for a fenced-in yard and promised to help keep an eye on Max on my busiest days. She cheerleaded me into reconsidering my ability to keep the commitment I had made in late March.

One night in late June I had a talk with Max. We sat on my bed together and I looked into his eyes and told him that I was worried that I couldn’t be the best caregiver for him. I cried. I told him that maybe he deserved to be with a family, with lots of people in and out of the house and a real pack to keep him feeling secure and always loved. I got his velvety ears all wet and he told me with his trusting brown eyes that he knew I already loved him and would do my best. We went to sleep and for once I didn’t move him to the foot of the bed but allowed him to snuggle himself against me, his smooth little seal’s head resting on the curve of my hip. The cat came and curled up at my head, purring. When I awoke the next morning I realized that my fears about caring for the dog I had adopted were actually spiritual fears that have plagued me all of my life: how much love and care are we allowed to ask for? How much nurturing can we expect from those who claim to love us? When does our need for love and care tip into the category of “too needy,” and is there any such thing?

I believe that there is not. I have been told by people I once trusted that there is such a thing as being too needy, and I no longer believe them, although I certainly do believe there is such a thing as having a limited ability to give love. Those who don’t have great reservoirs of love to give often accuse those who desire relationship with them of being too needy. I am finally figuring this out. Yes, extending love, care and compassion can be tiring and can drain our inner resources. But when that happens, it is our own responsibility to care for ourselves, to set boundaries in a kind and fair way, to seek understanding of ourselves and others, not to attack or blame those who are vulnerable and reaching out to us. Yes, there are some unhealthy people in the world who are true energy vampires who give nothing back, but they’re easy to spot and possible to extricate oneself from. They are not the norm. Why had I doubted my capacity to love and care for this adorable little being? Why had I backed away in my heart from this “needy” creature? It was time for an exorcism.

Over the next few days after our little talk, I observed Max carefully and saw that he has five basic needs and that I could meet all of them. His needs are to sleep, to eat, to pee/poop, to play, and to be loved.

I started taking him everywhere with me, determined to make him part of my “pack” of friends and their children and animals. I stopped crating him when I left the house and trusted him with full run of the kitchen, which made our hours apart much easier on both of us. To my great relief and gratitude, he did not engage in any of the beagly behaviors I had been warned about: destroying furniture, digging, or baying. He seems to spend my absence sleeping on a blue cushion, curling up in his crate of his own volition, or chewing toys. I imagine the cat pays him a visit, as she is agile at jumping the baby gates that contain him.

I took him on pastoral visits, and to church meetings. I took him on play dates with doggie pals –with great trepidation because he’s not always well-behaved when meeting other dogs during walks. To my relief, I found that Max is great on playdates. My friend Michael encouraged me to let him off leash in his backyard one afternoon and I was elated to find that when other doggies are around, Max is happy to frolic in the immediate vicinity and shows no considerable interest in tearing off in pursuit of prey. Victory! I encouraged him to curl up in my lap while I watched movies or read books, understanding that for him, warm bodies in a pile means comfort and family even if for me it means dog hair on my clothes and a furry puppy making me warmer on a hot day. I maintained some necessary boundaries with him (no, he can’t visit the bathroom with me, no, he can’t jump on me when I’m eating or cooking, no, he can’t come into the store with me, no, he can’t play with my shoes, clothes or home furnishings but he CAN play with one of his many toys. No, he can’t terrorize Ermengarde, he has to respect her as Feline Diva of the Household.) I wrestled with him on the living room floor until we were both panting and laughing. He fake-gnawed on my neck and growled and I gnawed on his neck and growled right back. He absolutely loved every second.

I began to sleep as late as I wanted, and Max slept soundly along with me. He is fine managing his bladder around my schedule. I had obsessed over nothing.

For the first time in my life, I let instinct guide me and shut out the old, critical voices that would judge the way I was choosing to integrate this dog into my life. “You give that dog far too much attention,” or “Just let him chase the cat, she’s too spoiled” or “He has to learn to be alone, just get on with your life.”
What if I gave him all the love and attention he needs for awhile? I wondered. What if I just met all his needs and made him my focus for a couple of weeks, not rejecting him in any way for being “too needy” because he obviously wants to be with me so much? What if I treated him the way I would like to be treated, which is to be totally and unconditionally accepted for my nature? What if I did the dog thing instead of the human thing and didn’t project my own wounds and insufficiencies onto this little animal?

So that’s what I did, and what I am still doing. One afternoon a week or so ago as we were walking out in the yard, I thought about how much I DON’T want to build a fenced-in yard or get an electric/invisible fence that would zap Max and maybe not even work. Then I had a radical thought: what if the shelter director was wrong? What if all the books are over-generalizing about beagles? What if this beagle is just a really mellow version of the breed who can be trusted off his leash in my own backyard? What if he had some obedience training by his previous guardians that is or was unapparent to me? What’s the worst that could happen if I tested my theory? He’ll run off and I’ll be a worried mess and then he’ll come home or a neighbor will find him — maybe even Judy! What if I let go of fear around this dog and started having some real fun with him? I opened my hand and let go. Max ran off with the leash towing behind him while I watched, trusting and hoping with all my heart that I was right. He bolted down the length of the yard, made a happy little circle in the grass, and came bounding right back toward me. He thought it was a great game. I clapped and whooped, and he tore around like Seabiscuit, excited and proud and loving his freedom.

And so we did that for about a week. I put baby carrots in my pockets and took him to the back yard, letting go of the leash and letting him run around, sniff and do his business. I made up a little three-note whistle to use when I wanted him to come to me and he learned that when he did, he might get a carrot treat in addition to a thousand kisses. “Max!” I whistle, clap twice, squat down and open my arms. My beagle comes flying toward me, ears flapping in the wind, and skids to a stop between my knees. He never tires of coming to get his loving praise and I never tire of giving it. Sometimes it takes four or five whistles for him to obey me. Sometimes he goes into the woods to scout out some creature and I have to go in and help him “remember” where I am. But even as I am leading him firmly back to the yard, I never yell at him, only correct him with stern and simple commands he can understand, like “Off” or “Come.” And then, even if it took a few “reminders’, he is lavished with love and praise when he gets where I want him, because I want him to associate coming back to home base with happy feelings with Alpha Dog Mom.

As of two days ago, he doesn’t even have the leash attached at all. He comes outside when given permission, follows me to the yard, and we play. I throw a ball and he catches it and runs to me with it. Sometimes he bolts right by me and I have to mock-chase him, which he adores. He races around in circles until he exhausts himself and flops down in the grass. He drinks from a yellow bowl filled with rainwater. I scold him for eating poop (we have to work on that), but he comes to my whistle with 95% reliability. When I think we’ve had enough, I whistle and clap and he follows me inside, through the screen door where the cat has been looking out and waiting for us.

We are a pack. Everyone gets, and gives, all the love they need, and it is never too much.

(Max on his way to or from a playdate, mid-yawn, July 2008)

Is this guy a funny, smart, cute dreamboat or WHAT? Did you hear what he said last night when Colbert asked him if, after spending 95 days in space he thought he would ever get home? Reisman said with that big adorable grin, “No…I have too much to do around the house.”

And he JUST turned 40!

Guess which display we spent way more time squealing over!

Also super cool in the same gallery was the portrait of 18th century kick-butt-and-take-no-prisoners feminist Mary Wollstonecraft.

Did you see how Piglet is all small and flat and made of something silky and how he kind of looks like a little cushion? Also, you can’t see it in the photo but Eeyore actually has a real pin in his tail.

They make me laugh every time I see them. “Go, Spandex Boys, go!” I say to myself as they peddle furiously by. Because, you know, they’re just. so. serious. I like to cheer them on. They mostly seem to be Captain of Industry types and I’m sure they really need the release that biking gives them. I get it, I just think it’s unintentionally hilarious.

Thinking of these guys is what made me fall instantly in love with the gal in New York City yesterday.
I was sitting on the steps of the New York Public Library — you know, by the lions — waiting for a friend when I saw her. A beautiful girl in a skirt riding a simple bike — a Schwinn Breeze for God’s sake — the kind of bike you ride when you’re just trying to get somewhere. She rode fearlessly down 5th Avenue in front of a bus — no helmet, no Lycra, just a girl on a bike trying to make it to a date.

Here’s the bus she arrived just ahead of before she got off the bike and hauled it effortlessly up two levels of stairs like this one,

And here she is with her guy and her green (!) Schwinn Breeze,

I don’t know who you are, intrepid and beautiful young biking gal, but thank you for making me so happy and for giving me such a wonderful memory. I should advise you to wear a helmet, but I’m not going to. Because like the old Billy Joel song says, I love you just the way you are.