Ann McMaster - Life as It Is

All I've Ever Wanted

It's my first night back from a week spent in Huntsville, AL, leading a Pay It Forward More To Life Weekend, plus Completion Evening. I met my family for dinner in honor of Troy's (my son-in-law's) birthday, and in the process, brought Hayleigh (my granddaughter) home to spend the night with me.

It's now almost 6 am, and I've been in my office since 2:30 am, sorting through the myriad of mail and tasks that are generally required when I've been gone a week. After the first flurry of busyness, before starting the next task, I noticed a strange sense of being bloated - not a 'bad' bloat, but a strange bloat. So out of curiosity, I paused to explore my 'bloat.'

Unshed tears - tears of gratitude - dammed behind my eyes, stopping the outpouring my heart feels. This last weekend, I was touched deeply by one lifeshock after another - one story of courage after another, one selfless act of service after another, and the endless ability of the human spirit to seek the truth and to rest in that truth.

So here I've been in the rarefied air of being with people who were willing to take radical responsibility for the quality of their life - both in the training and on team; and then to come home to my family with whom I have shared so many years of riding the highs and lows of life, and the resultant bond that comes with that long-term experience ... no wonder my body feels bloated. It's as if I can't contain all the gratitude and thankfulness I feel.

I am seen. I am known. I am loved.       It's all I've ever wanted, more than I thought I could have.       I see. I trust. I love.

Sacred.

Everyday Autism

When I was in college, I became fascinated by autism. So much so that one semester I volunteered at a school that specialized in working with autistic children. I looked forward to that one afternoon a week that I got to spend observing these kids playing, taking notes, talking with the therapists afterward.

I thought about them a lot during the week - how they looked normal, and yet repeated specific, idiopathic behaviors (perseveration); lacked interactive skills; and rarely made eye contact.

I understood them, felt connected to them. One day, I sat down and listed all the ways I was drawn to these kids. So I started thinking about how I looked normal, and yet, there were specific behaviors that I repeated over and over, that I didn't want to do ... and at times, couldn't stop myself. For instance, at fraternity parties, I would hang around the fringes, at some level unable to see how I belonged there. So I smoked and tried to look cool, pretending that I was bored. Actually I was scared I didn't fit in, so I acted like I didn't care. Same pattern of behavior as the autistic kids - repeated, idiopathic behavior; lack of interactive skills; rarely made eye contact.

No wonder I was fascinated by them. They are an exaggerated version of myself ... and sometimes not so exaggerated. Others observe my behavior, but I can't see it for myself because I am caught by it - perseverating behavior that locks me into my own world and separates me from others. And my guess is that it usually happens when I can't make sense out of the exterior world - people say or do things that I don't understand, so I retreat into MY world, where things are the way they are 'supposed to be.'

Yes, I empathize. My autistic part is not as obvious, but it's there. How about you?

Thought for the Day - 13 October 09

I was walking in the rain, struggling to keep my computer bag and my purse dry, while keeping my umbrella slanted in the same direction as the downpour. A car was cruising down the lane towards me, either not seeing me (which is very difficult to do) or not caring or asleep at the wheel. For whatever reason, he was not slowing down to let me cross the lane. ("He" being a ubiquitous term for the driver of the car.)

He's dry in the car, I'm wet in the rain. I was not in the mood to be pleasant to someone I judged as inconsiderate - at the Least, inconsiderate. So I stalked across the lane, basically playing 'chicken' with the car. He must have read the determination in my walk, because he did stop.

As soon as I crossed, the car started forward again, obviously not seeing the young man - a Big, young man in a Very Bright Blue shirt behind me, no umbrella. At the last minute, he allowed the young man to cross in front of him.  As we reached the door to the store at about the same time, I turned to the young man and said, "That was mean of him."  The young man looked surprised and said, "It's okay."

Well, it's not okay. Yes, it happened. AND, what does this minor incident say about his regard for, or even awareness of, others? And this is just one of a jillion incidents in which "we" are so self-absorbed we don't serve others in the small ways. This one small incident is but a reflection of a pattern of behavior that  leads to separation, rather than unity. 

I exacerbated the separation by judging the driver of the car as inconsiderate and unconscionable. I was just as asleep as I judged him to be. In truth, it could have been me in that car. There have been times I was preoccupied, looking for an open parking space, or whatever, and not been aware of my surroundings.

I'm human, he's human. AND there is a call to be more awake, more present - not just to myself, but to all the other 6 billion people with whom I share this planet, as well as all other carbon atoms, period. I'm a part of it all. And I have my part to play in the evolution of awakeness - or is that revolution?

A Funny Moment

Marsha Dhingra and I met for dinner a few nights ago. Just as we were beginning to eat our salads, a family sat at the table next to us - mom, dad, uncle, 10 or 11-year-old boy, 7 or 8-year-old girl. They weren't especially loud and did not intrude on our tete-a-tete while we caught up with each other.

At one point when Marsha and I were quite engaged in our conversation, the boy at the next table, being his age, cut loose with a noisy, cheek-flapping, unmistakable noxious gas emission. Marsha and I looked at each other - mutually wondering if we should pretend we didn't hear and keep on talking or admit that it happened. If we were to consciously accept what happened, how does one react appropriately to this "inappropriate" act in a public setting?

That decision hung in the air as we looked over at the table - the kid was alternately delighted and embarrassed, the father was smothering laughter, the mother was horrified, the uncle was inscrutable, the daughter was oblivious. No way could we pretend that what happened hadn't happened. Their table was looking at our table to see what we were going to do.

All this happened in a split second. That one moment could have gone a multitude of ways - in fact, it already had.

My response: as I nodded to the kid, "Good one!" And we all cracked up laughing, including the mom. The slight tension in the room immediately evaporated.

(Having three younger brothers and many nephews helped shape my spontaneous choice of action.)

The Quest for Self Expression

Kirsten Johnson, one of our More To Life Coaches, was chatting with me tonight about a decision she made when she was about 4 years old. She told her mother she wanted a Harley (motorcycle) with training wheels. Her mother burst out in laughter, as did the rest of the family when they heard the tale. On the one hand, if you know Kirsten, you'd know she would not think that an outlandish request, given the size of her adventurous streak. On the other hand, you might also imagine what it might be like to have a real want that becomes a family joke. Her conclusion was that she could never have what she wants, and her wants are worth ridiculing, so she should never say what she wants.

Of course, as an adult, those childish presumptions don't rule her life. However, this one surfaced today, and she bit it back.

Our chat this evening started me ruminating about the relentless inner quest for full expression. I am a unique combination of talents and skills, as are you. My biggest mistakes have been made while trying to prove that I was different than what I actually am. My most satisfying experiences have been those moments when I was real - I said what I meant, I meant what I said, and my behavior and my feelings all matched exactly. Many of those experiences were laced with anxiety, because I was laying everything on the line. Others were borne of my willingness to accept the consequences either way, because I just couldn't stand being bound by my fear anymore. And the scariest experiences involved those who matter the most to me.

If you ever find your life on the dull side, tell someone how much you love them ... Really HOW MUCH you love them. Or tell them something you've been hiding from them. Or both. That'll do it.

An Unsolicited Act of Kindness

Wednesday was Hayleigh's 5th birthday. I didn't go, because I had the flu - too sick on the one hand, but mostly not wanting to spread my germs - especially to Chase (10 months old) who has just recuperated from a bout with something virulent.

So Hayleigh took my daughter, Rebecca's iPhone, snapped this picture of Chase, gave the phone back to Rebecca, and said, "Here, send this picture to Grann. It'll make her feel better."

An unsolicited act of kindness from a 5-year-old - spontaneously taking a picture of her little brother to brighten up her Grann's day.  The picture alone did the trick. And her thinking of doing that for her ailing Grann was also enough to make my day.

May we all learn from her. May we make a conscious choice to do at least one unsolicited act of kindness each day - for someone we know, for someone we don't, obviously or anonymously - it all works.

The above picture of Hayleigh was taken a few months ago, clowning around at her Uncle Patrick's fire station.

The picture to the right was taken by her with Rebecca's iPhone ... Chase, 10 months old - taking his first steps. As you can see, he's now worthy again of his nickname, "Chunk." (He lost weight during his recent 2-week bout with vomiting/diarrhea.)  Looks like it won't be too many years before his nickname is "Hunk."