Safe in the Moment

Safe in the Moment

When I’m afraid, it helps to follow the advice I regularly give to my son William when he begins a panic attack: breathe slowly, bring yourself back to your body, stay in the present moment, repeat to yourself, “I am safe.”

Most of what worries us lives either in the future or the past. It’s fear over a potential outcome that might never materialize or regret over something already done. If we make an effort to exist in the present moment, with all of its attendant feelings, sensations and realities, we have a better chance of staying calm and collected.

The question I’m trying to ask myself is: what is under my actual control? We all know that our response to any situation is completely up to us, but practicing this while under stress is still challenging. Our minds nose way down the road, anticipating poverty, relationship conflict, uncertainty, loneliness. It’s easy to become overwhelmed.

SafeThe key is to bring my focus back to the present moment. To breathe. To imagine myself as safe, cared for, loved…as I can provide these things for myself. Prepping for doomsday scenarios only increases the chaotic sense of panic. Whatever comes, each one of us will have no choice but to deal with it.

Imagining stress is optional, facing reality is not. We are better off working to remain calm and stable, so we are in a more secure mental space to handle misfortune if it should arrive. And it helps to remember that most of what we worry about never actually happens.

Good things are just as likely to occur as horrible ones. Most of our problems originate in our minds, because we long for a specific outcome and anything other than that brings us grave disappointment and loss, even if it was only a vague possibility instead of an actual reality. Damn this internal pessimism of mine, this infernal waiting for the other shoe to drop which ruins even the happiest of days.

I should know by now that the doom and gloom I forecast usually disappears with time. If I allow a little light and air on it, I’ll watch it vaporize. Old habits like shame, depression and fear roar back into life if we let them, for they’ve worn a deep, familiar groove in our subconscious. I have healthier skills available to me, such as trust in myself and others, a newly-kindled optimism, the ability to set a long-term goal and work patiently at reaching it.

Where it all falls apart is the intersection with other people, for I cannot control what others do and say. But I am not responsible for the actions of other people. I must simply observe what they do (or fail to do) and then respond in the healthiest way I can. The stress of others does not have to become my reality. Only if I let it. I can come up with a happier strategy. The critical thing is to be clear on what’s mine and what isn’t – a lifelong struggle for me but one I have to keep working on.

The Gift of Uncertainty

The Gift of Uncertainty

Walking the thin line between uncertainty and planning is a killer. For those aggressive Type A personalities out there, like myself, you just want to KNOW, dammit, so you can confidently head in a specific direction.

Places of uncertainty stretch us, like Gumby (for those of you too young for this reference, Gumby was a green 80s figure pliable enough to bend into various poses). It’s uncomfortable. It’s awkward. It can really, really blow, because it asks us to live in the now; to give our undivided attention to this moment.

Uncertainty reminds us that we are not in control of everything. It invites us to trust: in timing, in goodness, in an invisible safety net that we hope is there even if we can’t prove it.

acceptanceOn the plus side, not knowing what the outcome will be sharpens our senses. It’s like going to the optometrist and marvelling at how crisp those letters can be with the right prescription. We suddenly notice what we’ve long taken for granted, because something has shifted in us and we know that nothing in this life stays the same forever. We change, and so do the people around us. Circumstances shift, children grow up, the snow comes to end the autumn.

Once again, this comes down to surrender. As the brilliant Cheryl Strayed writes, “Acceptance is a small, quiet room.” When we choose to give up our right to know what will happen, we turn our soul loose on this present moment and space, believing that we are enough for whatever challenges and triumphs are coming.

We can’t see them, and we must come to terms with that. We all have limits. Twenty-four hour days, three-hundred and sixty-five day years, one mortal body we cannot exchange or upgrade, an enormous world that we can only make our home in one minuscule part of.

But our spirit is limitless. It can soar, dream, expand, transform. We have external limits, but no internal ones – except for what we impose on ourselves. Every so often we discover a fresh perspective, renewed gratitude, a surge of optimism. We stretch. We feel pulled by what we cannot anticipate, manipulate, or control. But when we get through that, we are different.

The key is not to break faith with the process. To believe that something wonderful might be around the corner, slightly beyond what we can see, instead of fearing a dark and scary experience. Staying anchored to the now helps us believe in a better future, because we are fully alive. Equally surrendering our fierce grip on the past and the future offers us peace for today. And that equips us for whatever is coming.