Olympic Gifts

Talent belongs to God. Training comes from the robots within us. What makes the equally trained and the equally talented unequal is their humanity. Gabby Douglas' charisma, Missy Franklin's sweetness, and Michael Phelps' humility, qualities they sustain regardless of the results, sets them apart from their sometimes more qualified opponents, whose desire to win is palpable and gives away their ego (or their parents' and trainer's egos, in some cases).

Within my own talent and my own training, I have often felt that subtle tug-of-war between my ego's need to succeed and my gift's desire to serve. Before I step on stage, I have learned to ask of myself, May my ego step aside and make way for my gift. May I give what I am meant to give to this character on this stage for this audience. May I have the courage to serve, may I love every minute of it, and may I remember to be grateful for the experience in its entirety. 

I do not always grant my own request. I am sometimes too pleased with myself. I sometimes want to shine more than I want to give. But it is never long before I am humbled. On those moments, I look much like Jordyn Wieber, Viktoria Komova, and Ryan Lochte. Failure shatters poses.

Gifts are delicate. They shy away at the sight of arrogance. I must always keep myself in check, and practice catching it as it happens. If I have enough clarity and presence of mind, sometimes I can reverse it as it is happening. I am failing. I suck tonight. I am shmacting. It is hurting me to fail because I stepped on stage tonight wanting to succeed, wanting to be known as a great actor, wanting to be applauded.  I must let that go. It is not my job to succeed. It is my job to get out of my own way. I'm sorry, Talent. I tried to use you to make others see me, admire me, and love me. That is not your purpose. I accept failing tonight so that I may learn and grow for your sake. 

I watch the Olympics not only to cheer on the athletes I admire, but to study their humanity. I hope to absorb their clarity, their balance, and their drive. And I always applaud the courage it takes to remain humble, kind, and grateful after their consecutive wins.

The Mystery of Happiness

"How lucky we are, when we're spared what we think we want!"  - Lionel Shriver

I read that quote in Shriver's brilliant novel We Need to Talk About Kevin (the film is great as well, but the book is filled with gems), and it resonated with me so much that I wrote it down everywhere-- on notebooks, bathroom stalls, other people's phones, soles of shoes, and all social media platforms.

It put into words a powerful realization I had made about myself and my life but didn't know how to describe. I seem to have less and less certainty of what makes me happy, and I think that's a very good thing to come to terms with.

There were many things I thought would make me happy. 

I thought being thin would make me happy. I thought having small, perkier breasts would make me happy. I thought expensive bags would make me happy. I thought being a movie star would make me happy. I thought having a tall handsome boyfriend who would one day become my husband would make me happy. I thought being financially independent would make me happy. I thought having clear skin would make me happy. I thought not having stretch-marks or cellulite would make me happy. I thought being blonde would make me happy.

As I look at that list now, I see all those things I thought would make me happy were just that: ideas. Moreover, they were not tied to any real understanding of happiness, but rather to a deep need to belong. I would look around, see what made other people fit in and be cool, and label it as a recipe for happiness. If I have that, if I look like that, if I do that, if I own that, then I'll be happy.

I did get a lot of the things on that list. Others I gave up on. Either way, happiness didn't come automatically with the package. Yes, there was a great deal of satisfaction in losing weight and in being seen next to tall handsome boyfriends, but I wasn't happy. I placed my happiness outside of myself, not only in these external "achievements," but in other people seeing me as good enough to have them.

It's comfortable to do what is believed to make us happy. Everyone is relieved when I'm thin, clear-skinned, financially independent, and next to a tall handsome man. Those are the things I'm supposed to want and, for long enough, they were exactly what I wanted. But it takes effort to maintain the illusion. One day you eat a cupcake, you get a pimple, you lose your job, your boyfriend bores you, and you wonder if it's possible that happiness lives in things that are inherently transitory.

In realizing this, I have felt both confused and clear. I look at myself, my life, my goals, and my dreams with new eyes. Is this really what I want, or is it what I think I want? Do I ever know what I want, or do I only ever get to know for certain what I don't want after I've had it? 
 
I always had clear pictures of my ideal future: married (to a tall handsome man), with children of my own, and traveling the world starring in movies and acting in plays. Now, those pictures are blurry. I don't want these things "in general" anymore. I still want them, but only if it feels like it's right for me when it happens, and not because they fit into this pretty picture that makes me, and everyone else, more comfortable.

Maybe I'll fall in love with a short chubby hairy man. Maybe I'll be a teacher and act in plays for free for a long time and it'll be okay. Maybe I'll live in a suburb. Maybe I'll have straw handbags. Maybe my boobs will sag and it won't be so bad. Maybe I'll gain five pounds instead of losing the always-goal ten. Maybe I'll stop getting pimples and start getting wrinkles and I'll miss my pimples. Maybe I'll adopt four Vietnamese girls and fall desperately in love with them. Maybe I'll be a single mom. Maybe I'll have three marriages. Maybe I'll make a big movie and miss acting in little plays. Maybe I'll shave my head. Maybe I'll be single for years. Who knows.

Whatever it is that I don't know I want, I am now open to it more than ever before, and I am so excited to live.

Image from here.

Have you been spared what you thought you wanted and now see how lucky you were?

The Smart Girl Act

I know a lot of big fancy words. I'm articulate and I have a knack for language. I am educated and full of degrees. I know how to be The Smart Girl. It's easy, comfortable, and keeps people at just enough of a distance while maintaining their admiration. Also, I love the sound of my voice saying smart things. I picked up the act and perfected it as soon as I figured out I wouldn't succeed at The Hot Girl Act.

In high-school, I wished that I could be hot and popular. But I'm not a disciplined person, contrary to popular belief, and unless blessed with the thin-no-matter-what genes, hotness takes work. I don't know how to control my cravings and I don't like exercising. I like to eat, and I like to eat bad food, and I'd sooner get liposuction than spend 45 minutes a day doing crunches. It's not that I'm not hot (I wasn't in high-school, but I grew into some degrees of it later), it's that I don't know how to carry myself with ease as a Hot Girl. I am too awkward, too insecure, and too self-aware. When someone thinks I'm hot, I smile cutely and try to hide that I'm waiting for them to discover that I'm really not.

Now, read a book, write an essay, and discuss a topic-- those are things I can do. To the point of bordering (frequently) on arrogance, I love knowing what I'm talking about and impressing people with how well I can phrase it.

As my title suggests, however, it is an act. The Smart Girl Act is a pose, a performance, and a deflection of who I really am. I know it is, because I can see it when it comes out. My voice kind of changes, I have these strange gestures that make me feel more like an intellectual, and I interrupt people frequently because what I have to say is certainly smarter. I often sound like a pompous ass, and I can hear it. But I can't stop it; as soon as the desire to be liked comes up for me (and it comes up all the time), I bring out The Smart Girl. It's my safety net: if nothing else, they'll admire me for being smart.

I am not that arrogant on the inside. Within, I am simply begging people to like me. I am waiting for someone to love me enough to see through the wordy exterior. And though I can say a lot of things and sound really good saying them, I hardly care to be the smartest person in a room. I do plenty of stupid things, so why bother to present such a polished mind? I just don't know what else to do.

I am learning, at least, to observe it in action. Oh look at me now, showing off that I read that really long book full of big hard words... And, sometimes, I remember to take a breath and stop talking. Just be, and be myself, without forcing upon others my idea about who I am. It's hard, and I'm not fully succeeding yet, but a habit takes time to break. Little by little, I hope to shed the inauthentic Smart Girl Act and trust that I can be liked without it.

Tough stuff...

Anyone else got an act?

Roar

I teach little kids, and the theme this week was a lion. A small child's first response to "We're lions!" is to roar. I have to roar too, but they are better at it than me. This is a precious time for them. It's before most of them will be punished into politeness, before You can watch TV if you stop screaming, and before their voices get tucked away for good. For now, they are rewarded for roaring. The bigger the roar, the better.

I was a shy child. If I had been my student, I likely would not have roared. I would have sat quietly in a corner and daydreamed myself into a different world, where no one ever made me do anything I didn't want to do. But that doesn't mean I didn't have a roar in me.

The first time I roared, I was nine, and I did it right at my mother. I was angry that she didn't let me sleep over at a friend's house, and while I would normally have quietly complied, my friend instructed me to at least put up a good fight, otherwise I would never be able to do anything I wanted. Your mother can't control you forever, she said. It was a new concept for me, and it gave me the courage to tread on uncharted territory: standing up for myself. I didn't throw a tantrum, but I stood my ground and used a voice I had not used ever before; a loud, demanding, unapologetic voice that sounded much like a roar. What will you do when I'm an adult? Keep me at home? You can't! You can't just not let me do things that everyone else does! I repeated what my friend had instructed me to say. I was using logic, but I was also being vocally fierce.

My mother thought her daughter had been abducted. She literally said, "This is not the daughter I know." I was afraid of my mother. The mildest misbehavior usually lead to being severely reprimanded, and I was a very sensitive child. I couldn't stand to be yelled at. But on that day, I was brave. And she did not scream back at me or punish me. She was in shock. She really did not know the child who stood before her. I, too, was being introduced to this part of myself for the first time. 

The next time I wanted to sleep over at a friend's house, she let me. 

Her reaction was the one most of my family members and teachers would have had. The Larissa they knew, the Larissa my mother raised, did not roar. She was not a lot of work. She was the good child. Polite, delicate, graceful, compliant, diplomatic, and sweet. My brother was "the terrorist." I was the saint. It was a role I was comfortable in, one of general invisibility and obedience.

But no child, no human being, is all terrorist or all saint. I had a roar in me and, from time to time, I would let it out and shock the people who knew me best. For the most part, no one was comfortable with this.

When I was 21, my dad and I were having an argument, and I started to roar. He interrupted me and said, "We're not going to talk anymore. We'll talk again when you calm down." I had a realization at that moment and burst into tears. I roared even louder, "NO! You will talk to me NOW. You don't get to choose to only talk to me when I'm calm! You have to deal with me NOW too, when I'm frantic and upset!"

As an adult, I was able to demand that my not-so-polite self be not only listened to, but loved. No one, not even my father, was going to get away with loving only the pleasant part of me anymore. You don't get the kitten unless you can accept the lioness that comes along with her. I had set my ultimatum.

It would, naturally, echo in other relationships as well, outside of family. At first, I didn't want anyone to fall in love with the good girl before they knew the bad girl. This extended to friendships as well as romantic relationships. No one was allowed to know that I wanted a monogamous committed relationship until they could accept and love the part of me that wanted to have sex on a first date.

It is a real challenge to find the balance between the gentle kitten and the roaring lioness. But if I ever try to repress one of them so that the other may flourish, it acts out when I least expect (and want) it to. Be the sweet, loving, kind girl for too long and a monster will come out. Similarly, roar and scratch for long enough and the desire to marry and have children starts to seep out of my pores. Despite my best efforts, I cannot keep either one silent for very long. If I listen to both parts of myself and let them out, then I am free. If not, I am a slave to the one I do not bring forth. That which you do not bring to the light will destroy you, we learned when we did shadow work at school. True words indeed.

Luckily, I have really come to love both of these creatures I can be. As I roared with my young students this week, with whom I have to be infinitely patient and kind, I felt my docility co-existing with my recklessness. ROAR and out came the lioness, followed by the sweet kitten, That's right boys and girls! Great job! I loved that I had both qualities in me, and that they could both serve me simultaneously and balance each other out.

I am grateful to that friend who, 17 years ago, encouraged me to find that first roar. I am so proud of my nine-year-old self who stood up for herself and kept on doing so, even though it was scary and didn't always please other people. I am also grateful for the well-behaved little girl in me who survived by going unnoticed for a long time, and who holds on to my sweetness, grace, and good manners.

And the lesson has been learned: inside every lioness is a kitten, and inside every kitten is the potential for a roar.

I think I look pretty good roaring.

That Damn Week of Positivity...

I am officially one week late on my follow-up post for my week of Extreme Positivity. (And I know you've been checking, because I check my google stats, even when I'm not blogging.) So I'm sorry.

In short, my week of Extreme Positivity was hard and I didn't like it, and I didn't want that to be how I started this blog post.

For a week, I wrote and re-wrote this post, trying to find a positive authentic spin on my positivity challenge. At heart, I want to- no, I live to- inspire. Whether on stage, over coffee with friends, in writing, or on my yoga mat, I find nothing more gratifying than to have fostered a reaction in another human being that reads, You have touched me.

But I have learned that when I try to force that reaction, I come off as arrogant. My audience shuts down. And I feel the one thing I absolutely cannot stand to feel: inauthentic. 

My week of extreme positivity left me, mostly, unchanged and uninspired. Not that I massively failed at it- no, I had my happy thoughts, my mantras, my good actions, and so forth. I did what I had to do. I smiled and heard my happy music and went to yoga and ate beautiful food and so forth. I focused on the good stuff, even as I was sweating through a fever one night and coughing up my rib cage.

But I didn't like it, and I didn't feel that rush of joy I was hoping to feel. There wasn't a major a-ha moment. And I kept lying to people about it. They'd ask me how my week of positivity was going and I'd, say, "Great!" Because what else could I say? I was being positive.

It's not like I learned nothing, though. I made a few discoveries that felt meaningful and changed my behavior:
- Wit is not often positive. My presence on social media, therefore, suffered from this week.
- Avoiding that which will cause a negative thought is not as hard as it seems. Don't drink as much the night before. Don't take the subway during rush hour. Don't let the dishes pile up. Etc.
- It is possible to catch most thoughts, if you set your mind to it, and shift them from complaints to gratitude. I can't believe they've blocked off this road for construction turns into I'm so grateful there are a dozen men and women willing to work outdoors in the cold in order to ensure proper roads for me. 

I wouldn't say it was useless, no. But it felt like a lot of effort with a side of fake. And it felt somewhat robotic. I am a fan of impulses and reactions- it is one of the reasons I mostly fail at enlightenment- so the week felt like being in an awful lot of control. Not my strength, to be honest.

It was, after all, an experiment. And while I like succeeding and I especially like major breakthroughs, I know I cannot force change or growth, and I am better off looking at things for what they are. There is always some benefit for me in setting up something difficult for myself, and there's always a lot to learn from that which I don't like doing, so I can appreciate it in that sense. But, overall, it was harder than I thought it would be, and the pay-off seemed much smaller than the bargain.

I hope this isn't too disappointing or uninspiring. Several people told me they might want to try it themselves, and I do encourage you to do so. People are different, and this may be a much, much better plan for someone else. And I may do it again myself at some point. I am a different person every day, and positivity will have a different effect on me every time I take it on.

My best advice from this is, take it one step at a time. One thought, one breath, one moment. Positivity, I found, is most comfortable in the present.

Challenge: One Week of Extreme Positivity

I am good at complaining. I play a really good victim. I can make most people feel sorry for me. Ask my ex-boyfriends.

This coming week, my brain already has its favorite complaints ready to shoot out and paint everything a nice dark shade of super-victim...
 
I'm sick. It's tech week. I'm not getting enough sleep. I'm working too hard. I don't get a day off. It's cold. I haven't worked out lately and I feel fat. It's Valentine's Day and I don't have a valentine and I feel old at 26 and my mother wants grandchildren yesterday and my heart is just exploding it's so ready to love so where is he???

It's exhausting.

So, I've proposed a challenge for myself: One Week of Extreme Positivity. (I was going to call it One Week of Not Complaining, but I didn't want a negative in my title). For this week, starting tomorrow, February 13th, I will practice Extreme Positivity. No complaints. No victim act. I will welcome smiles, compassion, gratitude, joy, and love.

Am I planning to just Pollyanna it out? Put on the Mormon smile and let my complaints fester within?

Not exactly, but sort of. I never thought it was healthy to not complain at all. I believe in balance. One must let out the steam. My problem lies in unconsciously shading most situations with, Oh, poor me. The idea is to bring awareness to my mind's fiercest habit and to encourage some, Oh, lucky me!, even in the unlikeliest of circumstances.

Sally Hawkins as Poppy

I loved the movie Happy-Go-Lucky. Sally Hawkins charmed me as Poppy, a somewhat modern, realistic, and accessible grown-up Pollyanna. I remember radiating with positivity all day after I saw that film. My goal this week is to maintain that feeling for a week. Look on the bright side, see the glass as half-full, and make some lemonade out of life's lemons!

How am I going to do it?

I have a plan:

- I've set up my phone to send me reminders 5 times a day along the lines of, "Practice positivity," "Love today," "Breathe in happiness," "Find gratitude."

- I wrote it on my planner: Focus on the good stuff!

- I have dug up the articles of clothing I own that are not black or gray. I think wearing some pink and yellow might help me remember to spread smiles!

- I have set aside five minutes every day for the deliberate contemplation of extremely good thoughts.

I think Lynda Carter would be proud.

- What's the opposite of a victim? My guess is a bully or a hero. Let's go with hero for this week. Wonder Woman is my screen saver for the week.

- I made a play list called Happy Songs. They will start off my day, every day this week.

- I will make a gratitude list at the end of each day.

- Baking makes me super happy, so I'm gathering my favorite recipes and will try to bake at least twice this week. Happy homes smell like chocolate ganache cupcakes as far as I'm concerned!

- Find time for some kind of exercise. It totally helps my mood, whether it's going to the gym, yoga, or taking a dance class. So, this week, even if it's just for 20 minutes, I'm committed to exercising at least four days out of the week.

- Keep a record of how I'm doing throughout each day.

Those are my initial plans. I may come up with or discover more. I do expect that complaining thoughts will still come up, but I am hopeful that I can keep them in check. Even in writing this, I am already feeling an abundance of warmth and joy. I am actually really excited about this- I love setting up time lines for challenges and coming up with a plan for executing them. It makes them seem so much more attainable.

So, here I go! One week of Extreme Positivity! Check back in a week, folks, and feel free to share with me any ideas you have on sustaining positivity!