What Do We Need In Order To Do Our Best Work?

For me, being out in nature is one of my special needs.

Friend, writer, and teacher extraordinaire, Patti Digh wrote a great blog post a few days ago.  Writing about her daughter, Tess, who was recently diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome she asks the questions, “What does Tess need to succeed?  What helps her sit fully in her sun?”

Certainly these are questions that most anyone could one day wrestle with, if their own child or another family member is in need of special help in order to be successful in life. Unfortunately, we don’t ask those questions of ourselves and it is rare to hear them asked in the workplace by those who run the show. Whether or not we have a particular disability, we should all be asking ourselves these questions, as should CEOs if they expect the best work from their employees.

In reality, all of us have special needs.  Introverts need quiet and solitude to do their work.  Extroverts, on the other hand, need continuous interaction with other people in order to be comfortable in their world.  And some of us have sensitivities that can bring us too our knees.  Music that fills a room may be therapeutic to some and nothing but bruising noise to others.  If on in the background, I find the garbled messages of a television anxiety producing when I’m trying to read or am doing any activity that requires my focus and attention.

On some days I write with music playing in the background. On other days even the gentlest of instrumental sound can keep me from my quest.  I just turned off Yo-Yo Ma’s album, Obrigado Brazil, that I love and often exercise to, as I did this morning. But today in order to concentrate on writing this post, it is getting in my way.  On another day I might find it just the ticket I need in order to write or paint.  I never know, and I’m learning to listen carefully to what I need in any given situation.

As an introvert, I often need time to myself after I’ve been with large groups of people. I dislike small talk and would prefer to converse about life and philosophical issues. I do much better in intimate settings with only a few people at a time.  For me, the perfect dinner party size is six people. Good talk and good food … there’s nothing better.

Should you decide to turn on lights or make noise while I’m trying to sleep, you’re toast.  That’s why the only roommate I can tolerate is my love, Bill.  He understands and goes out of his way in order to keep me from being awakened in the middle of the night and chopping off his head :-)!

I’ve spent years trying to come to grips with my introversion and sensitivities.  Until just a few years ago, I thought that I was broken, intolerable to be around, and that most people thought I was a snob, elitist and/or beyond loony.  Certainly my parents didn’t help, with their incessant complaining about my being too sensitive as a child.  Of course, they were too, but hid it behind their iron curtains of denial.

These days, I try to be with people who tend to understand my kookiness.  They are extroverts as well as introverts. And after a recent bout of overwhelm, I’m learning again to pay attention and ask myself what I need in any given moment. Knowing that everyone has needs of his or her own helps to keep me from feeling freakish about mine.

What are your special needs?  Do you consider yourself to be extremely sensitive?  An extrovert or an introvert? We’re all different, of course.  But no one should suffer from feeling different and alone in what sometimes feels like a world gone out of control.

Meltdown: What Happened After A Recent Trip And How Not To Let It Happen Again

Lily and Sam taking a nap.

It’s Tuesday. I just walked in the house after a six-hour plane trip from Vermont.  It was a fast paced and emotion filled trip seeing friends, family members and revisiting old haunts.  I’m tired, but before I can sit down and pull all my lose threads together and get back to my ordinary life I need to make a list of groceries so that Bill and I can have something to eat for dinner.  Out the door I fly, back into the car that just delivered me from the airport and head out to Whole Foods.  I’m back a little while later with fresh local produce and some Thai spiced chicken breasts from the deli counter.

The older I get the more exhausting travel seems to be. I’ve been up since five AM and it’s now three in the afternoon.  I need to lie down for a quick nap, but my suitcase lies open and unpacked in the middle of the bed. Sam is sniffing around in the dirty clothes trying to figure out where I’ve been. The easiest thing to do is to do the unpacking now and take a nap later.  I haul the laundry downstairs and since there is so much of it and tomorrow will be a hugely busy day, I set the washing machine on regular and walk away as the tub fills with water. Upstairs there is a pile of mail for me to sort through and I notice that the answering machine is blinking. There are eight messages to listen to.  My feet hurt. I have a headache and that list of places I need to be tomorrow is attacking me.  I need to take a nap, but there is so much to do. I only have two days to get my life back in order before a good friend comes to visit.

It’s now Sunday, almost a week since I’ve been back. Susan, a friend I haven’t seen in several years left an hour ago. This weekend was the only time we could fit in some time to see each other. We spent our days together talking about what we’ve each been up to, enjoyed delicious food together and stayed up way past my bedtime.  In between conversations, thoughts and feelings about my trip to Vermont kept whispering in my ear, telling me they needed to breathe. They wanted out of my head and onto the pages of my journal. But it will most likely be another few years before I see Susan again and I didn’t pay any attention to what I needed to do.

I’ve watered the garden, checked emails and Facebook and just finished lunch.  My head hurts and my stomach is churning like a cement mixer and I feel my eyes begin to fill with tears. My weekly calendar, a page I print out every weekend so that I know what is ahead of me for the coming week, sits in front of me.  Tuesday and Wednesday, days I always set aside as “My Days,” are filled with things that won’t necessarily be relaxing or creative  There is no time for sitting in the garden, reading or writing the next piece of my memoir.  I’m still playing catch-up and on Friday another very dear friend will be arriving to spend a good piece of time with me.  I so look forward to her visit.  We met two years ago at a writing retreat and we’ve become fast friends ever since, talking by phone every week and trying to come up with plans so that we can get together.

I’m feeling the first pangs of an incoming meltdown.  I start breathing deeply and envision myself on an empty beach. As I inhale fresh air into my lungs I say, “ocean” to myself.  On the exhale, I say, “wave,“ and find myself breathing to the rhythm of waves washing up on shore and then returning to the sea.  This is what I do when I meditate and also when I’m feeling unsafe and highly stressed.  But today it’s a struggle and my mind rushes back to all of the things I need to do before Sharon arrives. I’m shaky and I find myself entering that no-man’s land of panic, all alone and unable to pull myself back.

The tears start flowing. I am impatient with Bill and my world seems to be collapsing around me.  I still haven’t written much about my trip except for a brief blog post, which is more of a travelogue than anything else. It doesn’t cover what being in Vermont meant to me.  I feel as though time has boxed me into a cell without access to paper, pens, or my computer.  I want to write it all out but as I sit down to do it, my Inner Critic arrives, seating herself on my shoulder. She starts hammering, “You’ll never  write your memoir, so why bother feeling so glum.  Just turn the computer off and go clean out the refrigerator.”  My Angel of Sanity, who just flew in says, “Your tired. You need some alone time. Cancel all of your appointments for the next week. Be calm. Trust the process.”  I take a nap, then a walk, wondering if I will ever write again.

A week has passed and all is well.  I had a meltdown.  Sharon knew as only good friends do, that I needed to be by myself.  It wasn’t the perfect time for her either, so we bagged our get-together and decided to do it another time.

I’ve spent the week taking it easy.  Being alone, naps and going to bed early help a lot. I cancelled some of my appointments and I started writing. Slowly at first. A day or two later it began to flow and I feel as though I’ve returned to the land of the living.  Ms. Inner Critic has been banished and my angel is sitting over on the book shelf, looking smug, trying not to say, “I told you so.”

Three days ago Sharon called and asked if she could take me to lunch.  She and her daughter, Amy, were on their way to New York for a workshop/retreat.  She arrived too late for lunch but we had a wonderful dinner together.  They stayed the night and went their way early the next morning.  I loved seeing them and they didn’t intrude on my recovery.   Actually, seeing Sharon, helped a lot.

What I’ve learned:

  1. I need time after a trip like this last one to rest and process what just happened.

2.  I need to take plenty of time to be alone.

3.  I mustn’t fill my calendar with appointments right after a trip.  I need to give myself time to readjust.

4.  I need to be aware of how I’m feeling and be honest with myself and those around me who need to know what they’re up against if they plan on hanging out with me.

I have another heavy-duty, emotionally challenging trip coming up in October, when I go up to Long Island where I was born and spent my childhood. I will scatter my mother’s ashes in the places she loved the most during her lifetime.  And I will hopefully visit with cousins I haven’t seen in fifty years.  Before I leave I will revisit this post and take heed.

 If like me you suffer from overstimulation and have meltdowns when life gets too busy and emotional, how do to keep yourself from going ballistic?

Rebooting My Creative Process

Purple Coneflower, © Joan Z. Rough, 1989

A writer is a writer not because she writes well and easily, because she has amazing talent, because everything she does is golden. In my view, a writer is a writer because even when there is no hope, even when nothing you do shows any sign of promise, you keep writing anyway. Junot Díaz

Here I sit, trying to get started on my memoir writing process again.  Lots of things have been happening including a trip to Vermont, visiting the places I once lived and the people I love. I’m struggling with time and the need to do everyday things, including some fun, as well as writing.  My old friend fear of failure and revisiting old memories, is visiting at the moment. I just can’t seem to get started. There is always something else more important to do and I find myself saying yes to those many distractions that come my way.

I know what I need to do. Sit down every day and write, no matter what it’s about. As a starter, I’ve begun writing in my journal on a daily basis after a long period of doing it only once or twice a week. I’ve also started a daily meditation practice, which I’d been doing but have let slide for a long time. It’s a must for me, especially now, when I need grounding instead of flitting around the ether like a lost lightning bug.

I have five weeks until my next trip in late July when I go to North Carolina to spend a week visiting with my daughter and grandchildren.  I can write there as I’ll be in a small condo and though they live nearby, we always set aside a few hours every day when all of us get to have some quiet, alone time.  But unless I get a schedule going for myself now, actually doing the writing when I’m there will a challenge.

Before our recent visit to Vermont and after the garden went into simple maintenance mode, I had a great schedule going in which I exercised every morning and then spent at least two hours writing, usually ending up with at least 500 words. It was exciting and I felt very productive.  Since I’ve been back I’ve been in stalling mode.

So here I go again, jumping into the flow, praying that I’ll go with it instead of fighting my way up-stream, which I tend to do when I’m blocked.  Wish me luck and if you have a way of rebooting your creative process, let me know.  I can use as many suggestions as I can get.

The Gift

Encaustic painting, 6 1/4″ x 7 1/2″, September, 2012

I‘ve been given a much-needed gift. Sometimes when you give a gift to someone, it also becomes a gift to others. Today I’m feeling like one of the others. I’ve been away, am tired, have missed yoga and really wanted there to be a class today. I’m still in catch up mode after my return last Tuesday from Vermont and have been feeling pinched for time, rushed and growling a lot.

Yoga class was cancelled this morning because my teacher is away.  She is up in New York City where she gifted her son who just graduated from high school to a weekend on the town.  In late August he’ll be going off to college, and I’m sure his single mom will be missing the dickens out of him when he goes off into the big, wide world.  She’ll become an empty-nester and oh, I remember those days.

There is also the fact that I’m hating that it’s an election year. The phone rings with political updates that are recorded and I’m unable to verbally attack those who are bothering me in the privacy of my own home even though I’ve told them in the past to put me on the do not call list. And as November nears, the phone will be ringing off the hook. Oh yes, I have Caller ID but someone has figured out ways to get me to pick up the phone without saying who they are.  I don’t watch a lot of TV but whenever I turn it on to hear a little bit of news, the air waves are flooded with political attack ads and pols expressing their disdain for all of the political actions that the presidential candidates are taking.  Pretty soon when President Obama brushes his pearly whites, that too will become a political act.  As Rodney King, who sadly died this weekend, once asked, “ Can’t we just get along?”

Then there is the firing of Teresa Sullivan last week, President of the University of Virginia, which as the crow flies is maybe a tenth of a mile from my home.  The way in which Dr. Sullivan, a brilliant, enormously popular and upstanding woman has been treated by the Board of Governors of the University is horrific. As far as I’m concerned this is one of the most heinous acts an institution of higher learning has ever taken. I’ll not go into the details here but if you want to know about it, just check it out on face book, twitter, or google.  It’s been on the front pages of the Washington Post and I pray it goes viral to every newspaper and television station in the country.

Last night after a weekend visit from a very dear friend, which I enjoyed immensely, I kind of lost it.  This weeks calendar looks like the list from hell and I’m tired, disgusted and haven’t had time to write.  My muse, sits in the corner, ignored and feeling abandoned. The idea of being able to add to my memoir has flown out the window and now I suddenly have the urge to throw paint at a blank canvas, really hard,  something I haven’t done in way too long. Throwing paint along with writing rants like this always helps to calm my spirit and brings me back to myself.

So Barb, I just want to say a big thank you for the gift of no class today.  It’s given me time I wouldn’t have otherwise had to wake up more slowly, to listen to the rain and the birds singing outside and to write a rant.  Later today I hope to throw some paint, but then again it might have to wait until later in the week. In the mean time, I feel blessed, much better and I hope you had a fantastic visit to the Big Apple.  See you on Friday.

Much love, Joan

The Clock

Big Ben

The Timex on my wrist, the old Seth Thomas clock on the wall that rings the hours, and the small, black electronic cube that sits on my nightstand beeping at six AM have been with me always.   They not only denote the hour and the passage of time, they have been the enemy. I have fought with them constantly.

Stop the clock. I’ve run out of time. It’s time to eat, time to sleep, time to feed the dog, pick up the kids. Time is short, too long and are we there yet?  Forever in a hurry, I was constantly running.  But somehow I was always on time or even early getting to the places I was supposed to be.  Why didn’t I have ulcers?

One afternoon while reading a good book and needing to be at an appointment in fifteen minutes, I caved in. Tired of rushing and feeling rebellious I kept on reading even as the clock ticked away.  I finished the chapter, got in the car, and drove to my appointment.  I was only five minutes late but I had been overwhelmed by anxiety on the way, thinking I’d be terribly late.  I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone, my stomach churned filled with a load of worry stones, and I didn’t know what I’d been thinking.

Like a drunk who finally hits bottom and knows that the sauce will kill him soon, I knew that if I kept running the way I did,  it would be the end of me.  I’d crash the car, fall off a cliff and/or my heart would simply quit because it couldn’t keep up. My life was a train wreckwaiting to happen.

Changing my pace has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.  But somehow I’ve managed to slow the train, though it can still be easy to fall back into old habits if I’m not careful.  I do still have occasional overly busy days, but if I’m feeling overbooked I reschedule an appointment or two for another day when things aren’t so hectic. I’ve learned to say no to the one more thing that will tip the scale sending me into overwhelm and yes to breathing deeply and taking whole days when I don’t have to go anywhere but stay here and tend to whatever I want and need to do. I love those days the best and manage to get to my writing with time to spare for a nap, to garden, or read.  I still worry about being late once in a while, but I’m also beginning to trust that the clock does sometimes run slow and I’ll arrive in plenty of time without being frazzled.

I wrote this poem back in 1993 in the heat of my war with time.  I’m so grateful that battle is over.

The Clock

A tranquil pool reflects
As only water can
The confection of moon
Star lanterns
Show the way down
To the mouth of a cave

A tattered moth
Hands me her flame
Tells me to wait
Just inside at the edge
For a ferry to deliver me
To the middle of night

Aboard the vessel
The oarsman leers
With eyes that glow
In burning sockets
His mouth overflowing
Knots of squirming eels
I hold the flame closer
Easing my fear
A solitary owl hoots
At the sight of land

I am lifted to shore
By rigid talons
Left on the sand
Where a porcelain clock
Elephant high
Stands guard
Naming the hours
As they race around
An eroding track

The clock strikes twelve
Spilling sleeping cuckoos
Severed hands
Frantic numerals gather momentum
Left without time
Lifting the flame to possibility
I ignite the ticking sky

jzr, 1993