Procrastination, laziness, and fear

In my last post, I wrote about the value of listening to your laziness, rather than judging it, when you find yourself with little energy for a task. Maybe that lack of energy is telling you that it's simply not the right thing to do right now.

But then again, maybe you're just afraid.

How do you tell the difference?

Unlike laziness, fear is not lethargic. Fear feels like excitement. It is your body getting psyched up to do something important.

As a rule of thumb, if you find yourself getting really busy doing anything but the task at hand, it's a good bet that fear is involved.

It's also a good bet that, if you're experiencing laziness, fear isn't too far behind. 

After all, as soon as you drop something you don't want, the obvious next question is: What do you want? And that can be a scary question to answer. It's something I've been struggling with all week.

I don't have an answer yet to my own confusion, but I came up with this series of questions for engaging with procrastination that I thought might be helpful to share:

1. What do I want?
2. Why is it important? (If it's not important, see #1)
3. What am I afraid of? 
4. Is it worth the risk? (If it isn't worth the risk, see #1)
5. What is there to do now? (If it's not obvious what to do, ask for help -- or see #1)

Don't get tricked into thinking that you have to answer these questions in order, or that you will ever come up with final answers for any of them. 

More importantly, don't get tricked into thinking that you don't have time to ask the questions.

You do.

There is nothing that you absolutely must do. You have permission to take a break to sort out your priorities. You created your "to do" list, and you can change it at any time.

I'd love to hear what you come up with.

The wisdom of laziness

I used to think that "lazy" was just about the worst thing one could be.

Lazy, to me, didn't just mean "lacking energy;" it meant irresponsible, childish, and bad.

By contrast, good, responsible, worthy adults worked hard and did what they were supposed to do, even when they didn't want to.

For many years, I have tried hard to be a good adult, but this week I gained a new appreciation for the wisdom of laziness.

It started when I noticed that I kept putting something off that I thought I wanted to do: submit course proposals for some local adult education programs. A number of people had suggested I do this, and it seemed like an obvious next step for someone who wants to get paid for leading workshops.

The problem was, it had been on my "to do" list for months, and each time I thought about doing it, all the energy just drained out of me. I had started judging myself as lazy, and feeling pretty ashamed that I hadn't yet done this relatively simple, straightforward thing.

What gives? I finally asked myself. Do you actually want to teach these classes or not?

And I realized that I didn't.

What I really want to do, it turns out, is offer classes for people who are already working together, and/or who share a common goal. I think I can make more of a long-term difference that way, not to mention that teaching during the day is much more appealing than giving up more evenings and weekends.

So, as of this week, the old action item is gone, replaced by some new activities that I'm actually energized to do.

I also have a new appreciation for this thing called "laziness," which I'm seeing less as a fatal character flaw and more as a source of wisdom, helping me recognize what I actually care about -- and what I don't. 

It's not like I'm lazy about everything, after all. I'm just lazy about things that don't matter that much to me. Laziness helps me prioritize my activities in a world where anything is possible, but everything is not.

From here on out, I am no longer going to use the word "lazy" as a weapon against people -- including myself -- who don't prioritize activities the way I think they should.

I don't deserve that judgment, and neither do you.

Why emotions matter

Emotions are amazing.  

They are constantly looking out for our well-being. They help us notice things that we might otherwise overlook. They help guide us to our core values. And yet they are regularly feared, ignored, misused, misunderstood, and demonized.

If I were treated that way, I would start rebelling and wreaking havoc in people's lives, too! 

But the way we engage with our emotions doesn't just affect us internally. It also has an impact on the people around us, which in turn affects the quality of our relationships.

One of the most important things I learned from Karla McLaren is that I can only be present with other people -- actually be there for them -- to the extent that I can experience what they're feeling and not be overwhelmed by it. I work hard on this, because being connected to people brings me more joy than almost anything else in the world. But it is not easy.

Anger and shame are two I still try to push away (and talk other people out of feeling), despite knowing how important they are. Sadness and happiness are much more comfortable to me.

What about you? Are there emotions that you find especially hard to be around? Ones that you're drawn to? 

If it's a subject that interests you, Karla has a great website on emotions, with a perspective that I find much more helpful than what many of us have absorbed from our families and culture.

In addition, if you're a parent or teacher, I'd love your input on two new workshops I'm developing, Emotion in Parenting and Emotion in Teaching. What are your challenges in handling emotion (either yours or other people's) in your daily work? What would be most valuable to you in a workshop on the subject? Are there other things besides a workshop that would be helpful?

I'd love your written thoughts, and am also looking for people to brainstorm with in person. Let me know if you'd like to be involved somehow.

Sometimes failure is not really failure

Last Saturday night, I threw a party and no one came.  

Well, not a party, exactly, but a workshop -- the one on grief and condolences that I’d been writing and talking about for weeks.

As I waited for people to arrive, I listened to music, put some finishing touches on my outline for the evening, watched the sunbeams move across the room, and mused about my situation.  

It's a scenario I'd always feared. I thought it would be devastating. I knew it would bring up deep wounds of rejection and ridicule, and that I could never let on to anyone that my event -- and therefore I -- was a failure.

All of those thoughts and feelings did pass through me, it's true. But in the end, what dominated was this: I was proud of myself.

I was proud of putting in the effort to prepare a great workshop, and proud of being willing to put myself out there for something I care about. And I was delighted to realize that, if for just that moment, I didn’t need to prove how great or successful I was in order to feel worthy as a human being.

I sat in that empty room with a big smile on my face.

Later, I came home to watch Finding Joe, a documentary about the hero’s journey that I'll be featuring in an upcoming workshop. It describes a familiar story that transcends time and place: a person leaves the comfort of the known, finds and slays dragons that they once feared, and comes back transformed, a hero.

Yes, I thought. That’s it. That story isn't just about heroes. It applies to everyone. My evening sitting alone didn't dictate my future or my identity; it was just part of my journey. Another dragon slayed, and in the slaying found not to be so threatening after all. 

What about you? What unknown territory have you entered? What dragons have you slayed? Which ones do you still fear? How are you being transformed by the story of your life?

Happy dragon slaying to all -- even if your dragons just look like an empty room.

What's the WIIFM?

When I taught classes at MIT, I learned that I should always give participants a WIIFM: What's In It For Me?  What were they going to learn or experience that would be useful and relevant to them? Why should they bother to come? 

It seems like it should be so easy to come up with, but often it's not, especially now that I'm teaching on my own. The WIIFM is different depending on how I think about my audience, and my role. 

This evening, for example, I'm facilitating a mini-workshop on expressing condolences. If my role were to be an expert on the subject, I might suggest that you'd come away from the workshop with:

• An appreciation of the importance of grief, and the different ways that people experience it
• Validation for how challenging it can be to support people who are grieving
• Practice in "sitting with" grief, and having compassion for it, without having to fix anything
• The opportunity to write a condolence card that you've been putting off, and feel good about what's in it

For people who want those things, I think I can deliver on them.

But then again, maybe you don't need an expert. Maybe you know grief all too well already.

The truth is, I am far from being an expert on grief or condolences. All of my close relatives are still alive, and honestly I often struggle with not knowing what to do in the face of other people's losses. I'm not totally ignorant on the subject, but it is a conversation that I need to be part of just as much as anyone else.

What I am an expert in is creating safe spaces for people to connect honestly and openly with one another. I help people remember their common humanity and recognize the gifts they have to offer. I facilitate small exchanges of love.

When I focus on that, the WIIFM is different. It includes not just things a person would want to learn, but also things they can offer. For example, tonight you might share:

• Your experience of grief -- what it was like, what you needed, what you got, what you learned
• Your experience of supporting people through loss or hardship -- what it was like, what questions you had, what you did, what you learned
• Your curiosity and questions -- your willingness to listen and learn from others 

By offering those small gifts of your humanity, you gain as well: a sense of connection and belonging; the experience of being heard, seen and appreciated; a reminder that you matter. 

Whoever you are, whether you come tonight or not, I hope you experience those things.

What if my role is already taken?

If I had to summarize the goal of the Gift of Happiness, it would be this:  I want to help people love each other better.  

I believe that giving and receiving love is central to happiness, and so whether I'm having a conversation, teaching a class, offering a card, or writing a newsletter, I aspire for that to be my motivation.

But I was feeling discouraged about this recently, thinking about all the other amazing teachers, speakers, bloggers, life coaches, spiritual leaders, and others who have the same basic mission -- and, in my opinion, are doing it so much better. 

Does the world really need yet one more person out there talking about love and happiness? asked my grumpy internal voice. What could you possibly offer that someone else isn't already doing? 

Silly grumpy voice.

As if I'm only valuable if what I'm offering is totally original, in a category all its own. As if there is a finite supply of suffering to be alleviated. As if these other amazing people and I are competitors, rather than teammates working toward a common goal.

Sure, there's nothing unique, new or special about wanting people to love each other better, but so what? Does that make it an unworthy goal?

Furthermore, who says my version of love isn't unique? Love may be universal, but it shines through each person in a different way. What if there are people out there for whom my version is perfect? How will I ever know if I'm not out there sharing it?

The same is true for you, too, of course.

Just because other people are doing the kinds of things you want to do -- and doing them well -- doesn't let you off the hook for your own life. The world needs all of us. 

Grumpy voices, be gone.

The truth about Vernon

I heard a song yesterday that I want to share with you: The Truth About Vernon, by Jim Trick. (It's on this website, track #8 on the second album.) Jim was the opening act at last night's Carrie Newcomer concert, and I thought he was great.

The song is based on an experience he'd had with a man at a soup kitchen decades ago. "How are you doing today?" he'd asked Vernon. And Vernon started to cry. Because he couldn't remember the last time anyone had asked him that. 

The Vernon in the song is an alcoholic who everyone gossips about. He's lost all his money, beaten his wife and kids, and utterly despises himself. "Everybody knows the truth about Vernon" says the refrain. You can imagine the labels: useless, dangerous, loser, monster. "But I am called to love him anyway."

The song is rooted in Christian theology, but it wouldn't have to be. You don't have to subscribe to any particular belief system to practice loving people. And you don't need any motivation other than it feels good. Loving people is one of the quickest routes to happiness that I know.

Love doesn't have to be difficult or complicated or look a certain way. For you, maybe it does include things like asking people how they're doing. Or maybe your version of love is different than that. It doesn't matter. All that matters is remembering that you care, and acting from there. 

You don't have to like your kids

Love your kids unconditionally.

If I had to summarize my job description as a parent, I think that would be it. But I realized recently that I haven’t been performing so well.

I've been reading a great book: Perfect Love, Imperfect Relationships by John Welwood. The author describes love as having two components: 1) warmth, as in a sense of kindness and goodwill; and 2) openness, as in allowing a person to be who they are without trying to control them.

I think it is a beautiful description, and one I aspire to. The problem is that instead of loving my kids, I've been trying to like them.  And those are two very different things.

Unlike love, there is no such thing as universal or unconditional like.  I can find things to appreciate about nearly anyone in any situation, but that's not the same as liking them. I can't talk myself into liking someone just because I think I should.

This is because liking has to do with emotions. I like people who make me feel good, and dislike people who make me feel bad. If, as a parent, I think my job is to like my kids, this is going to be a problem, because being around my kids doesn't always feel good.

I don't like it when people are mean to each other, when they whine and complain, when they take me for granted. And yet I still live with two children who exhibit behaviors like that on a regular basis. Combine that with how their actions make me question my competence as a parent, and I like them even less.

But here's the thing I need to remember: To do my job -- to love my kids -- doesn't require me to like them.

When I forget that love and like are two different things, not liking my kids feels like an emergency. I tie myself in knots trying to like them, either by faking my emotions, or by trying to control them so they'll be more likable. Neither works very well.

Not only that, but I end up giving them the opposite of unconditional love’s warmth and openness. Instead, I send them the message that they have to earn my love by being more likable to me in the moment -- that they are not good enough as they are.  Yuck.

But I don’t have to send them that message. I can love them even when I don’t like them. I can remind myself that they are separate human beings with the right to live their own lives and learn their own lessons, that I really do want what’s best for them, and that even though the experience is unpleasant, I am big enough to handle it.

The cool thing is, when I can shift my focus away from the “problem” of not liking them and toward warmth and openness instead, I automatically feel better.  And when I feel good around people, it becomes much easier to like them -- even if they are acting like children.

May you too remember the difference between like and love, and not withhold the second for lack of the first.

Donald Trump is human, too

Brandon Stanton’s recent open letter to Donald Trump has quickly gone viral on Facebook, with over a million shares in the past four days. I really like it, especially coming from someone whose entire life is dedicated to helping us see the beauty and humanity of the "other." But I am troubled by the last paragraph.

"Those of us who have been paying attention will not allow you to rebrand yourself," he writes. "You will always remain who you are." 

I think I get the point he's trying to make, and share his lack of trust in Trump's authenticity. But at the same time, Donald Trump is a human being. And if there’s one thing I know about human beings, it’s that we have the capacity to change. We are all works in progress.

Donald Trump has been acting ignorant, mean, judgmental, and dishonest. But I've got to remind myself: I've acted that way too. Quite recently, even.

Get me feeling small and threatened, and I too revert to some pretty childish behaviors. I get smug and self-righteous. I lash out and blame things on other people. And I go in circles trying to justify my behaviors and save face. 

But here’s the thing: When I’m already feeling threatened, telling me how bad I am for acting out doesn’t help me change. It just makes me feel more threatened, and more trapped in the behavior.

What frees me is to be reminded of my essential goodness as a human being, to know that I can be loved, accepted, and forgiven no matter how much I’ve screwed things up. Only in that context does it feel safe to change. 

Fortunately for me, my temper tantrums are relatively small, and the damage relatively easy to clean up. But I think the same basic dynamics are at work with Donald Trump. I think attacking his essential humanity, and seeing him as a hateful person who can never change, is one of the biggest mistakes we can make.

Can you imagine how much courage it would take at this point for Donald Trump to step back and apologize? To admit how much pain and damage he has caused? To acknowledge how much of a discrepancy there has been between his actions and his deepest values? 

Can you also imagine what a source of healing it would be for our country if he were to turn around and use his power to make things right?

Isn’t that what we want? To have a leader who can inspire us? Or do we prefer schadenfreude?

The way we respond to this person matters.

You may think this is ridiculous Pollyanna talk, that a change of heart is impossible for “someone like him.”

You may be right. 

But you also may be wrong.  And if you are, I hope you’ll be right next to me in line to offer Donald Trump your forgiveness -- and to ask for his. 

What if my pursuit of happiness hurts other people?

In my last post, I wrote that we all have a right to be happy. But pursuing happiness can be tricky when our needs directly conflict with what other people want.

For example, I've said "no" to several people's requests to spend time with me lately, to allow me to focus more on other things I want to do.

I've done it to support my own happiness, but honestly it hasn't felt very good. It's made me feel kind of selfish and mean. So I've been working to resolve that, because I know that just continuing to say yes against my better judgment is not going to make me happy, either.

Here are four things that have been helpful to remember in working through my guilt and discomfort:

1. There is a gap between how things are and how I wish they were -- I wish our needs and interests were better aligned, I wish time weren't so finite -- and it's okay to feel sad about that gap.
2. I still want the other person to be happy. Realizing that helps me recognize other ways I could support them that would feel good to me.
3. Human beings are resilient. A "no" might hurt someone's feelings, but it can't touch a person's essence. Thinking of them -- or myself -- as weak is unhelpful and inaccurate.
4. The other person's happiness doesn't rest solely on me. There are plenty of other people who might gladly support them. I don't need to hog the opportunity. 

I guess a lot of this comes down to humility, and remembering that just because I want people to be happy doesn't mean it's my job to do it for them. 

"Not my job" doesn't mean "I don't care," though. In fact, I'm finding that the more I care, the happier I am.

Here's to continuing to care for the people in your life, whether your actions make them happy or not.