Copernicus' seditiously suggests Earth is NOT the center of our solar system. Is that a twinkle in his eye?

“What’s your take on that Zoe?” friend Marsha asked me. We belong to the same CSA. She referred to a new member. 

“She’s OK, I guess. Haven’t talked to her.” 

“I think she’s snooty.” 

“You do?” 

“I smile, say hello, and get ignored. Who does she think she is?!”

“You think she’s snubbing you?” I was surprised. 

“What else?”

“Come on!” 

Marsha raised an eyebrow.

“When she looks down and scurries by me, I think: shy, depressed, or maybe she grew up wild in the woods, this is her first exposure to people.

Or, maybe she’s just preoccupied, thinking heavy thoughts.”  

“She’s rude,” Marsha insisted. 

I shrugged. “Anyone whose eyes land on mine, I greet. If they don’t greet me back, so what? I’ve been well mannered. I’ve stretched myself against my own shyness. I’ve met my own standard.” 

“One brush-off, I’m done.”

“Really?!” I was astonished. “You’ll never greet Zoe again?” 

“Nope.” She was astonished back. “You would?”

“Well, sure. I’m assuming she’s more insecure than I am. Plus, you know, maybe she’s just having a bad day. Or a bad year.”

I look at Marsha searchingly. “We all crave acknowledgment, don’t you think?  Especially if we’re shy. In fact, your hurt reaction proves my point!” 

“Hmph!”

Look at this! Same event, two utterly different reactions. And here’s the critical point: Each reaction yields its own plan of action. 

Let me whip out my shrink magnifying glass for a closer look.

Captain’s log, Starday Sunday afternoon…

I come to from a three-day migraine, convinced Son’s graduation barbeque and pool party is two weeks away.

“No, D, it’s next Sunday.”

The Twilight Zone theme floats around my head. Full work-week ahead. In-laws arriving Wednesday. Pool not opened. Fifty people coming. Nothing started. I want to EEEEEEKKKK! but can’t: too drained from the migraine.      

More proof that Murphy’s Law rules.  Whine? Roll with it? Whine.

Hubby and Son open the pool. Yuk. Disgusting. I sigh. I go on-line and order a huge fort float. Hoping for the best? No. Locking myself in to getting that water sparkling clean.

I ponder the menu and dash off the first of many to-do lists. I’m exhausted.

Hubby and Son promise they will do whatever I ask, without attitude. Really?

“Your command is like an order!” quips Hubby.

OK then. Forward march. 

THREE PART SECRET JUST REVEALED!!!

Got by you? Here it is, stripped down:

•  Keep a sense of humor.
•  Accept help.
•  Soldier on.

Simple in theory. But tough in the implementation. In other words, it's a spiritual practice. Sigh.

You can stop reading now if you want. That’s the gist.  If you're a glutton for detail, read on.

“You’re so busy! How do you do it?” I’m asked, not infrequently, about my writing process.

“With difficulty,” I usually quip. But, it got me thinking. How do I do it?  

It’s simple really, but not obvious.

It’s all about identifying your Modus Operandi (M.O.), your fundamental operating assumption(s).

By definition, we don’t question assumptions. Until…. 

One day, I noticed— very important, the act of noticing— that when I’m writing regularly, I am happy.

Yet— I also noticed— that I wrote only after taking the garbage out, at the end of the day when I was tired, or on edge that Son would interrupt my train of thought to ask for a ride. What’s up with that? I asked my self.

A-ha!  I wrote last, and then only with the dregs of the day’s energy. No energy left, no writing.  Sound familiar?

There it was, my self-defeating M.O., naked in the light of awareness. In a flash, I got it, and— Ciao baby!— committed to the new M.O.: 

“Let me see you in two weeks,” I said to the patient as we left my office, happy the session was over for two reasons. I was running twenty minutes behind. And, my bladder was full.

I glanced at the day’s schedule. Maybe I had a cancellation and could catch up a little. No such luck. Somebody new, and... What an odd name. Mild stage fright skittered low in my belly. He could be a Forest Gump, a Hannibal Lector, or just a pill, you never knew. 

Entering the waiting room en route to the loo, I stopped short at the psychedelic vision popping up from a chair. “Dr. D? Allow me to introduce myself. I am Pillbo Baggins.”

He was the oddest little man I had ever seen in a long career marked by odd scenes. 

Rotund and hairy, he wore an aquamarine, three-piece suit, mustard shirt, garish floral tie, with a bowler on top.

His dark beard ran up his cheeks leaving only bright black eyes and nose exposed. He wore no shoes. His feet and toes were covered with dark hair to the nails. Those were long and dark. 

He was remarkably short. I am only 5’2”. The bowl of his bowler barely reached my sternum.

Taking all this in at a glance, I nodded and shook the hand he offered me. He tipped the hat with the other hand in a courtly manner, saying in a plumy, English sort of accent, “I am most pleased to meet you, Doctor.”  

“Likewise.” A warm, popcorn aroma wafted off him. His furry hand was squishy, with long dark nails.

We stood there a beat or two longer. He continued holding my hand. I raised my eyebrows. Another beat, and he let go. We locked eyes.  Let the games begin. 

The three of us lined up, stage right. Our music started. I counted the intro phrase then danced on stage, right left right pause, smiling at Hubby and friends somewhere out there in the black across the lights.

One two three pause— Right left right pause— Toward stage left I tripped lightly, the two other dancers behind me. And missed a beat— Damn! 

If I’ve learned anything in five years of performing in student recitals, it is this: obsessing about one mistake draws a second, and a third, and so on. Like blood attracts sharks. Still, the craving to berate myself was strong. A siren song.