Practice

I'm chopping vegetables in my cooking class as we prepare our dish for the week. "How are you so good at that?" a student asks.

"Practice." I tell them.

My art class starts with a 3-minute drawing warm up. Silly things, like a giraffe changing a lightbulb. "How are you so good at drawing?" a student asks.

"Practice," I tell them.

Our days are peppered with experiences and memories. Some make us feel good. Some make us feel bad. And sometimes it's complicated. Even a good experience or memory can sometimes take us someplace unpleasant. Our metaphorical sea of emotions can feel like it is churning. Or maybe it feels more like a murky swamp. Or still, but not peaceful. Rather, lifeless.

The reasons for feeling encumbered by life are nearly endless. We face challenges in our personal, professional, and family lives. We navigate living in community and being part of society. We have struggles coping with world events - even when our only experience with them is from the privileged position of learning about them on the news.

As we journey through this season of merry and mirth, these feeling can become magnified and multiplied. The holidays can have a way of intensifying our troubles or adding more. We may find the water a bit too deep for comfort. Maybe the waves are starting to look scary. Do we know how to swim?

My mom took me to my first swim lessons when I was just a baby. I don't remember them, but I know the story. Standing in the water, baby, me, in hand, the instructor told the class to raise baby up (I imagine like Sima in the Lion King), then shove baby under water, then pull her out. It was not uncommon for babies to come up from this experience distraught. I apparently came up giggling. I've always loved to swim.

I had lessons on how to swim in literal water, and with all that practice, I am pretty good. But the metaphorical waters of emotion? I found myself in my early twenties, an adult, struggling. Struggling to swim. Struggling to tread water. Struggling to splash up some excitement when everything lifeless. Struggling to even read the waters and understand what I was swimming in.

Now, a decade and a half later, I've had some practice and picked up some practices. Some I worked out on my own. Some practices I picked up in therapy, or from friends. I learned the power of perspective, that not every wave is a tidal wave. I learned how to look around, when I find myself in a swamp to see little wonders of joy and be less bothered by the muck. I learned how to choose what waves to ride, and which waves to just let pass by. I learned acceptance and how to find peace when my waters are still or stormy. I practiced.

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I'm up north with my grandma, visiting my parents. We're in the car and my mom is having a hard time. I don't remember the exact details of this exchange, but I know they boil down to the fact that she's dying and royally pissed off about it. Once my best friend, my relationship with my mom had become rather difficult. She was mad. She was mean. It was hard.

Later, alone with my grandma, she told me "I thought you handled that with your mother well, very diplomatic."

Practice.

Over time, many of my practices have become second nature, but sometimes, especially when I'm tired, feeling down, stressed - I need a refresher. Some practice.

For me, that often means starting with a check in on my internal monologue. Some people like to use positive affirmations, but telling myself "I am - insert positive affirmation here -" tends to land as pretty insincere when the message comes from the same person who once wrote a note to herself that read "You are a trash human."

Instead, I start with some perspective change and acceptance. For example, "You are a trash human" turns into "it's ok if you feel like a trash human." It's no longer a declarative statement, it's validation of a feeling, and feelings can change.

I practice finding and choosing joy in even the smallest of things and swampiest of places - humor when things go awry, wonder at the designs the frost has formed on this inside of my windshield. Or manufacturing some joy through making art, through serving others, through being in community.

And when all else fails for me, I listen to The Mountain Goats. Of course, that is the case regardless of my disposition, so this might be more of a habit than a practice, but I find comfort in the evocative yet familiar lyrics of John Darnielle. He has a way of shifting perspectives and painting a picture of hope in bleak circumstances. In this one, we are out at sea, but perhaps it is not a literal sea - it's called Tidal Wave.