Designed by Allie Brosh, http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com

This graphic, which Steve emailed to me today, is my life right now. (click to make it bigger)

I feel panicked at the mere idea of adding something else to my plate. Even something as small as shaving my legs a third day a week feels like enough to tip the scale toward crazyland.

I once heard a business guru speak about work quality, and she claimed that most people can do three things in their jobs really well, and two other things pretty well, but when you added more than that to their plates the quality of their overall work begins to slip.

I’ve seen that in action in my own work: I’m a great communications consultant, writer and publications manager. I’m good at building websites and taking photos. But add special events, special projects, committees, and media relations duties and everything suffers. I feel strung out on too many little moving pieces, and then I crash.

I’d say it’s true in my home life as well. When I’m up on paying the bills, making (and shopping for) interesting and nutritious meals and taking care of my daughter, then adding in self-care activities and taking care of pets, housework and taking care of my car suffer. I mean there’s only so much one person can juggle, and I think all of us are trying to juggle too much.

I got an email from Lauren’s new school yesterday that asks for financial donations and volunteers in the classroom and on the PTO. At her previous school, I was the classroom party person, and it was fun. That job’s open in her classroom again, but I can’t click the send button on the email I wrote to her teacher to volunteer. I can’t, even though I want to be the Good Mommy Who Is Involved in Her Kid’s School. On one hand, her dad could step up since he hasn’t on either front (money or volunteering). He could be the supportive parent for now. And thinking that causes monsters to roar. On the other hand, even thinking about adding it to my plate feels like too much, so I am hushing the monsters, kind of, for now.

Which brings this discussion down to its point: Monsters of Shame and Guilt.

I feel ashamed and guilty when I say no to additional tasks even when I know that saying no is healthy–scratch that–self-preserving.

I feel ashamed and guilty that I am unable to everything on my work, home, parenting, relationship and self-care fronts, let alone get an A for quality and effort on all those tasks.

Because we–and by we, I mean women–ASKED for this. We asked to be able to do it all (OK, my mother asked, as I was a wee child during the women’s lib movement). And we got what we asked for.

I’ve been working on cultivating the “Positive No,” which means saying, “No, and …” No, I can’t attend that meeting, and here are my ideas in a nutshell. No, I can’t take on that project, and here’s the name of a good resource to help you instead. No, I can’t meet that deadline, and here’s when I can. It’s hard to do, because it not only requires me to hush the Monsters of Shame and Guilt, but also to be courageous and creative in finding a quick solution/answer for the person asking stuff of me.

Still, it’s so easy to feel overwhelmed. And when I feel overwhelmed, it’s hard to find the sticks of joy, or to be fully present, or to do a good-enough job on anything.

(20 minutes)

Today I watched a couple walk their golden retriever up the street. The dog was lumbering along head down. The people were talking animatedly, paying him no mind.

Then he spotted it: a thin twig, with a thinner twig and leaf on the end. He paused for a mere second to snatch it up in his mouth. And then he skipped. The dog lifted his head, flew his tail like a flag, and skipped along for a good five steps. He was happy to have found his stick.

It was such a simple scene, just two people and a dog, and a stick with a leaf on the end, something you might see any day. But today, in the midst of a big, complicated work project and a not-so-good week at home, it lifted me up. The dog found a stick and it gave him such joy he skipped.

We get busy. We get hurt and defensive. We get focused on tomorrow, the next day, what we don’t have today, the things in our life that we don’t want. We get distracted by our phones, being plugged in 24/7. We forget to look for those little things that make us skip. Or, we see them and we don’t think we can pick them up.

Dogs, of course, don’t have responsibilities (although most golden retrievers would argue that point, as in my experience they believe they have many jobs, such as licking the dishes clean as you put them into the dishwasher and guarding the babies and showing the burglars where the good silver is). From what we can see, they don’t have worries. Their eyes are clear to see the little things that bring them joy.

I need to open my eyes and start looking for those little bits of joy that surround me, and to pick them up. I need to skip.

(20 minutes)

Almost two weeks ago, Steve sold his car, Syd the Psycho Saab. We advertised it for just one day and bam! He was gone, with good riddance. Since then, Steve’s driven his aunt’s Expedition as a loaner as we search for a new car.

By chance, we stumbled on a car broker who seems to have the most integrity of any in his profession. He buys cars at auction and turns them in 48 hours. People come from hundreds of miles away to do business with him. He’s diligently been looking for a car that fits Steve’s criteria: reliable, safe, four doors, under 90,000 miles, under $12,000, and with a sale price of only 85% of the NADA guide rate so we don’t have to bring cash to the table. This will be the most expensive car Steve’s ever owned.

Akram, the broker, first offered him a 2002 Volvo S60 with about 58,000 miles on it, one owner. I used to own this exact car, and I loved it. LOVED. But something about the car was rubbing me the wrong way. Usually when I’m going to buy something big, or do something big, I start seeing that thing EVERYWHERE. During the few days we were waiting for the car to arrive on the truck from auction, I did not see more than a couple of S60s on the road. Even the two I regularly see in my parking garage seemed to have disappeared.

When the car arrived, Akram sent it to a local Volvo dealer to be inspected. Turns out the car had a quirky short in it that took the mechanic almost two days to find. Volvos are known for odd electrical problems, and if a car has one, it will have more. Given the fact that Steve was spending about $250 a month on repairs to Syd and the goal of getting a new car was to stay away from the car shop, we decided to pass.

As soon as we decided not to buy it, I started seeing S60s everywhere. It was like the universe had made them invisible to me as a sign to pass on this car.

Akram did not push, just dropped the subject completely (and sold the car to someone else that day). He suggested Steve look at Audi A4s, and has since found a couple of them. He will not sell us one, he says, that hasn’t had the timing belt and water pump replaced at 60,000 miles. He bought a gorgeous 2005 model (red with tan interior). And then, he returned it when the mechanic found it needed a major sensor–about $1,000 just for the part–that would almost guarantee future problems.

Now he ‘s bringing in a 2005 A4 with fewer miles on it than the red one. It also has the “sport package,” which makes the car more valuable. And yet, Akram says he will sell it to Steve for the same price as the red car. It’s on its way to Denver on a truck right now. We’re hoping this is the one, especially since it’s been 90+ and the Expedition has no air conditioning.

I’ve been seeing A4s everywhere for the past week. Today, as I was thinking about how the universe speaks to me in metaphors and symbols, how it shows me the path if I just look for it, I pulled up into an intersection at a red light. To my left, were two Audi A4s. Across the way was an Audi SUV and an A6, behind me, another Audi grille.

I felt like I was seeing double. I knew I was seeing a sign that we are on the right path with this car, and also with this broker.

(20 minutes, or thereabouts)

Back in 2004, during my divorce, I lost almost 40 pounds. To celebrate, I bought myself a whole new wardrobe, some of it full-price (which I rarely do). The one item I still have: a pair of burgundy Bandolino pumps, with pointy toes and tassels.

I love these shoes. I’ve loved them to death, to the point where I’m walking on nails, the soles are shot, the leather on the toes has rubbed off. In other words, they’re pretty trashed.

But I can’t bear to let them go. They are the perfect 2.5 inch height. They are comfortable–I’ve shopped the mall for hours in them. I’ve taken them to the shoe repair and learned that they can be rehabbed–kind of. They can’t guarantee a match if they dye the leather. Re-sole-ing and new heels will cost more than I paid for the shoes in the first place.

I’m not usually attached to an article of clothing. I purge my closets often and easily. But these shoes feel like treasures to me, as trashed as they are.

Today, I wore them to work, and as I was rounding a corner on the tile floors, I almost lost it. If I hadn’t caught myself on the handrail that’s leftover from my building’s days as an army hospital, I would have been a yard sale on the floor. In the moment between falling and catching myself, I called myself stupid and lazy for not getting the dumb shoes fixed.

Then, an hour later, I was listening to Hiro Boga talk about the idea of sovereignty: that at a soul level, we are whole. That we need nothing more than what we are right now to be queen of our inner kingdoms. That we have the right, and the power, to stand in our truth. That we have independent authority over our lives, even though we’ve been raised quite to the contrary.

And I know there is a connection here, between sovereignty and holding onto the shoes, and nearly falling, and catching myself, and calling myself names. It’s just out of my grasp. Maybe I’m standing in my truth by holding onto the shoes. Or maybe I’m holding myself back by holding onto the shoes.

Or maybe it’s not about the shoes at all, but rather the fact that my first inclination is to call myself names at the first sign of a mistake, no matter how tiny. Beating myself up is certainly not being the queen of my inner kingdom … more like being the dominatrix, or the assassin.

(20 minutes … stretched out over an hour due to convos with Steve.)

Tonight Lauren and I went through her closet to figure out what she really has to wear.  The answer: A lot. Three pairs of jeans, three pairs of shorts, a couple of skirts, four leggings. A few dresses, some T-shirts, a sweater or two.

Even after filling up two kitchen trash bags with clothes, her closet is full. Everything in it fits her, at least for now. She’s grown a half-inch since her birthday in June. She needs a couple of things, like some brown leggings and, when the weather gets colder, a few more long-sleeved shirts and a new pair of snowboots. To think I had planned to drop a few hundred bucks on school clothes next paycheck.

She was amazed at how much she has too, and how many outfits she can make by mixing and matching before she’d repeat one (unless she wants to). She’s started making a section for “this week’s outfits,” planning them out ahead of time.

She told me, “When my clothes were all smooshed in there, when they weren’t organized, I couldn’t even see what I had, and I felt like I had nothing.”

That’s quite a philosophical statement from a 9 year old.

How much of my life don’t I see because it’s all squished up and disorganized? How much of yours don’t you see?

I think that in our culture, we are addicted to piling more and more stuff–experiences, things, friends, pets, you name it–into our lives because we feel disconnected from ourselves, and from the great I Am that made us and everything in the Universe. We feel that disconnection as a vast emptiness we need to fill up. But we don’t know we’re full of stuff we don’t want, like, need–stuff that doesn’t fit us–because everything is smooshed inside us. We continue adding to our lives, not realizing that what we really need to do is pull everything out of the closet, sort it into Keep, Trash and Donate piles. To let go of everything that no longer fits us, or serves us. And maybe by doing this, we realize how full we really are.

I also think that in times of great ambiguity, when we’re not certain if the yuck we’re in is going to end soon, we feel this disconnection the most. I know I do. I don’t do gray areas well. When I’m in them at their most ambiguous, I shop. Or I eat. Or I shop as I eat. To fill the void.

I wonder how I’d feel if instead I began to purge (well, not in the finger-down-the-throat sense). Cleaned out my own house. Inventoried my life. Put down the strawberry ice cream. I wonder what I’d notice that I have, and I wonder if I’d feel more connected and less empty. I wonder if I would handle the gray area with less anxiety.

(20 minutes-ish).