When I was a girl, starting around the age of seven or so, I wanted my clothing to say nothing – to make no statement, to remain a silent participant in my presentation. I preferred dark greens, navy blues, and anything muted. I remember once trying on shoes and feeling uncomfortable with an inch-high heel, which made me feel as though I were looming and conspicuous. In no way was it my desire to arouse the impulse in others to notice me.

This fashion sensibility maintained its grip for many years, loosening now and again for special occasions, and relaxing slightly in high school. I wanted to express something more but feared I would be trying to be something I was not, and that humiliation would follow. Without realizing it, I feared that free expression would make me a target.

Recently I took to playing a game with myself; I tried answering all of what seemed to be my unproductive thinking with, “You don’t have to worry about that.” The first time I thought it, I was surprised at how receptive I was to my own advice. And the more I employed the phrase, the more aware I became of what a high percentage of my thinking orbits around some form of fretting. I worry a lot, over the smallest of things – the minutiae of how to do, what to do, whether I should do, what I did. Tending the micromanagement of my fearful projections depresses my energy, so when I stopped, if only for a few minutes, I started feeling small surges of freed energy and my mood rose.

A couple days into my experiment, it was my turn to do our family’s weekly shopping. The grocery store where we shop is currently undergoing a complete redo. Almost everything is being moved: shelves dismantled; items relocated. The employees and patrons are often understandably fatigued and frustrated with the disorder. As I proceeded with my shopping, I quickly understood I could no longer rely upon my years-old mental map of the store to help me find what I was looking for.

The other day I wanted to exchange a piece of jewelry, and it had to be done by mail. I wanted to package it properly, spend the least amount of money possible on shipping, and be able to track its arrival. Those were my rules – all seemingly easy to follow. Yet my mind proceeded to engage in a remarkably convoluted and demanding thought process. I had in my possession a used small, bubble envelope, which had been cut off at one end. Would that be all right to reseal with tape? Would it leave enough space on the envelop for the address and for the post office to process? Should I buy a new envelope? Where would I get said envelope? Do they have them at the post office? Would I be better off buying it at the grocery store? During the pandemic, do I really want to spend extra time at the post office buying an envelope and addressing it there? Can I really get tracking with first class or will I have to send it priority? How long will this outing take?

This mental storm continued until I felt paralyzed. I even cried out, “Why is this so COMPLICATED?” As I observed the battlefield of my overwrought mind, I had a new thought: that I should let myself figure it out as I go. I realized I didn’t need to be able to answer all the questions, nor follow any self-inflicted rules on how things had to be in order to go forward. I went with the inclination to pick up a new envelope at the store and reminded myself I would figure it out as I went. The jail door swung open. I suddenly felt free. I had stepped out of insanity.

The other day I wanted to exchange a piece of jewelry, and it had to be done by mail. I wanted to package it properly, spend the least amount of money possible on shipping, and be able to track its arrival. Those were my rules – all seemingly easy to follow. Yet my mind proceeded to engage in a remarkably convoluted and demanding thought process. I had in my possession a used small, bubble envelope, which had been cut off at one end. Would that be all right to reseal with tape? Would it leave enough space on the envelop for the address and for the post office to process? Should I buy a new envelope? Where would I get said envelope? Do they have them at the post office? Would I be better off buying it at the grocery store? During the pandemic, do I really want to spend extra time at the post office buying an envelope and addressing it there? Can I really get tracking with first class or will I have to send it priority? How long will this outing take?

This mental storm continued until I felt paralyzed. I even cried out, “Why is this so COMPLICATED?” As I observed the battlefield of my overwrought mind, I had a new thought: that I should let myself figure it out as I go. I realized I didn’t need to be able to answer all the questions, nor follow any self-inflicted rules on how things had to be in order to go forward. I went with the inclination to pick up a new envelope at the store and reminded myself I would figure it out as I went. The jail door swung open. I suddenly felt free. I had stepped out of insanity.

When I was a kid, I used to trail after my Mom while she did various tasks around the house. Sometimes, after a while of me talking steadily, she’d turn and say, “Enough.” It wasn’t said harshly – it was more of a plea of exhaustion followed by an endearment. I always felt ashamed at those moments, but if I’d been honest with myself I would have admitted that I too was exhausted. Often I was talking in my sleep. Leftover frustration and sadness were driving a somewhat unconscious me; I was distractedly trying to talk my way out of discomfort.

Early in our marriage, my husband described that kind of talking as “searching”; he said it seemed as though I was just talking in search of relief with no real direction. This analysis wasn’t a big hit with me; I felt guilty and defensive. My unhappiness seemed important; my need for comfort, relevant. But he too was exhausted, and though I could not defend this kind of talking, I knew there was something worth defending. I was hoping to hear my own voice, not the scared, negative, reactive one, but the one that knew I was going to be okay, that I was good and valuable, and that my natural state was happy. Little did I know you have to be awake to hear that voice.

I’ve learned that when I feel unhappy, I’m not all the way here. I’ve vacated; now is a stranger to me whether or not I believe I’m in it. I’m standing on the head of the present moment attempting to reach for something else, looking to get to the next thing or just out of where I am. It seems like being unhappy is a sure sign of being where I am and not liking it, but it turns out that is incorrect. What’s happening is that my thinking (and talking) is, at the moment, out of accord with who I really am and what I really want.

We’ve lived in our house for twenty-one years but only recently did we see our first bunny. It arrived with no fanfare, just fur and long ears – so still – a fixture in the grass. Never having seen a rabbit in our backyard before, we experienced the moment as a special occasion and stared at it much the way it seemed to be looking both into and out at life. People can do this kind of seeing too, one with the moment; it’s just that our thinking sometimes gets in the way of us taking in what’s right before us, and what’s actually in us.

My grown son was talking in depressing depth the other day – doubting his ability to go forward with his education, feeling stuck, panicked, and regretting decisions he’d made in the past. At first, I was compelled to argue him point-for-point, trying to disprove his hopelessness. But everything I said just made him argue his position more. Then I started talking about who he is underneath the story he was telling. I spoke of his calm, steady, intelligent self. I talked about how that self is always right here, how it doesn’t go away, regardless of our current narrative.

The truth is, there is reason to love this story.

My character (me), though self-doubting and insecure regarding her ability to accomplish the task, ultimately does so. She keeps trying and, though she falls apart to some degree, never completely unravels. She perseveres and, whether she gives herself credit or not, shows up and accomplishes what she’d set out to do: pick up her damn husband at the damn airport. Plus, if viewed from the right angle, it’s funny.

I actually like quirky, wobbly characters – those who have some of their wires hanging out. I find them endearing. I appreciate stories in which those personalities manage to bloom. When I create characters, these are the types about whom I’m most excited – the awkwardly quiet or loud, the clinically negative or upbeat, the scared ones who still try – whether too hard or not hard enough.

I’ve hated the Picking My Husband Up at the Airport story because I didn’t want to be seen through its lens and didn’t yet understand how to tell the whole story. I am not an insecure, distressed, and disoriented person, but I do act like one sometimes. In order to be comfortable being seen (in the world, and through my work), I have to allow my authentic self to be made visible, and also the asymmetries of this unique vehicle for my expression: my personality. And when we write, it’s the same challenge. We have to appreciate the character’s personality stylings, which can be both endearing and problematic, while simultaneously knowing who they are in their integrity.

At 85, my father went through a brief period in which he was in and out of hospitals. There was a lot of communication between family members regarding what did – or didn’t – need to be done. I found myself mentally on call, though most of the time I was unneeded. The business of waiting for news that I would have to do something put me into a state of hyper alertness more stressful than any event that occurred during that time. I was in mental overdrive. My focus was fixated on a future over which I had no control and on living up to responsibilities I could not yet define. I was overwhelmed – not from what was happening, but by the idea of what might happen.

During World War II, the Nazis developed the Blitzkrieg – in which columns of tanks rushed into Poland, the Netherlands, Belgium, and France. As Ryan Holiday says in his book, The Obstacle Is the Way, the Blitzkrieg was constructed to capitalize on the enemy flinching when faced with what seemed to be an “overwhelming force.” The enemy had to fall apart, otherwise the Blitzkrieg strategy wouldn’t work. It was Dwight D. Eisenhower who demanded his generals no longer see the situation as a disaster. He envisioned taking advantage of the onslaught of Germans, rather than recoiling. They would bend, not break, in the face of the upset. Holiday says the Allies were “. . . able to see the opportunity inside the obstacle rather than simply the obstacle that threatened them.” This new perception helped change the course of the battles to follow.

Sometimes I watch a program called, Dr. Pimple Popper. For the uninitiated: this is a show about a dermatologist who attempts to resolve extreme skin conditions, including the removal of some dramatic, severe lumps and bumps. At first, based on both title and concept, I didn’t understand why anyone would ever want to watch it. I don’t recall what led me to sit through my first episode, but I am now up-to-date and have seen them all. I have discovered why I like to watch it. Most of the patients come in believing they are trapped and diminished by something beyond their control, and leave feeling freed of that sense of limitation. This kind of transformation makes for a satisfying story - though every happy ending marks a new beginning and not everyone is prepared to tend to that themselves.

A recent episode included a woman with lesions and scars, but her previous medical tests showed thickened skin from chronic scratching and rubbing, which meant the damage to her skin was self-created (factitial). There was no skin disease or underlying condition. But the woman didn’t believe she was creating the problem. The doctor told her she had the power to change the pattern. The patient seemed open to the idea at first, but then said, “It just puts the burden back on me.”

Over six months ago, I was summoned for jury duty. As we all know, it’s a very good and noble thing to do one’s civic duty; however, I did not want to go. The other times I’ve been summoned, I was excused. So, with my dad having just died, and one or two other factors at play, I submitted my explanation and hoped to be excused again. This time, though, I was not. My summons was just delayed. During this period I was busy with executor duties, but still able to routinely find the time to dread going to jury duty.

I am a person who is often inclined to stay home. As a child, I remember looking at our pear-shaped, gray tabby, Muffy, wishing for her situation – the permanently excused life of a cat. Though she occasionally ventured out to the front steps of our house to observe life, once done, she could quickly return to the mother ship, something I often wished for at that time.

The first day of jury duty was spent in a very large, open room with floor-to-ceiling windows, a panoramic view of downtown, and lots of people. From 8:30 to 4:30 we waited to be called to a courtroom for voir dire – the jury selection process – but the majority of us were not called. Mostly I didn’t know or understand what was coming next, only that I couldn’t go home. By the end of the next day I was selected for a trial. For a time, my routine involved arriving early at the courthouse, going to the twelfth floor, putting my lunch in the refrigerator, chatting with fellow jurors, following the bailiff, lining up, being instructed, etc.