The
sun is streaming in the kitchen window, throwing a spotlight on the
kitchen floor. A mug of peppermint tea radiates warmth into my hands.
I take a breath and feel the hot, moist air and the sweet tang of
mint fill my nose. The house is silent, but everywhere around me is
the chaos of living: half-eaten breakfasts, dropped shoes, and hills
of laundry. My two girls, ages 7 and 10, are at school. My husband is
at work. I'm taking a break from cleaning out "my
box"&emdash;sorting, responding, recycling, or otherwise dealing with
all those pieces of paper that pile up.
In front of me is the annual alumni appeal from Swarthmore. The check is written, signed, and inserted. But I'm hesitating. My eyes go to the small space at the top of the flap. "Alumni, please keep in touch!" This exhortation is calling to me. My life is radically different from just one year ago, and I want to tell others about it.
A little more than a year ago, I had everything a modern woman could want. The company that I helped found six years earlier had just gone public, and my founder's stock was worth a lot of money. I had a great job as the director of technology transfer, which used my engineering and organizational talents as well as my intuitive people skills and allowed me to travel all over the world. I had a loving husband who supported my career. And not only did I have a challenging job, I even did it part-time. I could be home for the school bus and volunteer at church. I was the "good mother" and successful career woman.
But the outer success did not tell the inner story. I was miserable. I kept thinking, "I have everything; I should be happy." The disconnect between my head and my heart made me deeply depressed, but I was so busy achieving that I didn't have time to feel anything. Doing two (or more) things at once was my credo. I could cook dinner, help with homework, and write a memo in my mind. I would talk on the phone with a client and fold laundry. My life was like the plate-spinning vaudeville act on Ed Sullivan. Dozens of fragile plates spin, each on top of a tall stick. Just as one was about to stop and smash to the floor, I'd run and give it another twist. I was the master plate spinner, but I was caught in a trap; I could never let a plate drop.
Not only was I physically doing two things at once, my mind was constantly active: planning, worrying, and thinking about the past or the future. I was simply never in the current moment. In the shower, I was thinking about the day ahead. "Do Brownies meet tonight? Is it my day to make the snack?" While brushing my teeth, I was arranging my work schedule. "I'd better call Hank and make sure he gets those agendas sent." While cooking dinner, I was thinking about what happened at work. "Why didn't they accept my proposal? Did I say it too harshly, or was I too weak? I'm no good at selling."
If something wasn't "important," it was a chore. Before kids, my passion was cooking, but each evening, I'd look up at the clock and think, "What am I going to do for dinner? Why is this my responsibility?" I'd be angry as I sliced carrots, guilty as I ordered pizza, or cranky as I yelled at my husband that it was his turn to fix dinner.
The real problem wasn't being busy; I was living at odds with my deepest values. I'll never forget the day when I realized how out of whack things had become. I had spent the day teaching listening skills to a group of engineers. Patiently, I modeled paraphrasing and reflecting, emphasizing the need to give the other person your full attention and not cut them off. At home that night, when I was putting the kids to bed, I heard my daughter call, "Mommy, can I talk to you?" A wave of exhaustion swept over me. Visions of hearing about yet another endless playground saga appeared before me. "Katie told Amanda that she said that I said…." I looked at my watch and then said to my daughter, "You can talk, but you have to say it all in three sentences." As I waited impatiently, I heard my daughter crying softly. Then it hit me: I had spent the day teaching listening skills, but I didn't have it within me to listen to the people I love the most.
That event was the first of many awakenings. Today, my life is radically different: I don't have a high-powered career. Last fall, I made the decision to leave my job and not work outside the home while I regained a sense of what was important. I am no longer wealthy. The company I worked for made several poor management decisions that led to significant losses, and now the stock is worth pennies. I have given up spinning plates. I try to do only one thing at a time and be aware of what is happening in each moment. Now, I regularly experience love, peace, and joy, and I am more accepting of anger, sorrow, and frustration. I know my purpose: to love others. And I know my priorities: to take care of myself and my family and then make the world a little bit better place.
Is this just a woman's issue about how difficult it is to work and be a mother? I don't think so. I think it is about being driven by external achievement and what is expected of us and not by what is internally satisfying. This affects men, or women without children, and even stay-at-home moms. We are just spinning a different set of plates.
In The Power of Myth, Joseph Campbell says, "We're so engaged in doing things of outer value that we forget that the inner value, the rapture that is associated with being alive, is what it is all about." Ever since I can remember, external achievement defined me and measured my worth (alas, always to come up lacking). It is a common path for many of us high achievers and reinforced by a culture that celebrates the extraordinary individual. How many of us secretly wish to have an article written about us in Newsweek extolling our success? How many of us have a hidden sense of failure as we read the Class Notes because we feel we have nothing noteworthy to report?
How do we escape the dissatisfying pull of external rewards and experience the inner value? Joseph Campbell says to study myths. I did not try that path, although I found myself reading books on various religious and spiritual topics. I don't have the answer to this question, nor do I think there is any single answer. Things did not change for me overnight, and I still struggle with exactly how to spend my time. However, three things have greatly helped me make a fundamental shift in how I experience life: compassionate friends, meditation, and time to love.
Gil Rose, my Greek professor from Swarthmore, is one of many compassionate and truthful friends who helped me see my inner values. Last winter, something prompted me to get back in touch with Professor Rose. During my freshman year, it became clear that Classics was not my forte, but I became one of his baby-sitters, and he became a mentor for me throughout my college years. Last year, I sent him an e-mail, telling him of my "wonderful" life. He wrote back, wanting to know more and asking me to call him. He has a gift for listening, and somehow he got me to talk about the misery beneath my success. Over several months of occasional phone calls and e-mails, he listened with acceptance and compassion and encouraged me to take some time out to discover what I really wanted.
For Christmas last year, a friend gave me the book Wherever You Go, There You Are: Mindfulness Meditation in Everyday Life by Jon Kabat-Zinn. It taught me that I was never in the present moment. Kabat-Zinn recommends meditation as the disciplined practice of being in the present. Years ago, I had decided that I could not meditate; I could never clear my mind. My mind had been going at warp speed for 40-plus years&emdash;and I was proud of it! Something about Kabat-Zinn's explanation changed the way I saw meditation. Meditation is not so much the practice of clearing the mind as it is the practice of being aware&emdash;noticing the mind wandering and nonjudgmentally bringing it back to the present moment. Today, I have a daily meditation practice, which has helped me to be more present in my life. For example, I have returned to a love of cooking. Slicing carrots can be a joy. The wonderful rhythm of cutting and the beauty of the color give me great pleasure.
For me, the most important change in my life is taking the time to love. Mother Theresa said, "We can do no great things; only small things with great love." I let people go ahead of me in line. I'm nice when I tell the telemarketers that I want my name removed from their list. I make it a priority to listen to those I love.
It has been an entire year since I left my job. I've enjoyed driving in the slow lane. I've also discovered that after taking care of myself and my family, I have time and energy for more. So I've started a small consulting business helping software organizations improve their productivity and increase employee satisfaction.
Will I start spinning plates again? I don't think so. Now, I see myself more as a painter of plates. A few are carefully arrayed before me, with the most important ones close by. I give each one individual attention, and if I get to the point where I cannot work on a design, I will put it aside until the time is right.
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