Mindfulness

There are certain thoughts that seem to get pulled out every year like Christmas ornaments hauled out from the attic, thoughts that work like the jokes Raven and I make every time we see a particular sign, not new or especially funny, but reassuring in their ritualized familiarity. With the onset of the Bahà’í fast, I always think of the roommate of a good friend in college who had acquired somewhere the habit of fasting for something — something I would never have thought to do. Then, I have always been bad at praying for things, even though I understand it as a perfectly acceptable practice in the Bahà’í writings — I’ll say the prayers from the prayer book from the sections labelled for parents, for children, for husbands, for detachment and for assistance. But the praying for other people, unasked, has always seemed a little tricky, from the way it feels strange when other people announce that they are praying for me — there’s definitely an opening for arrogance there, or some other assumption, and I try to take it gracefully, gratefully, and ascribe the best intentions, but still — uncomfortable. Just, saying prayers with people I love in mind would be satisfactory if it opened in me some greater perception of their better qualities. Mostly when I pray, I want myself out of it — ‘Thy will,’ it goes. Help me cut through the labyrinth of my own desires and motivations and my ability to think I am doing something for a noble reason when it turns out, instead to be completely self-serving.

Still, fasting for something. I think this friend one year fasted for greater unity within her family and another year it might have been for detachment. So I annually, at the beginning of March, ponder what it is I would ask for. A sense of direction, maybe. This is a landmark year when I’ll finally have all four kids in school and I’ve toyed with throwing myself back into school (but where?) I’m impatient and then sad at what it will mean leaving behind, and it is not surprising that I am restless and frustrated and frightened. But I (mostly) trust that the sense of purpose and of what I’m doing, where I’m going will show up in its own sweet time, that to have it show up any sooner might somehow ruin it. I think of the flare-ups, the slamming, the little rages that are not as overwhelming as when facing the physical and emotional exhaustion of taking care of tiny babies, but still have formed into habits I hate passing on to the kids.

In Suzuki’s Nurtured by Love there was some bit about getting out of the habit of getting angry (which I read and tossed the book across the room; my sister points out that Suzuki never had children himself). And I am not about the elimination of anger. When you’re not in the habit of paying attention to your needs, anger can be a lovely alert that there is something out of order, from not enough sleep, to a pain you’ve been ignoring, to injustice in the distribution of household chores, to too much absence of the beloved spouse. But when it becomes a habit, a release you take instead of solving the problem… Yeah. I know I can do better, especially when it is something the kids faithfully mirror. And I think my own answer is mindfulness, which fortunately, is what fasting offers over and over again. I notice how many times an hour my mind can suggest a meal would be a really great idea right now. So I work on not suppressing the thought, but treating it like my four-year-old, yes, honey, that would be nice, but right now we’re fasting, alright? Remember that? I don’t distract myself away, just acknowledge, it’s a little uncomfortable isn’t it? And then it’s going to be okay. I don’t know if this means that the uncomfortable things that lead to my raising my voice (mostly, lately, a perfectionistic pressure, a sense of too much to be done, a sense of injustice that I have to do it all) will be easier for me to acknowledge as uncomfortable, if I will be more aware of what is going on before I let anger drive, but it is a start.