Of Anger and Spatulas
Yesterday I had pause to remember that I chose to live in the forest, some hours’ walk from a fast internet connection and nowhere remotely near a city bus stop.
I had packed up my wonderful but aging Santa Fe to drive an hour to my sister’s abode, where she kindly allows me to teach yoga online from her basement. With highspeed internet, so I don’t freeze up on the students. I was majorly pumped as I jumped in The Raven (our name for the ole motorized gal). I was about to teach my second-ever kids’ yoga class, and we were going to do some moon work (no, celebrating the moon. Not flashing our rumps at passing sailors – it’s a kids’ class, for the love of Pete). I had a lovely flow and a sweet song to teach the childer.
Then—rissin’ and frissin’—The Raven’s battery light came on. And because I live in the boonies, I know better than to set out and hope for the best, have the car puke out, and end up wandering in the blackfly-infested wilderness for hours. My husband tried valiantly to coach me over the phone about jiggling the often-loose alternator wire. As it turned out, I wasn’t even remotely touching the right wire. I have my virtues. But being mechanically inclined is not one of them. And neither is keeping my temper when I feel like I am about to encounter a major FAIL. Enter my little friend Anger.
I was well-versed in Anger Practice throughout my youth. My parents were astute teachers. I grew up in the house of if-the-lawnmower-isn’t-working-throw-it-across-the-lawn-and-swear-at-it. Still, my years of yoga and shamanic training stood me in good stead. I believe certain words escaped my lips, but only in limited numbers. And I did not go Hulk and try to throw The Raven across the Hollow.
In fact, I recognized in pretty short order that I had an opportunity to cuddle up with my little buddy Anger and breathe. I cancelled class with apologies to all moms, and then set about washing dishes and carrying water from the well. Wash dishes, carry water—love that old mantra.
Later, I also put into practice what I learned from reading the work of Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hahn. I addressed my anger like a living being—a little child. “Hello, my little Anger, I know you’re there,” I began. I thanked Anger for reminding me how attached I am to my promises, and to be honest with myself about my frustrations around disappointing myself and my students. I even invited Greed and Anxiety to the party and acknowledged my stress around lost income.
And then I reminded them all that I was the one in charge, not any of them. None of them got to rule me. But I also took care of them by acknowledging them in a compassionate way. I took care of myself by recognizing that disruption happens, and there was no reason to beat myself up about it. We sat together like that for a while, all of us, marinating in our humanity. Next week there will be another class, and we can still sing to the full moon, even if in ordinary reality it has waned to a sliver.
It all smacks vaguely of healthy equanimity. I think I made out relatively well. But it took many years of work to get this far. In my youth, I was a door slammer and epithet utterer of some renown. I think the watershed moment for me came one evening in my forties when I was preparing food for the grill, and I dropped some of it on the porch. I was steamin’. O-M-G. I, the daughter of parents raised during the Great Depression, wasting food??? I raised my spatula in rage. I drew back to hurl it across the yard. And then I stopped. In that moment, realization dawned. I did not forever have to throw the lawnmower. I made a different choice. I chose to change. I cleaned up the mess and continued cooking supper.
I have had many moments of wrath since then. Every time, a new opportunity to decide whether I will ramp myself up to hairy conniption level, or just recognize the anger and begin to de-escalate. The key is that I am now aware of the agitation at a conscious level as it unfolds. And honestly, now that I have trained myself to notice, it takes more energy to wind myself up to a freak out than it does to stand down. Sometimes I think I do it just to see if I still can. But not so often anymore. That signifies real change to me. Learning. Growth. Willpower. And more important than any of these, healing.
I am so going to bronze that spatula one day. And maybe a lawnmower part or two, just for good measure.
