Shabbat Shalom?

What I've learned in my adult life is that I can create my own moments of peace through meditation. They may last only a moment or two and I may struggle to get there or fail, but I do try.

What I've come to appreciate lately is a forced moment of peace based on my family's Jewish background - Shabbat (the sabbath). It all started when Ruth was at summer camp and learned about lighting candles, drinking grape juice (a huge treat - we are one of those crunchy families that allows very little in the way of sugary beverages for our kids) and eating yummy egg-y challah every Friday night. So we started doing just that.

Then, we started talking about what those acts are all about and about Shabbat- a time for rest and peace. We explained that when Jewish people see each other on Shabbat, they usually greet each other with "Shabbat Shalom," which means, "May you have a peaceful sabbath." So the candles/grape juice/challah tradition extended to embrace the forced peace at the end of the week. Between the start of dinner and bedtime, all computers and phones are off and we try to elevate our dialogue as a family - to talk about things that really matter to us and something we're thankful exists in our lives.

Almost unfailingly, the candles' flickering light can take me into a peaceful place, distracting me from the anxieties that so frequently lurk on the edge of my consciousness. I am thankful for that peace, and I don't always wait for Shabbat to use candles to ease my anxiety.

Which brings us to tonight's Shabbat. And that makes me go back to another story that will get us here.

Unlike Mary at A Room of Mama's Own, I have not been going to weddings lately. (I may catch up to her, though, thanks to the wise recent California Supreme Court decision to legalize gay marriage (way overdue, in my opinion). I've already gotten a few "Save the Date" e-mails from my gay friends. But I digress again (have y'all noticed that I am very good at digression).

A few months ago, some friends announced their engagement after a LONG relationship. They've been together so long, I can't even remember when they moved in together. They are in their mid-40s and already have all they need.

So, being an avid baker, and being known for making yummy from-scratch cupcakes, flavored and decorated with grown-ups in mind, I offered to make cupcakes for their reception. Why give them a THING when they have all they need? I'd rather give them a memory for/from the big event. Plus, wedding cakes cost a fortune.

After being assured a gazillion times that it wouldn't be too much trouble, my friends accepted my offer and I have just finished making 150 fabulous cupcakes for tomorrow's reception. They look super cool, too!

Whew, now that you know the background, let's get back to Shabbat. I'd been working on the cupcakes all afternoon and they sat unadorned on the cooling racks just waiting to be dressed up. We cleaned up from dinner and got the kids to sleep. I could hardly wait to get to those cupcakes. Truly, baking may be better for me than therapy. Oh, and making ice cream in the summer too, but I digress again...

I got going in the kitchen, piping away, one cupcake after the other topped off with freshly made vanilla bean frosting followed by intricate patterns of dark chocolate. I was in my baking Zen mode, as Seth calls it (a great description for how I am while I bake - our house could be falling down and I wouldn't notice). My neck hurt a bit, so I looked up. The Shabbat candlelight flickering in the otherwise dark dining room, sent peace through my veins like a stream rushing down the mountain as the winter's snow melts.

Cupcakes done and in the fridge, dishes done, and the anxiety starts to creep in. Oy, this happens every time Mom's about to come. She'll be here next week - coming all the way across the country to see David and Ruth.

For my entire life, she has found a reason to criticize me. Let's just think of a few from the last 18 months... My house is never clean enough (wanna pay for a maid, mom?). Our furniture is too worn out (want to replace it for us, Mom???). I'm too fat (do you go to the gym?). My clothes are wrong (want to buy me new ones that I'll wear when you're here?). My hair is wrong (I like my hair). I'm damaging my kids psychologically for letting them sleep in the same room (jeez, Mom, they're in a bunk bed!). Can you tell I'm bitter?

But I'm also afraid. Because there's this little place in my memory of growing up with Mom before her bipolar diagnosis. When we just didn't know what was going to happen next, whether she'd hug us or lash out at us. And though she's been on lithium for well over 20 years, I still don't know what to expect in terms of the things that will upset her during her visit.

To that end, I started making lists of chores for me and "honey dos" (please) for Seth. So much to do to feel like the house, at least will be in good shape, and I'm not sure it will even make a difference. I hate that she has so much power over me. Boy, what the heck will I do when my kids are teenagers?

Breathe, Sis, Breathe......

I think I'm going to light some more candles and empty the dishwasher.

Thought to end this post:

I am here for a purpose and that purpose is to grow into a mountain, not to shrink to a grain of sand. Henceforth will I apply ALL my efforts to become the highest mountain of all and I will strain my potential until it cries for mercy. - Og Mandino (1923-1996)

Fruits of My Labor

No, I'm not talking about my kids. Maybe I'll post about my labor experiences some other time.

This is the third summer I've planted a garden. We've had such strange weather I just haven't been sure what will happen.

And I'm still not sure what will - no tomatoes have appeared, for example (even our early girls), but predictably, the zucchini flowers are out in force! Hooray! Now, the big debate is - do I pick them now and stuff them with herbs and cheese (yum) or let them get longer and make zucchini bread out of them (also yum and my kids' vote). It's hard to be patient!

In any event, I love to go out and water the garden. Not only do I get satisfaction seeing the plants grow, but I love to talk to my plants. I firmly believe that talking to my plants helps them grow.

Also, I don't worry about whether what I say will send them to therapy later in their lives (I do worry about that with my kids). I can confide in them and don't worry about whether/where my confidences will go.

Thought to end this post:
Gardening is about enjoying the smell of things growing in the soil, getting dirty without feeling guilty, and generally taking the time to soak up a little peace and serenity. ~Lindley Karstens

A Little Lift Up the Hill

Most folks who know me in real life know how much I love grocery shopping Trader Joe's. Well, I don't love it when they rearrange all the food onto new shelves. But I digress....

Also if you know me in real life, physical appearance is not one of my priorities. An example - I don't brush my hair after I wash it - I just run my fingers through it. My uniform outside work: solid crew neck t-shirts. At the risk of TMI, all of my underwear is plain cotton (except the bras - need more support than that). Oh, and I haven't seen the inside of a gym in I'm not sure how long.

Anyway, I was at my favorite grocery store yesterday in my jeans and t-shirt uniform, but I was cycling up. I had a smile on my face as I explored the aisles and must have had an aura of self-confidence. And I got a new reason to love Trader Joe's.

I took 2 boxes of mac and cheese from the shelf. They were the orange kind, of course. As I turned to the left to put them in my cart, a very tall, very handsome man gave me a big smile and a "hi there" in a flirtatious way. I'm putting him at about 15 years younger than I. Wow! Lightness in my heart. A spring in my step all the way to the checkstand.

Don't get me wrong, I am VERY happily married, and would never even consider infidelity (I suppose some folks would consider my reaction to this man a kind of infidelity but I don't). BUT, at the same time, I can't recall the last time someone other than my husband flirted with me. Or maybe if someone has flirted with me in the recent past, I was in a down cycle and didn't notice it (or felt unworthy, so I discounted it). So, it was nice to feel attractive - just as I was yesterday in the grocery.

As for that man, I may never see him again, but just knowing he's out there makes me smile.

Thought to end this post:

"We don't see things as they are, we see things as we are." Anais Nin (1903-1977)

The Internal Massage

Today, as I sat in a meeting, I fought tears.

This meeting was nothing stressful to me. I was an observer, a brainstorm partner, but not more than that. The topic of the meeting was not emotional. Yet, I wanted to cry.

And here I am back at my computer still unaware of why those tears were so hard to fight back.
I plan to find a secluded spot to go cry after the kids are in bed.

Sometimes, I need a good cry to stay strong. I call that the internal massage. And I haven't given myself myself the gift of one in a long time. Maybe that explains all of this.

Thought to end my 2nd post:

The only person you can be certain you'll have with you for the rest of your life is you. (I am nearly certain that one is mine, but apologies to the author if I have not appropriately annotated it).

Why I'm Blogging

Welcome! It's hard to believe I'm blogging after resisting for so long. But here I am. I'm not sure where this will go, but from what I've seen in the blog world, I'm guessing this could end up being a pretty therapeutic exercise.

Gosh. This is kind of intimidating. I have changed names (or will) to protect the innocent, but I feel like this is a step towards coming out of the closet (not intending any disrespect to my gay friends who found coming out excruciating, but I find this very difficult). Not a whole lot of folks know I'm bipolar. Maybe that's why I need to be here.

Well, hmmmm. Let's get started, shall we?

I suppose I should level set (as we say at my job all too often) here in the beginning.

What to Expect When I'm Blogging

1. As much as I would like to do so, I will not likely post long eloquent posts such as those I read from other wonderful bloggers whom I have come to respect over the past few months (see right hand side of the page).

2. I may drop in and out. After all, I am bipolar. Sometimes, when I sink into a downswing, I just need to roll into a ball and retreat a bit. I use all of my energy for my family and my job. Perhaps those are the times I'll need to be here in my little blog space most of all, but I want you to know that I may drop off the map from time to time.

Why I chose the name Sisyphesse (and this isn't meant to be a downer)

1. I'm guessing you might recall the myth of Sisyphus. He was the guy who for eternity had to push a rock up a mountain only to have it roll back again. Although Sisiphus' fate was a punishment and I don't believe I'm being punished, bipolar often feels like pushing that rock up and having it fall down. And bipolar will be with me until I'm gone.

2. I'm trying to focus on the pushing up, but being reasonable about what to expect. In short, the name is not meant to be negative. Like Sisyphus, I am strong. If I keep pushing that rock up the mountain, I will only get stronger and it will get easier over time. And it will bother me less when it rolls down again because I will be more confident in my ability to push it back up.

3. To be totally shallow, Sisyphus was a man, so I wanted something more feminine.

A Thought to End My First Post

"The struggle itself...is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy." - The Myth of Sisyphus, Albert Camus (1942)

So again, welcome. Thanks for joining me on this quest for strength and inner peace.