Every year, in January, I have an emotional - what would you call it - upheaval, breakdown, rebirth, journey, catharsis, transcendent experience, purging, cleansing, any of the above. For some reason, each year I experience the reinvention of self. It's a painful process, but one from which I always emerge.
This always happens in December and January. Is it the weather? Is it the New Year? The aftermath of the holidays in general? Is it my birthday (tomorrow)? Is it the alignment of the stars and planets? Is it my tarot and numerology (which does, by the way, indicate I should have a rebirth every year around early January. crazy stuff.).
Does anyone else have a regular, predictable schedule upon which they do these things? It seems so transendent, so spiritual, so left-brained and personal to be tied to something like a "schedule," which is the opposite of all things "feeling" to my mind.
In any case...
like the phoenix, this year too I will rise from the ash, having cried my tears of redemption and having sung my heart to pieces.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Fun-oholism.
My mother-in-law and I were talking about our husbands over the New Year. They share a penchant for "accomplishing things" and both seem to lead purpose-driven lives.
"Scott just likes the satisfaction of having done something productive" she said.
"Oh, I know! Jared is the same way!" I empathized. I quipped about how Jared prefers to spend Saturdays doing stuff around the house over snowboarding or something mindlessly fun and adventurous. He likes to feel like he accomplished something that day, or else he can't even really have fun. He has to earn his fun, I guess (in contrast, I always feel I already deserve it).
Jared and his father both have a very strong sense of responsibility. They have integrity in their actions, whether to their employers, to church callings, to neighbors, to conscience, to family. It's a good thing for us, to have married honorable men; my mother-in-law and I agreed.
"It's not like he actually likes working, he just has a really strong sense of responsibility, and he gets satisfaction from fulfilling his duties. He's not a workaholic or anything."
I nodded my head. But I was thinking... "is there any difference?" I've always thought of a workaholic as someone who actually enjoys work more than liesure (what a freak). I've thought of workaholism as a distant disease of some weird people who are strange, antisocial, backward, money-driven, home-wrecking, and aloof.
But wait... like I said, is there any difference between him and the "purpose-driven" guy? Lots of people find their work satisfying or meaningful. If someone enjoys the satisfaction of completing work projects enough that they choose that over liesure or family time, then isn't that the same thing as liking work more than fun? Is workaholism anything other than a simple matter of where and how some people choose to spend their time, whatever their reasons for their choice?
Jared & I had a conversation on our drive up to Seattle about whether you can truly learn to like anything, if it's something that you have to do. He says that you can. He concedes that most people feel that some parts of life are unenjoyable, but we tolerate them because we know we will gain satisfaction from the end result. Simply put: any sacrifice we make is for something we believe to be better. (This is how I feel about life. I don't like every piece of living, but I choose my activities according to my view of what will bring me the most happiness in the future. duh.).
Jared, on the other hand, thinks that he is different from most people because he actually likes to do everything he has to do. Or at least he tries. The knowledge that he will gain satisfaction in the end gives him a certain amount of enjoyment in the actual act of whatever it is, even previous to the desireable end-result.
"What about wiping your butt?" I retorted (pardon me, for this). "Surely we all derive satisfaction from having a clean butt, but it doesn't mean you actually enjoy the act of wiping the poo off of it." (... I won't keep going down this road, for your sake, it was funny and inappropriate and we made many analogous points that you don't want to hear about. )
In any case, the conversation ultimately supports my secret theory... that Jared is a workoholic waiting to happen. Kinda like a genetic alcoholic who hasn't yet really had a lot of alcohol. But already Jared has worked some days I wouldn't have and expressed that he actually likes working. Uh oh. I like my job too, but, I would sure go snowboarding before I would draft an estate plan.
Don't tell him I'm thinking about this. For one thing, it's pure speculation. He's actually a really fun guy at the moment. And it's not like I don't want him to like his job. We all have days we'd rather be at the office than puttering around the house. But for another, I don't want to perpetuate this phenomenon that keeps happening: if he takes time to spend with family (me), it's because he wants to make me happy, not because he wants the time (or so it sometimes feels).
Maybe I'm just a funoholic paranoid of the opposition. That's entirely possible. I've actually been quoted in the Salsa dance community: one dancer was asking about my work and I said, "I don't have time for a full-time job." I was serious (I had a lot going on, with music and other stuff). But he laughed and laughed, and then said his goal was to someday be like me.
Why can't we all aspire to someday be like me?
"Scott just likes the satisfaction of having done something productive" she said.
"Oh, I know! Jared is the same way!" I empathized. I quipped about how Jared prefers to spend Saturdays doing stuff around the house over snowboarding or something mindlessly fun and adventurous. He likes to feel like he accomplished something that day, or else he can't even really have fun. He has to earn his fun, I guess (in contrast, I always feel I already deserve it).
Jared and his father both have a very strong sense of responsibility. They have integrity in their actions, whether to their employers, to church callings, to neighbors, to conscience, to family. It's a good thing for us, to have married honorable men; my mother-in-law and I agreed.
"It's not like he actually likes working, he just has a really strong sense of responsibility, and he gets satisfaction from fulfilling his duties. He's not a workaholic or anything."
I nodded my head. But I was thinking... "is there any difference?" I've always thought of a workaholic as someone who actually enjoys work more than liesure (what a freak). I've thought of workaholism as a distant disease of some weird people who are strange, antisocial, backward, money-driven, home-wrecking, and aloof.
But wait... like I said, is there any difference between him and the "purpose-driven" guy? Lots of people find their work satisfying or meaningful. If someone enjoys the satisfaction of completing work projects enough that they choose that over liesure or family time, then isn't that the same thing as liking work more than fun? Is workaholism anything other than a simple matter of where and how some people choose to spend their time, whatever their reasons for their choice?
Jared & I had a conversation on our drive up to Seattle about whether you can truly learn to like anything, if it's something that you have to do. He says that you can. He concedes that most people feel that some parts of life are unenjoyable, but we tolerate them because we know we will gain satisfaction from the end result. Simply put: any sacrifice we make is for something we believe to be better. (This is how I feel about life. I don't like every piece of living, but I choose my activities according to my view of what will bring me the most happiness in the future. duh.).
Jared, on the other hand, thinks that he is different from most people because he actually likes to do everything he has to do. Or at least he tries. The knowledge that he will gain satisfaction in the end gives him a certain amount of enjoyment in the actual act of whatever it is, even previous to the desireable end-result.
"What about wiping your butt?" I retorted (pardon me, for this). "Surely we all derive satisfaction from having a clean butt, but it doesn't mean you actually enjoy the act of wiping the poo off of it." (... I won't keep going down this road, for your sake, it was funny and inappropriate and we made many analogous points that you don't want to hear about. )
In any case, the conversation ultimately supports my secret theory... that Jared is a workoholic waiting to happen. Kinda like a genetic alcoholic who hasn't yet really had a lot of alcohol. But already Jared has worked some days I wouldn't have and expressed that he actually likes working. Uh oh. I like my job too, but, I would sure go snowboarding before I would draft an estate plan.
Don't tell him I'm thinking about this. For one thing, it's pure speculation. He's actually a really fun guy at the moment. And it's not like I don't want him to like his job. We all have days we'd rather be at the office than puttering around the house. But for another, I don't want to perpetuate this phenomenon that keeps happening: if he takes time to spend with family (me), it's because he wants to make me happy, not because he wants the time (or so it sometimes feels).
Maybe I'm just a funoholic paranoid of the opposition. That's entirely possible. I've actually been quoted in the Salsa dance community: one dancer was asking about my work and I said, "I don't have time for a full-time job." I was serious (I had a lot going on, with music and other stuff). But he laughed and laughed, and then said his goal was to someday be like me.
Why can't we all aspire to someday be like me?
My Sacrament
I cannot really pray in the belly of a church, walls made by the hands of men, surrounded by white-costumed, noose-necked 12-year-old boys marching to the beat of The Drum.
Give me the sky, and the wind, mountains, bees and birdsong. With wild grasses in my fingers, there I find my maker, and weep in sweet loving arms.
Give me the sky, and the wind, mountains, bees and birdsong. With wild grasses in my fingers, there I find my maker, and weep in sweet loving arms.
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