most this amazing
i thank You God for most this amazing day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes(i who have died am alive again today, and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birthday of life and love and wings: and of the gay great happening illimitably earth)how should tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any-lifted from the no of all nothing-human merely being doubt unimaginable You?(now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened)e.e. cummings
I found e.e. cummings when I was burned out on Scripture and the Church, jaded that different sects could cherry pick their way to justify any stance under the sun. He mesmerized me with his disjointed syntax, piercing imagery, and careful dance toward gratitude.
I read and re-read i thank you god for most this amazing day hundreds—thousands—of times until I knew it by heart.
He offered unorthodox syntax for an unorthodox season in my life. My identity shrinking like his lowercase “i’. The lowercase, god, giving me permission to be unsure but grateful anyways. But now I see God was uppercase all along—in the poem, in my life. I saw what I wanted to see and Grace met me there.
After every salty ocean run in college, I would whisper my thanks for most this amazing ocean, for most my amazing body.
On our wedding day we had the poem read, giving thanks “for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes,” por supuesto, I do.
My husband gifted me the poem printed in swooping ETSY calligraphy when I was trapped in the hospital with scary blood pressure readings days after my daughter’s birth.
Now at the park with my kids, many sun’s birthdays later, I scan for “leaping greenly spirits of trees.” I delight in a “blue true dream of sky.”
I cling to the fits of unwarranted compassion. I recite the idiosyncratic syllables for comfort. I repeat the phrase until I mean it.
i thank you God for most this amazing____________
It’s not toxic positivity. I hold space for the bad; I get stuck there too often. But at my end, the phrase echoes with my breath, like a pulse, as a prayer.
i thank you God for most this amazing life, birth, body, moment. For the freckle just below my son’s eye. For the way the light filters through dappled leaves. For the crunch and melt of summer s’mores. For the damp heat of my daughter’s cheek on my chest. For friends who ask, how are you doing, really? For a thousand unfinished sentences shouted at playdates. For my family all in one city. For Nana at school pick-ups and Papa fixing toys. For Yaya sleepovers and cousin McDonald’s outings that I hear about when I’m at work. For popcorn pajama parties. For my husband’s texts: I got milk… I got bread …I got soap… (I got you.) For quiet mornings of writing and hot coffee. For not-quiet mornings when I yell then get to ask forgiveness. For the chance to start again. For “I love you mama’s” and “it’s otay.”
For “i who have died am alive again today.”
Most this amazing.
***
This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "A Question".
Why I Write Anti-Affirmations
Because reassurance makes the onslaught worse. Because OCD cannot be reasoned with. Because irrational fears are built on a kernel of truth. Because what ifs cannot be disproved.
Because there’s a glitch in the good enough. Because reassurance makes the onslaught worse. Because everyone tells me I’m too hard on myself. Because praise amplifies my deep down fears. Because affirmations only beg the question what if my harsh inner critic isn’t being harsh enough? Because they may have missed a fault. Because a known fault is safer than a surprise mistake. Because OCD cannot be reasoned with. Because irrational fears are built on a kernel of truth. Because what ifs cannot be disproved. Because I tried talk therapy yet Poison still swirled behind my sternum, pulsed in my veins, white hot like shame. Because each bud of doubt branches into a new failure. Because ruminating and problem solving are not the same thing. Because neurodivergence (is that an identity I can claim? want to claim?) means techniques that work for others won’t work for me. Because atypical antidepressants bring slight relief to my atypical brain. Because logic is a losing game. Because surrender is the only way. Because exaggeration helps me regain control. Because my triggers are not going away. Because avoidance shrank my life. Because fear’s a dominatrix and not the sexy kind. Because allowing is better than fighting. Because trying to manage managed me. Because the only thing certain about a doubting disorder is that you can never be certain enough. Because OCD is not a cute quirk. Because perfectionism is a prison. Because I claim to value grace. Because I know my worth is not in my performance, output, or productivity. Because I will not waste my one wild and precious life acquiescing to a bitch like OCD. Because I’ve tasted the chance to be free.
***
For context, I’ve been sharing some of my “anti-affirmations” (ERP in OCD lingo) over the past year since I was diagnosed. My journal is filled with pages of phrases that say “I’m failing…” “I’m bad…” “I squandered…” “I wasted…” and though it sounds terribly depressing, just acknowledging my fears has brought more relief than I have ever known. It’s counter-intuitive, but somehow naming the fears stops the cycle of worry so I can move on with my day. I no longer need to figure out if I’ve failed, I can just be.
I am so grateful to have found a diagnosis and tools to break the OCD cycle. Before last year, I had no idea compulsions (in the obsessive-compulsive cycle) can be mental thought loops, not just physical actions like handwashing or cleaning. I had no idea I was engaging in mental compulsions that fueled my anxiety all. day. long. My compulsions look like checking, replaying, ruminating and trying to solve the unanswerable question, “Did I fail? Am I failing? Will I fail?”
If you can relate to any of this, here is an OCD test you can take. Remember, compulsions can be physical or mental and while germs and contamination is a common theme, your obsessions/fears can be about anything that you hold dear (doing something wrong, dying, worrying about your kids’ safety, etc.).
NOCD is a resource I’ve relied on a lot since been being diagnosed. They have an amazing app you can use on your own or with a therapist. I also love NOCD’s Instagram account for their relatable and easy to understand explanations of the OCD cycle and recovery process. I would also love to chat with you if you’d like! I am by no means an expert, but I can share what I’m learning on my own journey.
***
This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "A Question".
Advantages of the Absurd
There comes a time in every parent’s life when the boundaries meant to protect your precious children come back and bite you–excusez mon français– in the ass.
There comes a time in every parent’s life when the boundaries meant to protect your precious children come back and bite you–excusez mon français– in the ass.
The scene: ‘Twas the night before my first day at a new job and all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Just kidding, one kid was snoring away like a cheese-stuffed mouse, but the other kid was going out of his Paw Patrol-loving mind running back and forth into the loft to stockpile toys like toilet paper circa March 2020.
A rookie parent would have assumed her son would be exhausted after his first day of Spanish Immersion kindergarten. Spanish! Immersion! Kindergarten! A less-seasoned parent would have secretly hoped he would pass out without a fuss. A naive parent might have even counted on this extra time to prepare for her own first day teaching freshman writing classes at her alma mater. She might have even felt pleased with the way bedtime was preceding when one (highly favored) child passed out easily.
I will not underestimate your intelligence, you know I was that sucker-for-a-parent who thought I would get extra time to confirm that my ID card (that I’d already lost once in the week since I got it) was in the upper zipper pocket of my diaper bag turned work bag and lay out my first-day outfit (a pink floral blouse with stretchy “work pants” and mules from Target, if you must know) Side bar: for those who set out your clothes beforehand, do you set out your underwear too or leave it in the drawer? The outfit is incomplete without underwear, but also it feels too vulnerable to leave my underwear out even in my own home. Do I tuck my skivvies into my folded pants like I would at the doctor’s or just leave them in the drawer but then have ‘one more thing to remember’ in the morning?
The characters: So the whole family was gathered in the kids’ shared room. My daughter, Nadia, was splayed out froggy style after her first day at a new preschool, oblivious to my first day jitters and her brother’s toy fetching. Ryan, my husband, was trying to coax my son Aidan into his lower bunk.
“That’s enough toys, bud,” he suggested. “It’s not play time anyway.”
The one thing you need to know about Ryan for this story is that he is reserved, a quiet person who likes his home–and most of his thoughts–to remain private. His greatest fear is being an imposition.
The conflict: At some point after Aidan returned from smuggling yet more plastic toys into his room, I shut the bedroom door. I must have assumed we had everything we needed for sugarplum dreams or at least hoped that closing the door would deter another toy run.
I laid down next to Nadia on her toddler floor mattress that she prefers to the big girl bunk bed that we bought specially for her. I waited until her breathing was heavy and her arm flopped back down on her tummy when I lifted and dropped it (I can’t be the only one who does this to test for bedtime-exit-readiness).
As I extricated myself from the floor bed, I pondered my laying-out-the-underwear-dilemma and smugly dismissed Ryan still trying to get Aidan’s thrashing limbs to settle.
My child was asleep. I was allowed to leave.
I probably even had a gleam in my eye as I pushed down on the door handle. But the handle caught and the door wouldn’t budge.
“What the…?” I muttered as a distinct sinking feeling settled in my chest.
The child lock.
Someone (ahem, our perpetual fidgeter, Aidan) must have engaged the child lock before I shut the door. Luckily, the kids’ room is part of a “Jack and Jill” setup where there is a second door to a shared bathroom that connects to another room (Ryan’s office) with a door to the hall and freedom.
I rushed through the bathroom into Ryan’s office and the other door. I jiggled the handle, but it too was locked from the outside.
We were child locked in our own house. On the night before my first day of school.
The climax: (yes, I did write climax and, yes, I did snicker like a junior higher–don’t act like you’re more mature).
I immediately called my brother who lives a few minutes away. No answer.
“Ryan, which neighbor will you be the least mortified to sneak into our house?” The dishes were scattered across the counter, toys littered the loft. At least I hadn’t changed into my pajamas. (The unspoken subtext: who will you feel least embarrassed to know that we may (most certainly) sometimes (everyday) lock our kids in their room AND we were now helpless, too.)
“Hi! Are you home right now? We’re in a bit of a pickle (grimace face),” I texted my neighbor, Shannon, whose three kids are teenagers, so surely she has lived through more awkward situations than this. I mean, she’s had to give a sex talk at least three times.
“Yes. What’s up?” she responded.
File this under texts you never expect to send:
“We got childlocked into our kids’ room. If I open the garage can you come to the upstairs bedroom to unlock us from the outside?”
Luckily, Ryan and I both had our phones with us in the room (I knew my phone addiction would save us someday!) and wifi-enabled garage doors.
I pushed the Open Button and tried not to think about Shannon in our garage. We are not the kind of people with an epoxy garage floor and ceiling storage racks with matching bins. Instead, our garage is cluttered with old jogging strollers, the baby bath tub I have been meaning to donate for three years, no less than two black widows, and a portable Minnie Mouse potty that most likely was not washed or even wiped down after its last use. Even my parents use the front door.
As I contemplated calling Shannon to warn her about the black widows, she texted back:
“So the garage door is locked to the house”
Foiled again.
Another thing to know about Ryan (besides the fact that he was even more mortified than I) is he is the kind of person who locks all the doors to the house every night, you know, so no one can break in. Fortunately, this commitment to responsibility also meant that he had a spare house key in his car.
“I’m telling Shannon to find the key in your car,” by now Ryan was feigning sleep next to a not asleep and very anxious Aidan who was worried we would never escape the room.
Shannon found the key and finally breached our home.
The hall light flicked on and soft footsteps pattered in the hallway as my heart thumped in my chest. Besides Shannon, the real hero in this story is the predictable layout of our planned community homes.
“I’m here,” Shannon called from outside the bedroom door.
“You’re going to want to pinch the two sides and pull down on the handle,” I tried to explain to her.
I cupped my ear and leaned into the door. A few more thunks and clanks and we were free.
Resolution (or denouement, but I teach ESL not literature)
I gave Shannon an exuberant hug (I am not a hugger) and she assured us, “This is just the kind of thing that would happen to me,” cementing her as the greatest human ever.
After she left, Ryan tried to settle Aidan again and I meant to bemoan the time I lost that could have been spent responsibly preparing for my morning, yet I couldn’t help but chuckle as I tucked my underwear between my folded pants. Soon the chuckles grew to maniacal cackles as my pre-semester nerves released in a flood of relief at our ridiculous rescue.
One of my favorite strategies for fighting my anxiety and intrusive thoughts is humor. Take the fear and elevate it, entertain it, make it absurd. Play with the fear until it loses its grip on you.
I had been scared of failing on my first day. What if I make a mistake? What if my students don’t like me? What if I can’t find the classroom or get the times wrong? What if I forget underwear and they fall out of my pants leg while I’m reviewing the syllabus? What if I can’t even make it to class because I am child-locked in my own home?
A couple weeks ago I had the audacity to write “celebrate my mistakes” on my list of goals for the semester. Like praying for patience, this is a decidedly bad idea.
In hindsight, I guess you could say I was asking for it. Maybe not being child-locked in a room per se, but certainly I opened myself up to some dramatic misdoings.
I’m often tempted to believe that the key to overcoming anxiety is to over-prepare. To be uber responsible. To plan for every contingency. To get more serious about the thing that scares me.
Maybe I’ve been going about it all wrong. What if the path to freedom is paved with absurdity? Levity? Hyperbole?
If “celebrate my mistakes” is too tall an order, can I at least laugh at myself and take everything less seriously? And when I’m done laughing can I focus on Shannon’s MVP energy instead of my own shortcomings?
This “mistake” taught me two things.
Vulnerability within “mistakes” allows others to step in and show their empathy and kindness. You don’t need that kind of kindness when you are competent and put together.
When I entertain and exaggerate my fears, my anxiety dissipates. If I can live through an absurd worst-case-scenario-night-before-the-first-day-of-school dilemma, then chances are the actual teaching will be just fine.
That night, a smirk replaced my scowl as I chuckled myself to sleep. And the next day, I survived my classes, didn’t forget my underwear, and didn’t accidentally lock myself in any classroom. Success!
I would like to take this time to thank The Honorable Shannon. Thank you for breaking into my home and restoring my faith in humanity. I now know you are the type of neighbor who would be totally down to help me bury a body if your husband wasn’t a police officer (drat). You would want to help and I appreciate that about you.
This story originally appeared in my monthly newsletter, Grace-filled Growth. I don’t usually publish my newsletter content here on the blog, but the blog hop theme “with a little help” seemed particularly apropos. With each newsletter, I offer both an invitation to grace and a challenge for growth. Here is what I asked my readers, and what I am asking you now:
The Invitation to Grace
Our imperfections can pave the way for others’ kindness. Can you think of a time when a mistake you made allowed someone else to serve you?
The Challenge for Growth
When we intentionally exaggerate and sit with our fears, we signal to our brain that we can survive it. Can you elevate a fear, worry, or intrusive thought? Cook up an absurd worst case scenario, be as creative as possible.
I’d love to hear what you come up with! (Also, please let me know how you would handle the underwear situation.)