How to Bring More Balance Into My Life

I need to regulate myself, to bring more balance into my life. You too? Except that I’ve joined a three-week writing marathon that has me creating a new piece and critiquing others’ submissions every day. Talk about a wallop to my equilibrium.

When I get obsessed about writing, regulation goes out the window. I don’t do my qi gong practice in the morning. I don’t meditate every day. I go straight to writing, and then stay up late and don’t sleep well.

But I have started eating regular meals three times a day and no snacking. That’s something and let me tell you it is hard. No more cheese, crackers, and wine to my heart’s content right before dinner. No more snacking on gluten-free fig newtons or gelato.

Weight of a guilty conscience

And no more feelings of guilt and self-put downs either, which is such a relief. I haven’t lost any weight, except the weight of a guilty conscience. And that is worth the change.

My posts here have been irregular for some time because I figure no one is reading this anyway. It’s just a place holder for when I publish that book someday. I was surprised there wasn’t a pollyhansen.com out there already, but glad I nabbed it.

That’s it. I have nothing else to say except:

May you find balance in your heart, soul, and mind, and may we be kind to one another and to ourselves.

https://pollyhansen.com/nasty-girl/

I discovered something about myself and now I have to tell my husband

I discovered something about myself and now I have to tell my husband. I was feeling at odds with me, with him, with the world. I needed to write it all out.  The act of doing so has brought me back into alignment.

Meaning, I have taken off my skin, shaken out the crumbs, and now I don’t feel so irritable. Except, well, now we have to have this discussion.

I binge watched a mini-series to escape all that I did not want to face in myself. This morning, I woke at six and wrote it all out.

I discovered I don’t want to bother with sex.

Ugh. There I said it. That’s what’s been on my mind. I’m too old and fat for it, not that I’m fat, but I am overweight, according to medical charts, by about fifteen pounds. I prevaricate. That’s how much I want to avoid this subject.

God. Such a bother. So much effort. Not like when we were young and nubile and moist.

You get the picture.

I love to lie next to him. To hug every morning for long moments after we make the bed. That’s about the tempo of our intimacy these days. Plus, we have a huge bathtub and get in together once in a while and just talk, chitchat, but sometimes more meaningfully.

What self-discoveries we have made lately

That’s one thing that has never changed regarding intimacy between us—the need to talk to one another, not about chores, not about work but about who each of us is in this moment, where we stand with ourselves and each other, what self-discoveries we have made lately.

I think we both wish we were different. Younger, perhaps.

Even if those discoveries are not, shall we say, pleasant.

Except that this isn’t a new discovery. It’s an old one I wish would change. But the older we get that’s not likely to happen.

I need to tell him that’s what I’m thinking about. Again. We talk about making more of an effort. Always the same old discussion, but nothing ever changes.

We exercise. We take long hikes in the mountains together and that’s fun. The baths and the hugs are nice. But I think we both wish we were different. Younger, perhaps. We laugh about getting old, about how difficult it is to stand from a squatting or kneeling position. We groan and exclaim. We laugh at ourselves and each other.

But this sex thing is no laughing matter. We haven’t learned how to laugh about that yet. I hope someday we do. It might be more fun than chastising ourselves for the lack of sex in our lives. In the meantime, we still have fun together, as I said. Just not in that way, or at least not as often, and I wish that was really okay.

This article from the National Council on Aging helped. This: “Sexual intercourse can be enjoyable, sure, but you can build intimacy without it.” Sounds like we’re doing all the right things. How reassuring!

Humbled by my bad behavior and the poor choices I made in the past

Reading old journals from twenty-four years ago, I’m humbled by my bad behavior and the poor choices I made in the past. For example, I once carpooled with another young mom. This was before cell phones. I was five minutes late picking up my daughter and her friend after gymnastics. Rather than wait for me, they called her mom to come get them. When I discovered the other mom was on her way, I was furious and embarrassed, and left the ten-year-old girl there all alone in front of the gymnastics building. I drove off, jittery with hunger and anxious to get home. Even my daughter knew what I was doing was wrong because she asked, “Shouldn’t we wait?”

“Couldn’t you have just waited five minutes?” the traumatized girl’s mother asked when I called later that evening to apologize.

I had been thinking only of my needs, not that little girl’s.

Having been raised by damaged and narcissistic parents, I became infected and a narcissist myself. As a teen who left home at age fifteen with my parents’ blessings, I learned at an early age how to fend for myself and think only of my needs, no one else’s.

I was used to manipulating people to get what I wanted

It wasn’t until I turned nineteen and a mom invited me to live with her family for the summer between graduating high school and entering college did I learn the meaning of consideration for others. And I did not like it. I was used to manipulating people to get what I wanted. Considering other people’s needs was inconvenient to say the least! It’s a wonder they put up with me. I am eternally grateful that they did. It was the beginning of an important education in how to live with others.

However, by the time I became a mom myself, I still had a long way to go towards being a responsible parent and adult and made many mistakes. During my years of therapy, I addressed the pain of parental abandonment and learned how to take better care of myself, and thus, how to care for others. I began to see how selfish I had been, but also to understand that my selfishness had been a coping mechanism.

I learned how to take better care of myself, and thus, how to care for others.

Decades have passed since those reckless parenting years. I will never be perfect, but now when I am rude or thoughtless, I usually know right away and can say I’m sorry or even avoid sticking my foot in my mouth.

I’m gratified looking through these old journals to see how much progress I’ve made. Today, I’m compassionate and considerate, eager to be of service to others. That old me, well, I have compassion for her. She didn’t know any better. And when she should have, like that time I drove away, she paid the price. That mom said, “I think I’ll drive my daughter myself from now on.” I completely understood. And was chagrined that I couldn’t even be a responsible carpool partner.

The ability to see my past faults, and present ones, and to forgive my parents brings me solace and peace. I send psychic amends to all those I have hurt in the past. Whether they forgive me doesn’t matter. What is most important is that I forgive myself.

A Zap, a Zing like a Jubilant Pinball Machine

Within a minute after turning out the light the twitches and itches begin—a zap, a zing like a jubilant pinball machine. And then the thoughts. How can sleep compete with all that racket? I try to resist them as I fall asleep, but it is impossible. I’ve learned that when meditating, I’m supposed to observe a thought and let it go, return to the present moment–my breath, the ambient sounds around me, this moment, this time, this now. But doing that while I’m trying to fall asleep keeps me awake. When I’m falling asleep, I find it’s best to follow the thought and let it unravel into a dream.

The other night I jolted awake to the voice of Richard Farina, the folk singer once married to Joan Baez’s little sister Mimi. He died as a young man in a motorcycle accident. I recently searched for his album Reflections in a Crystal Wind on Spotify. Dug it up from my memory from when I was in my teens. As my husband and I worked on a jigsaw puzzle for date night, I sang the lyrics to these sad, impossible songs of love and hate, war and peace.

“I know this music isn’t to your liking,” I said.

“That’s okay,” my husband said.

He could see I was enjoying myself. I knew all the lyrics. Well, most of them, but I certainly knew the tunes and hummed along with them. One of them stuck in my head: “Pack Up Your Sorrows”

“No use cryin’, talkin’ to a stranger,
Namin’ the sorrow you’ve seen.
Too many bad times, too many sad times,
Nobody knows what you mean.

Chorus: But if somehow you could pack up your sorrows,
And give them all to me,
You would lose them, I know how to use them,
Give them all to me.”

There are many more verses. It’s a great song worth checking out. If you like folk music, that is. That was over a week ago and I’m still humming that song even in my sleep.

I sang the lyrics to these sad, impossible songs of love and hate, war and peace.

So, here’s the thing. How could a decade of such pain and sorrow in my young life from the 1960s, early ’70s have an aura of such bitter sweetness that I would enjoy revisiting it in my old age, lighting up parts of me with dings and chimes like a thrilling pinball game? I don’t have the answers, except that perhaps because that period of my life was filled with such angst and yearning for connection, I still feel its pull.

It draws me inward like a wound needing succor.

Today, I have connection not just with my husband, but with my children, with recovery friends, with colleagues. Maybe the present appeal of that old song comes from the yearning I felt back then. It draws me inward like a wound needing succor. I give that wound, that hurt child succor today and gladly so. I am able to care for her in ways I was unable to back then.

So sing your heart out now, my child, and enjoy the gladness with which you now live!

In the meantime, I try not to sing in my head while falling asleep, but if I do get stuck on a brain worm, I hum Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 and voila, brain loop vanquished. The zaps and zings though, only getting out of bed and lying in front of a space heater helps. Don’t ask me why but heat soothes me. Did when I was a teen, too. Some habits never die.

My life is perfect as it is

Last night while lying restless in bed for the umpteenth time I had an epiphany: My life is perfect as it is. I can enjoy peace and serenity regardless of whether or not I publish my memoir. For the past five years, which is when I started writing it, I have conflated publishing success with self-worth and life satisfaction. I’ve equated my ability to find an agent and publisher with success and therefore happiness.

No, no, dear one—you are mistaken. You are precious just as you are. Your life is perfect just as it is. Relax and enjoy it.

This epiphany didn’t help me get to sleep. I got up and went into the guest room to think about it some more, hoping it would soothe me to sleep; but only laying in front of the space heater and soaking warmth into my bones did that. I woke up in a sweaty drugged-like stupor and stumbled back to my cool bed, nestled next to my husband, and slept soundly for the next several hours.

So here’s the truth—while my passion is to write and even to be published and read, those things are not the measure of my worth, nor the conditions of my happiness. Only through acceptance and appreciation of myself as I am today will I experience serenity and joy.

So here’s the truth—while my passion is to write and even to be published and read, those things are not the measure of my worth, nor the conditions of my happiness.

I will endeavor to remember this from now on whenever my envy of other writers’ successes rears its ugly head. I will congratulate them, as I always do on Twitter, remind myself of my blessings, and continue to work, letting go of the outcomes over which I have no control. Why drive myself crazy trying to force certain outcomes according to my will when that is impossible?

Acceptance is the answer to all my problems today. The only things I can change are my attitudes. Serenity is my reward.

When I take out frustrations on my husband, I make amends

When I take out frustrations on my husband, I make amends. After telling my husband I was closing my door to write, I made a detour into the laundry room. My husband called out something to me from the kitchen. I’m hard of hearing without my hearing aids, which I hadn’t put in yet, and besides, we have agreed not to shout from other parts of the house. I turned around and went back into the kitchen with false patience to ask him to repeat himself.

Could I please check the dryer before I started writing? I glared at him. “I’m doing that now,” I said, and marched back to the laundry room. Why was I being so unpleasant?

I hated that I was being unkind

After checking my clothes, which were still a tad damp, I started back down the hall, an apology on my lips, but passed the kitchen where he was painting one small section of the wall over the stove and under the cupboards and instead went straight to the antique clock in the living room to wind and reset it. I thought of re-passing the kitchen without saying anything, but hated how sour I was feeling, hated that I was being unkind.

I retraced my steps and stood at the kitchen entrance.

“I’m sorry I glared at you. I’m just frustrated with myself and I’m taking it out on you.”

He paused his paint brush and looked at me with nothing but compassion. “What are you frustrated about?”

“Oh, not taking life on life’s terms; feeling dissatisfied with my life just because what if I misinterpreted that angel reading that suggested I write my life story. And because it’s so hard being a writer. There are millions of writers out there all of us looking for readers.”

My husband is my best friend. I shouldn’t treat him so poorly, but sometimes I do.

“But you love writing,” my husband said. “Why not do it just because you love to?”

He’s right, of course, and I told him so.

We hugged. “You can have the dryer now,” I said. “My clothes are probably dry.”

“Thanks for saying something,” he said as I was halfway down the hall.

My husband is my best friend. I shouldn’t treat him so poorly, but sometimes I do, and then I make amends.  We’ve been married for over forty years. Something about our relationship must be working. I think it’s mutual honesty, vulnerability, and saying “I’m sorry,” when we’ve been unkind that makes the difference.

Photo above is Mount Mitchell Trail.

Are transgender women on sports teams unfair?

My son came for Christmas this year. We sat on the front stoop in the warm sunshine (I live in Asheville, NC). I don’t remember how we got onto the topic of transgender women on sports teams. I said I thought it was unfair to the biological cis women on the team because a transgender woman was naturally stronger than a cis woman and placed any opposing team without a transgender woman at a disadvantage.

He said, “How about the basketball player Yao Ming who’s unusually tall? Is that unfair to other teams?”

“No,” I said.

“How is that any different from a trans woman being stronger than a biological woman?”

Uneven abilities among team members is common

I hadn’t thought of that. There are plenty examples of uneven abilities among same biologically gendered team members. Someone might be bigger and stronger than another team member. Just look at football. Defensive linemen are big heavy guys unlike the lighter physiques of quarter backs. Is that unfair? No, of course not. So how is a transgender woman being stronger than a cis woman any different my son wanted to know?

I came to the conclusion that it wasn’t.

Then we talked about J.K. Rowling and her beliefs regarding gender. I admitted I sympathized with her statement that a trans woman isn’t a woman biologically because she doesn’t have a uterus and can’t get pregnant. Same with a trans man. He can’t impregnate anyone.

“But does that make her any less a woman?” my son wanted to know.

“You know the character in the animated film WALL-E? What gender is that robot?” he asked.

“Male.”

“Right, and he has a girlfriend who you would call female, but do either of them have genitals?”

“Oh,” I said. “Right. No.”

In other words, gender identity has nothing to do with genitals. Not having a uterus or penis doesn’t make you any less female or male.

Why conflate violence and self-protection with masculinity?

That conversation made me reconsider a book review I’d written about a transgender woman. In the book she resorts to violence to protect herself and her staff. Then, a transgender man suddenly becomes self-confident once he commits murder. In my review I wrote “So, violence makes the man?” My son said no. It worked for those two characters in the book. But why conflate violence and self-protection with masculinity? Who says women can’t be strong and protect themselves?

It was a mind-altering conversation I was grateful to have, especially with my son who I hadn’t seen in person for a year and a half. It made me realize how important getting together in person more often with him is to say nothing of appreciating more deeply gender identity. That someone would be willing to change their body to conform with who they are as a person despite the prejudice out there–that’s a strong conviction. It doesn’t put any team at an advantage or disadvantage.

I vowed to visit my son sooner next year. Thanks for having that conversation with me, Ian. I love you.

I ignored the beggars and gave to the buskers

Yesterday while Christmas shopping, I ignored the beggars and gave to the buskers. I’m not proud. It was a cool, overcast gray day. After parking the car, I started walking uphill on Lexington. Asheville is a crumbly old town with lots of hippie-type shops with incense pouring out the doors.

I looked across the street and saw the hemp shop that sells the muscle relaxer salve I’d run out of was open. Usually my chiropractor sells it, but she’s been out of it, saying this shop where she got it wasn’t answering her calls. She had told me where the shop was, so I went over there after my appointment one day, but a sign on the glass door written in soap said they were closed. I called the shop and left a message but heard from no one. So, when I looked across the street, saw the shop sign saying they were open, I decided to investigate.

Normally I would never enter such a shady place.

Normally I would never enter such a shady place. The place was dim and dark and run down. A faded blue couch sat against one wall with a ratty sweatshirt thrown over one arm. Stacks of cardboard boxes sat behind the counter. A black and white cat greeted me, as did the proprietor, a young, scruffy looking man with chin-length curly hair and beard and wearing a winter wool cap. His clothes were disheveled. I wondered if he and his cat were both stoned. But he was polite and very helpful.  

The salve I was looking for sat on the counter along with a joint compound that I wondered whether might be even better for my arthritis. The jars were $50 each. He said if I bought two I’d get a discount and pay just $80. I spied a small stick tube of calming and relaxing CBD ointment for $20 and bought it for my son to rub on his temples and the back of his neck. I could imagine him doing this at work.

He had stopped singing and said, “Thank you.”

I left the hemp shop happy with my purchase and continued up the block. Someone was singing a bluesy country song. He had a gorgeous voice, sonorous and dark with sweet highlights, a flexible tone with expressive nuances. I crossed the street to give him $5. His baseball cap was already brimming with singles. I said, “You need a bigger cap.” He had stopped singing and said thank you, and then started up again.

At another shop that sold nothing but bee and honey products was a jar on the counter labeled “tips.” Honestly? And then I thought, Why not? Here they are standing on their feet all day long making hardly a living wage. As I paid for my purchase in cash, I stuffed a single into the jar. The young lady had been busy wrapping my items, lip balm and a bees wax candle, in red tissue paper so I don’t think she saw me do it. But when she said, “Have a nice rest of your day,” she looked right into my eyes which such sincerity I was touched.

They looked like hill people, like they really needed the money.

On the next block, the main drag where the town square is, a bedraggled man and a woman had their cardboard sign out asking for money. They looked like they really needed it. The woman’s mouth was sunken as if she had no teeth. She had an angry, belligerent stare. The man’s clothes were dirty and smudged. He could barely keep his eyelids open and appeared drugged, which is what I assumed he was, or drunk.

I have principles is what I told myself

That familiar clench of anxiety, fear, and guilt seized me as I walked right past them. I might have said hello, but I did not give them money, assuming they wanted it for drugs or booze. They were begging, not busking. I have principles is what I told myself.

I crossed the street to the Chocolate Fetish shop and bought treats with cash for stockings and one for myself, all the while thinking guiltily about the couple across the street. It didn’t occur to me that I could have bought them some chocolates.

Recently, I drove through the hills around Asheville to get to the other side of town and passed one dilapidated trailer park after another. I was eager to get out of that area, glad I wasn’t so poor that I had to live there. Then I thought of all the unhoused individuals who sleep on the sidewalks downtown during the summer. Would a trailer be a blessing even if it were run down, the yard overgrown with weeds?

I had been on my way to a different hemp store that day. After I bought a jar of salve, I went out to my car, then retraced my steps and went back into the shop to buy another jar as a gift for my sister. I felt grateful I had the means to so, that I had a job that paid a decent hourly wage, and that my husband did too.

Beggars remind me of all that I have to lose

I know how fortunate I am to have money to spend and give away. But I like giving it to people who give me something in return. Non-profits do work I value and can support. Buskers offer enjoyment and I like to show my appreciation. Poor people who beg and offer nothing terrify me. I am Scrooge. I donate to several non-profits, including food banks that speak to my heart, but when faced with poverty up close and personal, I shy away. Beggars remind me of all that I have to lose. I walk past to shut out that pain.

When I was a homeless teen I thought playing my flute and opening my case for money would be begging. I didn’t want to demean myself and instead ended up exchanging sex for food and shelter. I didn’t recognize the irony at the time, but I certainly felt the shame.

Today, I shy away from beggars, from the pain of being so far down you have nothing left to lose, not even your dignity. I judge when I have no right to. Instead, I walk right past and ignore the pain and poverty right in front of me. God, forgive me.

Never underestimate your talents. You never know who might love your work.

I did not want to paint a picture of a cow. That’s what everyone else at our office holiday party was painting. Not because I’m not a team player; I am. That’s important to me. But you should never underestimate your talents. The thought of taking step-by-step direction from someone about what to paint when, where, and how made me bristle. So, I did something else.

Each canvas lined up on either side of the table had the same drawing of a cow wearing a Santa hat outlined in pencil. I took my seat and turned my pallet sideways, then upside down, trying to get that silly cow out of my head. What would I paint? I didn’t know, so I picked up my brush and started mixing colors.

The thought of taking step-by-step direction from someone about what to paint when, where, and how made me bristle.

We had a paper plate with daubs of six hues to choose from—burnt umber, black, white, red, brown, and dark green. No blue, so I was kind of stuck. But not entirely. I could still mix the burnt umber with the red for a reddish orange. Or mix the burnt umber with the green.

As soon as I started mixing and painting, I felt at ease. I hadn’t painted in years. The brush felt familiar and applying the paint strokes satisfying, but a twinge of guilt insisted that maybe I was missing out on the communal activity. But no. I was participating, just doing my own thing. No cooperation was necessary, so it was okay to be the renegade.

I squinted at the fellow emerging on my canvas, green face, rosy cheeks, flaming orange hair.

My colleagues dutifully followed the instructions while the professional led the class. I squinted at the fellow emerging on my canvas, green face, rosy cheeks, flaming orange hair. He needed a background. I love paintings with depth of field and perspective. They’re full of space and possibility. It puts the subject in context and creates a story.

Even though everyone else was following directions and painting the same thing, each rendition was slightly different from the next. Some were executed with greater skill than others. Two colleagues went rogue in their own fashion. Instead of painting white fur on Santa’s hat, one of my colleagues painted green fur and inscribed her kids’ names on the painting. Another painted an aqua colored hat and jacket. “To hang in my bathroom,” she said.

Even though everyone else was following directions and painting the same thing, each rendition was slightly different from the next.

When my teammates saw my painting they said, “Polly went really rogue!” A young couple from another party walked around our table and when they saw mine, the woman’s face lit up. “I love this!”

I was quite pleased. “You can have it if you want.”

“I’ll pay you,” she said.

I felt flattered. “No, please, take it.”

My immediate supervisor smiled and hugged me around the shoulder. “See, never underestimate your talents.” I signed the painting and gave it to the woman.

Here I was afraid of being perceived by others as a rule-breaker instead of a team player, especially by the CEO. She was there too, painting her own Santa Cow. What if I gave her the impression that I can’t follow directions and don’t listen? It’s possible she thought nothing of the kind. By satisfying my creative urge and doing something different from the rest, I fulfilled someone’s dream of owning an original painting and not some copy she herself had painted that evening.

By satisfying my creative urge and doing something different from the rest, I fulfilled someone’s dream of owning an original painting and not some copy she herself had painted that evening.

All too often I underestimate my talent, but I shouldn’t. My creative outpouring might make even just one person happy. Any happiness we can inspire in others is never a waste. I’m glad I went rogue. In so doing, I unveiled a little gem that brought joy to someone’s life.

The Challenge of Balancing Social Media and Writing Time

Last week I spent two and a half days writing in a tiny cabin in the woods next to a small waterfall  at the foot of a mountain. The cabin had no internet or cell phone service. I was in writer heaven.

No scrolling through Twitter, no checking emails, no looking up other writers’ articles on the Internet. I got so much done and made a breakthrough in my memoir, reorganizing and cutting chapters I loved but that were not zeroed in on the theme. Being alone gave me the freedom to record myself reading chapters in a loud voice into the mic rather than lowering my voice as I do when my husband is around so as not to be overheard. I listened to the playback and made edits I could hear but not see on the page, chapter after chapter to my heart’s content.

It was a lesson in how easily I become distracted by engaging with social media.

After my fruitful time in the cabin, I vowed that before I tweet and read email I will write first. The consequence is that after a week of this practice, I’ve hardly participated on Twitter at all. Substack announcements from other writers, blog posts, published stories and essay links on social media—I’ve not read them, and I’ve deleted all but the most important emails from journals that piled up in an endless stream in my inbox. Yes, I’m more in tune with my own writing, which is what I want to be, hoping to produce words that will get published and connect with readers, but there’s this downside: I miss my writing community.

Benefits to this time alone in the woods

There were benefits to this time alone in the woods with nothing to do but write for 48 hours, but there were drawbacks as well, one being my obsessive tendencies and the inability to moderate them. Such an existence is not sustainable nor is it practical. That’s valuable information.

I realize now that I need to find a balance between writing with no distractions and living an engaged writer’s life on social media that is sustainable.

I vow to engage in social media and limit myself to reading one author linked story per day and responding to as many Tweets that a 10 minute scroll session allows. I’ll scroll three times a day. That’s it! I’ll let you know how it goes.

If you have a problem balancing your social media time and writing time, I’d love to hear what works for you!