Shiva, The Destroyer

I thought I had finally hit my stride. That's when it always happens, isn't it?

My ex, who is a nice enough guy, is not terribly reliable when it comes to things like child support. I'm over that. On one hand, there's principle: It's a parent's responsibility to feed and clothe and support his or her children. On the other hand, for the time being, there's nothing to be gained by being The Enforcer, really. The girls and I are doing okay without the help, and simply accepting what is means that there's none of the conflict that can so crumple children. We're fine.

When he got fired and lost the kids' insurance benefits, it was harder to adapt. COBRA for the Little Waffles was just shy of $2000 a month, and freelance work doesn't come with benefits. I was going to have to get a "real" job.

The problem is that all of this occurred at a point when I was sort of on the cusp of having exactly the career I wanted. My pet project, Of Scars, was getting tons of attention as we finalized arrangements for our opening on October 1. I was working with someone on developing The Novel. A bunch of crazy things were falling into place. It seemed a shame to have to abandon all of the work that had gotten me there to take whatever job would pay me benefits.

Somewhere in a conversation with Waffle Guy, it occurred to one of us that this might represent a unique opportunity. Student insurance policies are a great value for the money. With a little bit of planning, it was possible that I could go back to school and insure the kids, for less than the cost of COBRA. I'd be able to go to school, plus freelance and nurture Of Scars on the side, right? And it represented a unique opportunity to set something right in my life. I was a very, very young mother, and so I got the education I could complete most quickly, and not the one I wanted. Maybe this was an opportunity to stop spinning my wheels, and to start embracing the things that move me.

We hatched a plan on a Thursday evening. The following Monday, I started classes.

It's so hard. Juggling a full course load, three school-aged kids and work is much more difficult than I thought it would be. My kids, used to having a highly responsive mom, must now learn to be more independent so that I can study. My dogs, used to daily trips to the dog park and endless games of Fetch, sit at my feet and look up at me with eyes that clearly say, "Can we go play now?" There's minimal sleep and a maximum amount of stuff to do. I feel like I am being pulled in a million different directions.

I'm not entirely sure I can do it.

Here's the strange part: It's stressful, but it's delicious. I feel like I finally have a chance to see what I'm made of, and for the first time in my life, I suspect that I might really like what I discover. Someday, anyway, when I've got time to think about it.

I'm taking a class called "Perspectives in Non-Western Art", which I thought would be an easy, fun way to get myself back into the groove. In reality the class is super demanding. There's oh-so-much to memorize, and it's all built on history in parts of the world that mainstream American academia pretty much ignores, so there's no reference point for the memorization. Analyzing artistic techniques on slides in a lecture hall is much less exciting than seeing those pieces first-hand. The prof, who seems like a lovely person, is unbearably dry as a lecturer.

Strangely, I'm starting to absolutely love that class.

It's where I met Shiva, one of the gods in the Hindu trinity. He is called The Destroyer. In class, we have analyzed dozens of images of the many incarnations of Shiva. I really like him.

Often, we see Shiva with many faces. He bears a crescent moon on his head, and his hair is matted. In paintings, he smears himself with ashes. Sometimes, he holds a trident. Most often, we see him pictured in meditation. In my favorite incarnation, Shiva as Nataraja, or "Lord of the Dance", spreads his four arms and dances the Tandava, the dance that is associated with the destruction of the world. Always, his face is serene.

At first, I thought Shiva was spooky, but I'm beginning to understand that perhaps he and I have met before. For all his destructiveness, he is a benevolent force, seen as the cause of regeneration and renewal in the Hindu world. Perhaps this is why he smiles as he dances the Tandava, stepping on Apasmara Purusha, the demon of ignorance, while he moves. Perhaps he knows that sometimes, we are content to exist in our ignorance until our way of life is shaken.

In Hindu temples, it is commonplace to circumambulate--to walk in a meditative, circular path--around sacred objects. In Buddhism, circumambulation of Buddha's relics is practiced. Sacred texts in Judaism and Christianity recall divinely ordered circumambulations of the walls of Jericho. On Islamic pilgrimages to Mecca, the devout circumambulate the Kaaba. It seems that a meditative need to explore sacred spaces is engrained in human existence.

A month ago, I had a plan, and it looked nothing at all like my life looks today. I'm grateful for the opportunity that this situation has presented, but the transition is really difficult some days. The truth is, sometimes, Shiva visits. Plans change. We don't have a choice. This time, I was able to immediately recognize that the outcome would be worth it, but that's not always the case. Sometimes, we lose people who are dear to us. Homes are taken. We get sick. Families split up. Sometimes, Shiva is devastating.

Looking around at the remains of my plans, I'm trying to be conscious of the sacred space that my life has become. I'm trying to circumambulate the confines of my situation, meditatively exploring the new boundaries and possibilities of this chapter of my life. This time, I can't wait for what's next.

New, Improved.

I am a daredevil. I will try anything once. I am fearless. I'm reasonably good at most things that I try. Above all else, I am not afraid of failure.

At least that's what I'd like you to believe. And unless you get to know me very, very well, I'll probably convince you quite thoroughly. After all, I'll gladly jump out of an airplane, or climb a very tall structure, or spelunk lava tubes. To drive the point home, I'll smile while I'm doing it.

On the surface, those things look very brave. They are not.

My Knievel-eqsue antics are merely a thinly-veiled, smoke-and-mirrors, over-hyphenated attempt to convince you that I am a woman of great valor. I am not.

Here is a list of things that scare me tremendously:

1. Snapping Turtles
2. Cottage Cheese
3. Commitment
4. Failure
5. Office Jobs
6. Misogyny 
7. Clowns (I know it's a trendy phobia. No, they don't make me scream or sweat. But if I'm walking down a sidewalk and I see a clown, I'll cross the street so I don't have to pass close by the painted freak.)
8. People who Yell
9. Waking up one morning and realizing I'm past my peak
10. June Bugs 
11. Judgment of Any Kind

There are at least 10,000 other things that render me petrified, but you get the point. I am a great big scaredy-cat and an even bigger hypocrite. I am the opposite of plucky. I just go through the motions.

I see courage everywhere, and I strive to emulate it. In one project with which I'm involved, I routinely talk to women who've survived breast cancer. Talk about ferocity. These women have been to hell and back, and they almost universally shrug off their experiences as if they were no big deal. "It was just my cross to bear," said one survivor. "Everyone has to deal with something." 

I don't know if I would be so brave.

My own daughter just finished her first triathlon at the ripe old age of nine. I sobbed as she crossed the finish line, overcome by the nerve it took for her to undertake her mission. Though she is a shy child, she worked really hard to raise nearly $500 for the Miracles of Mitch Foundation. And then she swam and biked and ran her heart out, despite the fact that the whole ordeal terrified her. If a child can have such determination, I wondered, why do I crumple so readily in the face of day-to-day life?

I've always been a little bit fragile, a little too sensitive. And so I do things that you will think are brave, like skydiving or bungee jumping or wearing a costume in public on a random Tuesday. The problem is that those things don't scare me. Not one iota. And so they're not really brave, are they?

I'll tell you what does scare me. New.

"New" is terrifying, because I am a control freak. That is why I say no to nearly everything that I can't predict. 

Sure, I'll slap on a parachute, because I can tell you exactly how it will end: Statistically speaking, I'll return to the ground. Not very scary.

But to get up in front of a group of people and sing? What if they don't like me? What if a mighty wind blows my skirt off and everyone laughs? What if I die of a heart attack caused by the anxiety induced by puking from nervousness on the stage?

I'm trying to challenge myself to break the shackles of perceived security, and so over the past few months I've made an effort to give up control and Just Say Yes.

That's why I said yes to a friend who asked me to paddle on his corporate Dragon Boat Team. I mean, it was highly possible that I'd cause the team to fail (Fear #4), thereby inciting the judgment of potentially misogynistic teammates from his office, causing them to yell at me sternly as they threw me into the waters of Lake Phalen, where my toes would be chomped off by snapping turtles (Fears # 11, 6, 5, 8 and 1). It could have been really ugly.  

Instead, it proved to be an unexpected highlight of my summer. I learned a new, somewhat useless rowing technique and obtained some righteous bruises. Best of all, on the shore my beautiful daughters watched us lose heat after heat, and they loved me anyway. Clearly worth the risk. So why did it cause me such tremendous fear? 

Or try this one on for size: Waffle Guy's youngest has an unbelievable voice. It's the sort of talent that most people never get to have. So when she asked my Guy and I if we'd sing backup vocals for an audition she wanted to go on, the logical answer was yes. But then it became clear that she wanted us to dress up in early '70s garb a la The Pips, and do Motown choreography, and do it in front of an audience with judges (Fears #11 and possibly 9), and I wanted to die every time I thought about it. 

We did it, though. And Waffle Guy and I TOTALLY blew the choreography, and we don't know yet whether we made it with her or ruined it for her. But it was absolutely hilarious in a way I never could have predicted. If I'm really honest, I'm strangely glad we did it. 

A childhood friend and fellow blogger recently drew my attention to a Huffington Post article talking about perceived happiness, specifically referring to parenthood. The article set every little synapse in my brain to life. Parents, the piece contends, are simply too busy to recognize what makes them happy until they stop to think about it later on. Is it possible, I wondered, that this is not limited to parenting? Is it possible that we truly don't realize what makes us happy until after we understand the events in context of The Big Picture?

And if this is the case, is it possible that we are also somehow programmed to fear the wrong things? Perhaps Fear #2 is something I should drop, opting instead to fear a flavorless, dull and utterly predictable life?

Maybe it's time to start ignoring the things that scare me, and welcoming the sweet, unexpected outcomes of just letting go.

(I'm standing by the fear of june bugs, though. Those little bastards are mortifying.)