My mom is visiting on her annual migration from Mexico to Toronto, by way of Colorado. She lives six months of the year outside Guadalajara, six months in Toronto. Many might think it’s dangerous to live alone, in Mexico, as a single woman in her eighties, but she brushes off their concerns. “People underestimate the people of Mexico. And me.”

To Mom, life is meant to be lived as an adventure, full of discovery and learning. 

While I was growing up in Toronto, Mom held an Honors degree in Physical Education. She coached her Track and Field teams to record-breaking victories at the Ontario Provincial finals. (Her way of coaching me was to toss my running shoes outside, then me, and shut the door.)

When Mom was 49, she changed course. She went back to school to get her Masters in Art History. To others, it was an unexpected divergence, but it made sense to her. She loved sports and she also loved Art. Where was the contradiction? Again, life was meant to be lived as an adventure, and one immersed fully in learning and discovery.

When people questioned her decision to switch from what she knew to something new and different, Mom marveled at how people could ignore the gravitational pull of their curiosity. She’d say, “Doesn’t everybody look at a painting and wonder, Who came up with that idea? and What does it say about who we are as humans?” She often took us to the Art Gallery of Ontario in Toronto and had us notice the small details in giant paintings. How many tulips do you count in the bottom right? What else can you learn about it while looking? For Mom, studying Art was the next logical step in a life devoted to discovery.

Each spring, when she arrives at our home in Colorado, we make a new painting to hang on the front wall of our home. It’s kind of a funny thing to do to display Art outside the house, but it makes me happy. I am not a painter, but I love color and paint. Plus it feels good to do something for the sheer delight of it. We include Mom, her grandchildren, and many of the neighborhood kids in the making of the painting. The tradition started when I wanted to paint the whole house a different color and my husband did not. Until we could agree on what to do, he suggested I paint a giant canvas and hang it next to our front door.

Eventually, I let go of the idea of painting our brick house, but we continue to make fresh paintings for the wall out front every season. They are less like paintings and more like posters, with bold blocks of color and almost no shading. Shading takes skill and time, something we don’t have. 

It’s raining outside so Mom, my daughter Hazel, and I work on the living room floor. The Brave over Perfect moment here is allowing the painting to be bad. We think of it as play, not product. We have to work fast before the dog walks across the fresh paint. As we paint, we talk. Hazel asks Mom, “What was it like being in your 20s during the 1960s?” Mom responds quickly, “If you remember the 60s, you weren’t there.” She can always make me laugh. 

Minutes later, Mom wants to show Hazel a picture of Leonardo DaVinci’s “The Last Supper.” She accidentally types into Google, “DaVinci Last SUMMER.” Google understands what she means and offers up images of the famous painting, but it’s too late. The idea is too absurd. Mom takes hold of it and comes up with different scenarios for DaVinci’s last summer. “Can you imagine DaVinci on the beach, frail in a speedo, ordering his last fruity drink with an umbrella in it?” We get the giggles and can’t stop. We have to put our paintbrushes down. 

I’m writing on the cusp of Mother’s day, thinking about the many gifts my mother has given me. Laughter, yes. A love of athletics, literature and Art, yes. But the gift I am most grateful for at the middle place in my life is Mom’s ability to follow her curiosity without concern.

It’s easy for me to be hard on myself when I take the time to paint instead of work or write, for example. I see it as a flaw, like I don’t have the metal it takes to pick one thing and go all the way with it. 

My mother doesn’t ruminate or dwell; she prefers to lean toward what is delicious and delightful.

Today, I am choosing to look at life through Mom’s radiant lens. I am crawling around a canvas on the living room floor with my daughter and my mother, wondering what shade of pink to use for clouds at sunset. I want to capture this moment and frame it. I am keenly aware of how precious it is and fleeting. So while I am already on my knees, covered in paint, I bow down in gratitude for the gift of my Mom. 

Happy Mother’s Day!!

Love,

Susie

I’m playing with the idea of let loose instead of let go. Here’s what I mean. To let go completely is too much pressure. But to let loose is bite-sized, doable, a step forward in the right direction. I want to let go of control. I’ve been gripping too tightly to things not working out the way I want them to lately and it’s making me suffer. The Brave over Perfect move this week is to let loose instead of let go. 

A few examples. When my child doesn’t do her homework, I play a high-speed game called “Then what?” in my head. It goes like this: “If she doesn’t do her homework. Then what? Then she doesn’t pass the class. Then what? Then she won’t get into a good Arts college. Then what? Then she won’t make it as an adult, alone. Then what? She’ll end up on the streets with really high credit card debt and it’s my fault because I didn’t teach her responsibility.” Except I’ve been playing this game so long that my mind goes straight from “missing homework” to “kid on the streets” with a heavy dose of “it will be my fault.”

I think, Let go. She’ll be fine. Who cares about homework? But the next minute, I walk into her room, see her on her phone, and lose my mind. Instead of letting go, I pull her school books out of her backpack for her. What am I doing? Why can’t I let go? Well, in part, because she is still my responsibility. So maybe I can’t let go because it feels irresponsible. 

But can I let loose? Can I loosen the tunnel vision I’ve had of her ending up on the streets to a wider view? A view that includes at least one alternative? Like maybe she misses a few credit card payments as an adult like I did, has consequences, learns to take responsibility, and is fine. Like maybe she does end up on the streets, but now I see her busking, and doing pretty well. When I wiggle my tight grip loose like a tooth, I feel expansive, lighter. It reminds me of when I discovered the beauty of the word Sometimes. 

Another example. A friend of mine’s son didn’t get into the college he wanted. Worse, his two best friends did get in. My friend is watching her son’s pain and feels terrible for him. She is trying to let go, but she can’t. She wants to fix this for him. She keeps calling the admissions office to see if he can appeal. It’s a natural response to fight for the people we love. Until, at some point, there is nothing we can do to help them. 

If we trust the universe when we get in somewhere, then we also have to trust the universe when we don’t.

She is having a tough time sleeping. She tells me, “I know I need to let go, but I can’t.” So we try this idea of “let loose.” Can she widen or loosen her gaze? Can she imagine a future for her son that is less tight than landing at the perfect school? I also suggest that maybe she is trying too hard to let go. After all, our biological nature is to protect our children. But is her long term view of her son’s path too tight? What part of the story can she loosen by widening her gaze?

She calls me back to say that she is sleeping better. “Want to know the crazy thing? She asks. “It is like wiggling a tooth loose. I didn’t have to yank it out; it just fell out on its own! My version of letting loose was saying, ‘I’ll call the admissions office on Friday, but not today.’ I didn’t let go completely, but just a little. Then by the time Friday came around, I FORGOT to call. And I didn’t feel bad. I felt better. Now we’re planning a fun trip to visit the schools that he got into.”

In my experience, it works out well in the end, we just can’t see how from our limited vantage point. But it’s too much pressure to try to let go of our vision of how things should go completely. It feels doable to let loose – to look out at the world with our peripheral vision. It helps me to remember how much my own path has zig-zagged. And how happy I am that I didn’t follow the narrow, tight vision that my parents may have had, or I may have had for myself in the beginning.  

This week, don’t try so hard to let go. Instead, can you loosen just one part of your grip or your view? Can you take one tiny step forward by seeing the world with your full, peripheral vision: expansive, open, loose? Notice how the twigs on each branch are loosening their tight buds and opening up. Tender dark shoots uncurling now. Soon, loose, green leaves waving in the sun. 

Love,

Susie

***

Waiting is not my forté. Though I’ve gotten much better at it. I’ll show you how. I am waiting for scan test results (every 3 months I have routine scans to watch for tumor activity), Cole is waiting to hear back from colleges, Hazel is waiting for a package she ordered, Leo is waiting to go for a walk, and Kurt is waiting for all of us to be a little less anxious and cranky while we wait. 

Even if you are not waiting for something in particular, we are all waiting for COVID-19 to be a thing of the past. Aren’t we? Katharine Sweeny, PhD, researches how to make waiting easier and has come up with two surprising techniques. I’ve added a third that works for me and many of my clients. 

Sweeny’s research found that common strategies like distraction and bracing for the worst actually exacerbate the pain of waiting. What helps? 

1. Focus on the present with 15 minutes of meditation a week

Regret keeps us stuck in the past and worry throws us into an unstable future, so continually recover your balance in the present. Think of three things that you are grateful for today and say them out loud. Feel all the feelings now rather than push them away. And even you restless folks might want to give meditation another chance when you hear about Kate Sweeny’s study. She focused on 150 California Law students who took the bar exam and were waiting for their exam results. During the four-month waiting period, the students were asked to participate in a 15-minute audio-guided meditation session at least once a week. “Meditation isn’t for everyone, but our study shows that you don’t have to be a master meditator…to benefit from mindfulness,” Sweeny said. “Even 15 minutes once a week, which was the average amount of meditation practiced by our participants, was enough to ease the stress of waiting.”

2. Cultivate a sense of wonder. Have a mini awe-inspiring moment

Sweeny and her team did a second study. This time over 700 students took a fake intelligence exam. While they waited for results, the researchers showed one group a powerful video of a sunrise set to instrumental music, a second group a happy-but-not-awe-inducing video of cute animal couples, and a third group a neutral video of how padlocks are made. “Our research shows that watching even a short video that makes you feel awe can make waiting easier, boosting positive emotions that can counteract stress in those moments,” Sweeny said. This study validated my wacky idea that cultivating wonder is a precursor to joy. But how do we define “awe”? Scientists agree that it involves a feeling of vastness. Some simple ways to induce awe include: watch a Planet Earth video, commit to going somewhere to catch the sunset or sunrise, look up at the stars on a dark night, listen to an audio clip of Carl Sagan’s A Pale Blue Dot while watching footage of the Earth as seen from space, consider how the trees have been dormant for months and yet come back to life each spring. How do you cultivate a state of wonder, especially now? Where do you find mini awe-inspiring moments?

3. Flip What If? To Why Not? 

My friend Kari inspired me to try this simple, effective technique. When we are waiting, it’s easy to worry and spiral down the negative “What if?” chain, “What if the medical test results are bad? What if I get rejected from every college? What if my package is lost? Often “What if?” questions feel like predictions and they catapult us out of the present into a scary future. They are not predictions, they are only the mind trying to respond to uncertainty. 

Try flipping the question from What if? to Why not? 

• Why not picture everything working out for the best? 
• Why not give yourself permission to rest or play while you wait? 
• Why not trust that you are resilient and resourceful, no matter what the results?  

Waiting can be brutal. But it doesn’t have to take over our lives. These techniques might be worth trying. Why not? 😉

Love,

Susie

image credit: ignant.com

We have COVID. Or had COVID (we just ended our quarantine). Kurt tested positive first. We locked him in the basement; the kids left food and water outside his door, wearing two masks and gloves. I disinfected the entire house and sat outside in three pairs of long underwear, thinking. The virus we feared for ten months was suddenly in our home. As one friend put it, it was like being at the moment of impact in a slow-moving car crash. Now what?

The Settlers of Catan. That’s what. Upstairs, the kids and I played that board game for days. Below us, we could hear Kurt typing on his computer (he is a loud typer!), and practicing his electric guitar. Then suddenly we didn’t hear a thing. I texted him. “Are you ok?” 

“Need more Tylenol.” He wrote back. He couldn’t get out of bed. His fever spiked. For two nights, I went bat sh*t with worry. 

Turns out, Kurt had a painful sinus infection on top of COVID. With a round of antibiotics, he recovered quickly. He was among the privileged few. But there was a mental and emotional toll to being isolated in a dark room for ten days. 

He told us later, “I prefer to be alone. But this was different. I could hear you guys but I couldn’t see you. It wasn’t being sick that was hard, it was being invisible. And having the world be invisible too. Mentally, I fell into a dark hole.”

Illness, in my experience, is always a separation. There is the pain of the sickness, and then there is the pain of disconnection from your body and from others. Everyone understands this now, during the pandemic.

The next time the kids and I went to get tested, we were positive. Now all of us had COVID. I was surprised that my first reaction was to hide and not to tell anyone. COVID shame is real. But I also didn’t want others to worry alongside me. How would my immune system, weakened from radiation and chemotherapy, handle this? 

If illness is a separation, then the process of healing is about reuniting with what makes you whole. I needed to connect with Nature and with Kurt again. I needed to reconnect with my body as a healthy system instead of the diseased betrayer of my trust that first got cancer and now COVID.

I finally ignored the urges to hide and reached out for help. Soup and juice and puzzles showed up at our doorstep, reconnecting us to the kind world beyond our disinfected doorway. (Thank you!! @phyllisrogers @rachelleclements @debbiemcgrath @teresachapman)

Here’s what else I did that you might want to try: I chose to reunite with the 99% of my body that was healthy rather than the 1% that was sick. I loved up my immune system. No, really. I lay on the floor and thanked every tiny, mighty, fighting T-cell. I told my body that I loved it. I told my lungs what a good job they were doing. I even pictured the beautiful order of the planets and stars. I thought about how everything fit together and how I was a part of that order. 

I also had my doctor on speed dial and took extreme amounts of Vitamin D, C and Zinc. 

Cancer has prepared our family to handle scary uncertainties. Some things we’ve learned: 

• Stay firmly in the moment and feel all the feels
• Do not indulge the anxious “what ifs”
• Be extra kind and gentle with one another  
• Love up what works, what is good, and what is funny

Ultimately, we had mild cases with very few symptoms. We slept and slept (have you seen @napministry? Naps as soul care!) COVID finally gave up and went away. We don’t take our privilege for granted. 

How we got COVID is unclear. The obvious reason is that we traveled when we should not have. But the timing and several negative tests long afterwards make it less obvious. The truth is, we don’t know. Like so much else about this disease, we may never fully understand. (And I still don’t understand how to play Catan.) 

Today I went for a x-country ski in the park. I skied and thanked my lungs and the cold blue air after weeks of clouds. I mentally thanked all the cute people skiing around in circles for their company. I feel worn out from endless stress and sanitizing, but I also feel elated. I can trust my body. It hasn’t betrayed me all these years; it’s been saving my life.

Love,

Susie

If wonder is the precursor to joy, how can we help each other kindle moments of wonder? Can we give our dearest ones gifts or moments that foster curiosity, creativity, and astonishment?

When we practice pursuing wonder, we can find joy. The goal is to get out of our heads and grown-up thinking, and into our child bodies. Wonder requires zero talent or skill.

Have you ever been in a hot tub or sauna and hopped out of it to roll in the snow? With naked legs and bare feet, you run across the freezing ground, screaming? Then when you finally roll in the snow, your skin tingles all over? That feeling is wonder. Hazel and I tried this at the rec center recently. It cost $5.

Pick someone and become their “Wonder Buddy.” Ask them, When have you felt wonder? Or What are you curious about trying? Next, make it your job to foster their sense of wonder all next year. (You can call yourselves the Wonder Twins. No one in the Justice League cartoon will mind.) For example) Ever since watching My Octopus Teacher, I want to learn to hold my breath under water longer, so that one day I could free dive. My Wonder Buddy would remind me to reserve a lane at the rec center to practice. (Did you know you can’t get Covid-19 in the water?)

Wonder is smaller than joy. Like the word “jot” is to writing a novel. (Thank you, Seth Godin) Like “whim” is to running a marathon. Like sketch is to building a cabin or painting a landscape.

The top three ways to kindle wonder are: 1) learn something new 2) create with your hands 3) spend time outside with nowhere to be.

Think of something you could do with your Wonder Buddy (ies) this holiday season. Here are seven silly ideas to get you started:

• Fill the birdfeeder and watch what comes.
• Invest in a wildlife camera; see what passes by in the night.
• Get up early enough to watch the sunrise.
• Make a point of being outside and IN the sunset.
• Learn to identify trees by their twigs.
• Listen to Tchaikovsky’s “Waltz of the Snowflakes” and embody the freedom of snow falling. (Thank you Ms. Seham and Siobhan Burke in the NYT)
• There’s always dinner with a squirrel. I found this guy on our local “Craigslist” (Kijiji in Canada) who makes tiny picnic benches for squirrels to sit and enjoy their nuts (and leave your birdfeeder alone!) I bought one yesterday for a friend and plan on mounting it to her tree this week.

I am looking for a Wonder buddy. I’ll nudge you to do whatever lights up your curiosity if you will nudge me to learn to free dive and hold my breath longer under water. And remind me how to knit hats. And make snow angels with me in the park.

I’m fairly certain that pursuing wonder is like dropping bread crumbs to joy. Like paying attention is to prayer. I’ll leave you with this gem by Mary Oliver.
Love,
Susie

Praying
It doesn’t have to be the
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.
–Mary Oliver. Thirst.

It began with the fires. Then it continued because Covid-19 continues. Then anxiety around my scans added a level of intensity to the exercise. I am talking about “Döstädning” or Swedish Death Cleaning. Have you heard of it? 

I’ve purged my stuff before, following Marie Kondo’s advice to keep only objects that “spark joy.” But it often seems more complicated. What if the object sparks nostalgia? Or gratitude? Or is part of my identity? Maybe it is time for a new cleaning idea. Hence, “Swedish Death Cleaning.” 

The Swedes are so practical. Margareta Magnussen, the author of The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning says, “I am between 80 and 100 years old…Death cleaning is not about dusting or mopping up; it is about a permanent form of organization that makes your everyday life run more smoothly.” She finds joy in giving things away and is committed to not leave a mess for her children to have to clean up after she passes.

What if I tame my closets as a way to prepare for death? And also update our wills and get our finances in order? It’s not as dark or as sad as it sounds. It’s completely liberating. 

Let me be clear: I am not planning on dying soon. Quite the opposite. I am treasuring my life more than ever. It’s just that every three months, I spend four hours inside MRI machines, getting scanned from head to toe to see how the tumors in my skull and on my spine are doing. Then I wait about two weeks for my doctors to find a coordinated time when they can discuss the results with me. While I wait, I am forced to face my mortality. 

What if we all intentionally faced our mortality? Could it make us live better now?

Swedish death cleaning is one way to start. Here’s what happened yesterday. I was getting rid of things I had accumulated and making piles. Piles of things to donate, some to sell, and some to add to the landfill. Then I came across running medals that I earned winning races. I took them down from the wall in the laundry room, and put them in the “landfill” pile. Then I pulled them out of the pile and put them back on the wall. I took them off the wall again, and wondered if they should be donated. Who could use old medals? I decided that only I could, and put them back on the wall again. 

What the heck was going on? Why was it so hard to let them go? They were dusty and covered in cobwebs. I rarely looked at the medals and no one else saw them next to the washing machine. My choice was to move them somewhere more visible, leave them where they were, or get rid of them. I didn’t think I cared about the medals, and I knew I didn’t want to display them more prominently, so it seemed obvious that I needed to let them go. But I couldn’t do it.  

What was I afraid of? Did I think I would forget that I won those races? Or that my children, after I’m gone, might not remember what I had accomplished? The medals were triggering an array of emotions that caught me by surprise. This simple exercise was forcing me to reckon with my death and the death of my identity as an athlete and a champion. There is a difference between intellectually understanding that no one or nothing lasts forever and actually processing the feelings around that fact. When it comes down to it, letting go is really hard. 

The only thing we can count on is that we are going to die. Why don’t we have a ritual to teach us about how to die with grace? Or how to face the loss of someone we love? Or how to let go of parts of our identity, so that we can move on? 

Western traditions are about adding or acquiring things on our birthdays and holidays. Where is the holiday that is about letting go? 

The Buddhists say. “The more you let go, the more you can receive.” Being forced to face death is difficult, but it also roots me strongly to what really matters: relationships and experiences. With fewer things to have to put away, I find I have more time and less stress. Last night, instead of tidying up after dinner, the kids and I made chocolate fondue and played cards.

I confess. I kept a few medals. I thanked the others and let them go. But having to make the choice helped me to see something important. I may no longer be competing in races, but running has given me discipline, endurance, and life-long friendships. I don’t need to fear letting that part go. I’ve integrated running into who I am. 

Let me know what time of year you think we should have a holiday about letting go. What would we do and what food would we eat? What would we call it? “Swedish Death Cleaning Holiday” doesn’t have the best ring to it. I am open to ideas. These days I’m open to everything that allows us to go deep into life. 

Love,

Susie

***

Four years ago, I was diagnosed with a terminal disease and we elected a leader who ruled with fear. I was sick and the country was sick. I was afraid and the country was afraid. It was exhausting. And it didn’t feel like me to be scared, angry, and sick all the time. I learned to meditate and I listened. I listened deeply to find out What was underneath all this fear? It was not comfortable. I prefer movement to sitting still. In the quiet, all I heard was the loud, fast-paced, and mean voice of Fear. But eventually I felt the steady presence of joy. It wasn’t even joy at first. It was more like a calm current of possibility. And that felt more like me. When I tapped into what was underneath the fear, the real healing began. What I want for this country is what I want for myself: to feel more like who we truly are. Beautiful, powerful, and connected to place and to one another.    

Disease and division don’t have to be our identity unless we want them to be. It’s time for healing. It’s time to shine the light on places of division and disease and watch fear shrink from the light. Our tired bodies will slowly heal and learn that it’s okay to exhale. We can listen and find out that we are not what the headlines say we are. 

Mr. Rogers said, “When I was a boy, and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.””

We are hard-wired to help one another. Everywhere I look, I see helpers; people who are trying to make the country, and the world, better. And statistically-speaking, each of us is related to someone who has a very different idea of which direction this country should go in. The kind of brave we need right now is to listen, to seek to understand, and not to convince. That’s how healing happens. Listen for the fear, and then listen underneath the fear. From that place of common humanity, we can be the helpers that our children are looking for each day.

Love,

Susie

***

image credit: theatlantic.com