"Acting As If"

I remember my  first job out of college, working in the mountains at a residential treatment center for children who had been removed from their homes due to emotional problems. They lived in small cottages with staff who supervised their daily activities and provided a stable environment for them to learn and grow, and hopefully return home. My interview there was my first, and only, interview as a new graduate, and I decided to show up as the outgoing, confident young woman I wanted to become. When they hired me, I had to step into that persona and be that adult.

For years I thought I had followed the advice to 'act as if' when I accepted that job, that I pretended to be outgoing and slowly became outgoing as a result, doing something until it seems real. In grad school I was taught it was helpful for clients to learn this skill, and it is still promoted in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. "Whatever you want to be, just do it long enough and you'll become it. Talk yourself out of your anxiety and just fake it til you make it. Your fears will then be a thing of the past."

I now have serious doubts about those statements. Was it really acting as if I were outgoing that helped me move past my shyness, or did I simply take actions to move in that direction despite my fears? Did my thoughts actually change as I took risks, did I suddenly stop being afraid, or did I simply begin living a life I enjoyed and my worries became less important?

I vote for the second explanation. The evidence?  I still feel anxiety in many situations. My shyness still pokes out in unexpected places. My thoughts still take odd turns and tell me to become more invisible and less 'out there.' That first job was 38 years ago, and those thoughts still haunt me. They should be gone by now if 'acting as if' were enough.

In my work with athletes, they often share with me the advice they receive from their coaches or trainers: "Focus. Concentrate. Get rid of the negative thoughts. Tell yourself positive thoughts." These are athletes who have no problem spending hours repeating the same putt over and over to increase their skill, or weeks perfecting the approach to a jump in the riding arena. They aren't slackers when it comes to working hard to improve their skills. They tackle their negative thoughts with the same enthusiasm, only to find they keep sneaking back in, sometimes quietly and sometimes with a huge roar.

Which is why I don't bother with 'acting as if.' I share the lesson I took away from that first job: show up, know why you are there, and do something. I did things in that job that scared me. I learned to speak up and voice my opinion when I was afraid I'd look stupid. I didn't wait for the fear to go away or pretend it wasn't there. I took action even though I was scared, or shy or unsure. I showed up at meetings, I confronted people when it was appropriate, I set limits with the kids, I learned to say no. I focused on the task, on the 'doing,' and not on faking it. I paid attention to what I cared about, and that was being real, being present, and doing good work. I pay attention to the same things to this day.

New Year's Resolutions...and Why They Backfire

I used to start  a new year making sweeping plans, setting unrealistic but great sounding goals, and promising to be a better person. This was what I was told would work, that having goals would help motivate me, spur me to action that I otherwise had been avoiding. It sure sounded good, and while the intention and desire for change were there, the follow through somehow rarely happened. I would do a few things, make a few attempts at new behaviors, and quickly find myself exactly where I had started, only feeling guiltier than when I began because I had not only not achieved amazing results, I was now a failure on top of it all.

I cannot tell the number of times I have gone to bed at night promising to 'eat less' or 'run further' or 'keep my desk cleaned off' the next day, only to fail miserably. If I can't make it one day, how can I possibly make it a whole year. I've tried positive affirmations: 'You are a great runner,' 'You are a naturally organized person.' But my mind knows the truth: that I can be lazy, messy and eat foods that aren't in my best interest for either weight or health. That smart alecky mind inevitably comes up with the counters to those positives and I feel defeated before I begin.

So do I simply give up? If setting concrete goals or repeating positive affirmations doesn't work am I doomed to failure? Only if I keep trying the same thing expecting a different result. What I have learned over time is that the approach is wrong...making resolutions and repeating positive affirmations actually works against achieving what I want. They depend on willpower, which has been suggested to be a depletable resource. What does that mean? That the more of it you use making one change, the less of it there is for other changes. According to this view, the more effort I put into going to the gym each day, the less I have available for resisting the cookie after my workout.

In addition, we are fairly poor at predicting the effects of changes in our lives, believing that 'if I just lose 10 pounds I will be happier' although this has rarely proven to be true. Yes, for some people living in a climate with more sunshine helps with mood, but is it only the sun or is it the willingness to get out more and engage in activities that makes the difference? For those of us who live in gray, rainier climes and are willing to get out despite the weather, the negative effects of the lack of sun seem to be less. So is the the light or the movement? Was I really happier when I weighed a few pounds less? Did I feel more productive and charming? Or was it the working out and eating less sugar that helped me feel better about myself, because I have noticed that my moods seem to be more responsive to those changes whether the few pounds are there or not.

Which brings me to the real point...it is ultimately my movement that will make the difference in my life. Stopping to evaluate meaningful life values, what I want to stand for and have my life stand for points me in a direction I care about. Once I know what matters to me, the effort is simply taking tiny steps in that direction. Each step moves me towards something I care about, and that becomes a reward in itself. It is less black and white: did I lose 10 pounds or not; and more gray: did I eat mindfully today, did I go to the gym today even though I felt like sleeping in. Small wins actually make me feel better than the random big ones. I celebrate the baby steps and worry less about the grand goals.

My values reflect who I want to be, what I want to work towards, what feels important. Steps taken in service of those values feel important, and I am more forgiving when I veer off course knowing I only have to climb back to the path and continue my journey in the direction I want to be going. Perfectionism has never worked for me, I fail every time. My desk will probably always tend to become messy, yet I know I will continue to take time to clear it off because I want to work in a calm environment where I can focus my attention on things that matter, and the clutter can get in the way of that. That somehow motivates me more than 'I should be neater,' and it's actually much easier to accomplish. My mind doesn't even argue with itself loudly enough for me to notice. It tends to go along with the smaller steps, which makes it easier to hold lightly the criticisms that I won't be successful when I focus on the larger, less value based goals.

Committed action, in service of my values, is what I celebrate. And so I begin the new year as I ended the past one: one step at a time.

Riding My Own Ride

For the past eight years I have ridden pillion with my husband, sharing the same small space together on the same bike. He has been the driver and I have been his teammate, navigator and fellow competitor. But now I am riding my own bike, following at a slight distance behind him, no longer dependent on him to make all the decisions about how to handle the bike.

It's great fun steering my own bike, making my own mistakes and pushing myself to try on a new challenge. My years of riding with my husband are paying off...I have a natural feel for what to do having experienced so many different situations in all our time together. I understand what wind or rain feels like, what the bike will do when it's going too slow or too fast, and how to maneuver through curves and traffic.

The critical learning is that no matter what is happening, I have to be riding my own ride. I typically follow him when we are riding together, allowing my concentration to be on improving my ability to navigate through different situations and circumstance rather than where we are going. I feel a bit more comfortable figuring out my pace and style when I am not being followed by a more experienced rider.

And therein lies the critical issue: I have to ride my own ride. The very first time we rode together I mistakenly believed I had to keep up with him, particularly when we came to stop signs and decisions to move through them. I failed to acknowledge my own experience and felt I had to do what he did. A couple of times I almost fell when I had to suddenly stop for an approaching car that he easily cleared but I didn't have the space to do the same. I then had to spend time calming down, and in the process I felt my confidence waning.

I realized I wasn't connecting to my bike and my experience. I was still on his bike, and that was a dangerous place to be. That realization forced me to let go of his expectations and his knowledge, and begin to develop my own sense of what to do and when to do it. Coming to a stop sign, I had to slow down, stop, and figure out when I felt safe to proceed. If he had to wait for me, so be it. Whether riding on the freeway or a twisty mountain road, I had to find a pace and rhythm that worked for me. I had to listen to myself, not anyone else.

It's easy to get caught in someone else's ride, in someone else's experience, and forget to pay attention to my own. Noticing when that happens, the solution is simple...coming back to my bike, my body, my ride. Being willing to let go of someone else's expectations and experiences, whether real or imagined, and remain connected to myself is critical, especially when my life depends on it.

Expectations

When I was a kid, I'd go crazy with anticipation: for Christmas, my birthday, the start of a new school year, the end of a school year and the start of summer...you name it, I'd be eagerly counting the days and minutes until it would come, and then go, in a flash. My unrealistic expectations almost always meant the event would somehow disappoint. I needed it to be too big, too perfect. I needed it to break up the mundane of my daily life, or to, for at least those moments, make everything else seem ok. I needed it to be magical.

I have just returned home from a two month sabbatical, riding around the country on the back of a motorcycle visiting friends and family, happily meeting new folks and tearfully saying goodbye to some too soon. I attended conferences, helped with motorcycling events, hung out in campgrounds, and even officiated at a wedding. People continually ask if it was an amazing time, and I have struggled with a simple answer.

The simple answer is 'sure, it was a ton of fun.' In many ways it was, and the freedom of being on the road for those two months with my husband was a gift I will treasure. But more importantly, what I learned was that it really was about living... on the road,  at home: being present to whatever I was doing. It wasn't the anticipation, the expectation, the need for it to be amazing. It was the need for it to
'just be.'

We let the trip unfold, and noticed what showed up. We started with a general outline of places we needed to be, and built the rest spontaneously. Instead of scheduling every minute, and filling all the blank spaces with 'amazing things to do' we picked a direction that would generally lead us to the next event we had committed to attend, and started riding.

Some of our best moments were the unplanned. Meeting strangers in a campground while waiting to attend a friend's memorial service led to an offer of a place to stay for several nights and new friends in Virginia. Deciding to follow someone's recommendation to try a motorcycle only campground led to five nights hanging out in the hills of North Carolina and meeting fellow riders from all over, sharing stories and laughter over campfires in the sultry air. Changing our route to reconnect with cousins on both sides of our families that we hadn't seen in years brought back memories of family and some new stories we'd never heard before.

Coming home wasn't the dreaded letdown it had often been in the past. The sabbatical wasn't an escape from a life of drudgery, it was a renewal and a reconfirmation that the life I am living is the one I want to be living, whether I am on the road or home. Each day is to be lived fully, to be open to whatever shows up, to be mindful of not allowing the schedule to dictate my life. Some amazing things happen when I let go of trying to make them perfect.

Motorcycling Meditations

I am on a two month sabbatical from my private practice, journeying around the country with my husband, riding on the pillion seat on our motorcycle. The quiet inside my helmet gives me a lot of time to think, and the need to stay reasonably immobile for hours, often days, on end challenges my natural tendency to want to move. And yet, I find myself remarkably calm and at peace.

I realize I meditate. Not the 'focus on your breath, just notice your thoughts' type meditation. I'm not sitting cross legged with a candle burning watching on the flame. No, I am riding along at 70 miles an hour on an interstate, often with the wind blowing my head from side to side, or most recently with the heat pressing in on me as we rode in temperatures of 104 in our full gear.

My meditation is the 'become more connected to yourself, let your mind wander wherever it wants' meditation. 'Listen to the quiet' meditation. 'Take in the world around you' meditation. 'Make peace with the heat' meditation.

What I have discovered is an incredible richness inside my head. Stories come to me, writing themselves while I give them the time to unfold. I am in no rush to get somewhere, to do something, or to finish a chore. No one is demanding my attention, and I no longer feel the need for distractions. No checking Facebook or email. No phones ringing. Often complete silence. Only occasionally do we have music playing in the background.

The stories are random and curious. Who lives in this remote area? What is their life like? Who might I have been if I had been born and raised here? Would I like the weather or would I want to move away? More often the stories are my own, weaving together words to create a narrative that will soon move to the computer and finally paper. Freed from the constraints of having to produce, my mind wanders and problems get resolved with little effort on my part.

The forced stillness on the bike has become a welcome silence in my life. Unlike other meditations, this time is active and engaging. I am creative and curious, alive and involved. Yet, like any meditation, it is observant, not controlling. I have no idea where my thoughts will go and have no desire to lead them anywhere. I am excited to see where they take me.

Being in the company of friends and family, it becomes more challenging to find the time for such active meditation. Conversations fill the spaces and breaking away takes precious moments from the limited amount of time we have to visit. The urge to spend every minute catching up and creating new memories is compelling. I find myself torn between wanting to stay even longer, hating to say goodbye, and wanting to get back on the bike to reconnect with myself and once again find my inner voice.

This trip reminds me of the constant tension between wanting to do things and wanting to be still, of knowing we will run out of time off before we run out of all the things we want to see, of wanting to be with friends and family and wanting to sit quietly alone. Just noticing the tension, not needing to change it, is a freedom in itself. Remembering to take the time to notice is the gift I am giving myself.

Sharing of Joys and Sorrows

The day starts out joyful. The sun is shining, friends and family are set to gather for an outing. Laughter and stories are being exchanged, and tasty food is consumed. Pictures are taken of people smiling and acting silly, and posted on Facebook to share so those who weren't able to make it can add their goofy comments. One of the joys of the online world: we can so quickly include our friends and families in our activities even though they may live miles, and even continents, away. When we see them next it doesn't feel like it may have been as long as it has been since we've been able to keep up with their lives. We've viewed pictures of nieces and nephews as they've grown from infancy, kids of friends celebrated as stars on their middle school softball teams. We've seen announcements of upcoming weddings or been reminded of a forgotten birthday. When I was growing up we depended on letters and rare phone calls to find out what was happening, and often what we learned was out of date and limited.

But now, in an online instant, the day can change from joy to sorrow. Opening Facebook after posting a photo to see if anyone has commented and instead finding a post from a friend that a mutual friend has died. Within minutes the word spreads to all who knew him and the grief is shared. Staying connected in the online world means we know more people and stay in more frequent contact with them. We get glimpses into their lives we would otherwise miss, and for me, it means I am more likely to go out of my way to visit them when I am anywhere near them. Someone who would have been a passing hello at a conference or event I might attend has become a friend, linked through the internet.

At the church I attended while my children were growing up they had a ritual called the Sharing of Joys and Sorrows. Anyone wishing to speak went to the front of the sanctuary where there were two vases filled with flowers. You simply moved a flower from one vase to the other and shared your news. The belief behind the ritual was that a joy shared was amplified and a sorrow shared eased the burden. I found both to be true whenever I felt moved to speak or listened to the heartbreaks and joys of others. Weddings, baptisms, birthdays and funerals provide the same opportunity to tell our stories and hear the impact others have had on us. But distance means we can't always attend those events.

The immediacy of seeing the shared pain of those who knew and were now grieving the loss of our friend both intensified my own pain and somehow lessened it. Reading their reactions made it real in a way I wish I could still deny. Knowing I was not alone, knowing the community he touched was equally stunned by his sudden passing brought a tiny sense of comfort that those in my day to day environment couldn't fully understand. They could offer sympathy to me, but the connection via the online community who actually knew him, and knew the impact of this on the lives of those closest to him, meant so much more. Being able to reach across the world and tell stories perhaps has become part of the ritual of sharing joys and sorrows. It may be the best we can do when we can't be there in person.

We go where we are looking

Riding a motorcycle is thrilling. With nothing to block my view or my senses I am fully immersed in my surroundings and feel an immediacy with everything I do. The feedback is instantaneous. If I make a mistake, I know it right away. Things happen quickly, and on more than one occasion I have found myself on the ground wondering how I got there. Luckily, most of those times have been while at a standstill, damaging only my ego and sparing my body.

One of the hardest lessons about riding for me was how seriously the message 'you go where you look' is. I sailed through my Motorcycle Safety Foundation class, passing my license endorsement test with ease and felt confident with my abilities as I went off on my first solo rides. Everything was great, right up until I had to make a right turn from a complete stop. I have been driving cars since I was fifteen and have never had a problem making a turn. Suddenly, I found myself lying on the road with a large motorcycle on top of me. How in the world did that happen? One minute I was having fun, the next I was thankful my daughter was following me in our car so she could help lift the beast off of me and watch me get going again.

The third time it happened I began to be fearful of the bike and my confidence, once so certain, was now shattered. I began to avoid riding, and finally made the decision to sell the bike. A part of me was relieved, but another part was disappointed in myself for giving up. I struggled with the two competing voices, hating the idea of allowing my fear to dictate my actions. Finally facing my avoidance, I returned to the dealer and tried a scooter, something recommended by a friend who loved hers. On the test drive I once again found myself on the ground after yet another right turn gone awry.  But rather than walking away, I got back in the saddle and rode it the rest of the way home, and fell in love with the feeling of riding solo once again. We bought the Majesty, a 400cc bike capable of freeway speeds and longer rides.

So what is it about right turns? The way it works is you have to turn your head to look where you want to go, accelerate, and trust that the bike will go where you want it to go. Sounds simple, but in practice, at least for me in the beginning, harder to do. Why? Because it's so tempting to look elsewhere...straight ahead, slightly right but not far enough...not trusting the full turn necessary to make it happen. One glance in the wrong direction and the bike will go that way. I had to learn to fully commit to looking where I wanted to go before I stopped falling over.

How does this play out in life? We go where we are looking. Our intentions may be otherwise, but in reality, what we pay attention to determines where we live our lives. While I am focusing on fear, I am not taking risks. When fear dominated my experience of motorcycling, the avoidance of that fear determined my actions. By focusing instead on what I care about, and continually bringing my attention back to what I care about, I move towards what I want instead of away from it.

Are right turns still scary? Occasionally, yes. But what I have noticed over time is that rather than paying attention to the details of how to make a right turn (push the handlebar on the right side away from you and the bike will lean right) I focus on simply looking where I want to go and the rest happens naturally.