Too Much of a Good Thing

When you have dogs, you spend a lot of time telling them how good they are. Literally everything they do is deserving of praise, and, because they are dogs and they adore you, they eat up each one of your accolades with a silver spoon, licking their chops while drooling for more. 

“Good boy, Magic!” I call out when he eats his breakfast without my coaxing or cajoling him with tiny bites of his favorite treats. “Good girl, Molly!” I say, when she fetches a specific toy from her basket. “Good dogs!” I exclaim, when they conduct their outdoor business in record time so we can scurry back inside where it’s warm.

When my son was growing up parents were advised to lavish similar praise on their children. “What a smart boy you are!” we might tell them when they learned to print their names or recite their address. “That song you played on the trumpet was amazing!” “Your Lego buildings are great!” “I loved the picture you drew for me, you are so talented!"

It seems that conventional wisdom has modified that advice. Parents are advised against over-praising their children, at least without some qualifications. Instead of blanket statements like “you are so smart” or “what a good artist,” it’s been suggested that we quantify our accolades with specifics. “I know you studied a lot for that spelling test and it worked!” or “I can see you worked really hard on that picture, and I love all the colors you’ve chosen.” Apparently these kinds of statements encourage children to strive to be better, and reinforce the concept of acquiring knowledge and skill for its own sake, rather than simply to please someone else or live up to the standards that have been set in your mind by unqualified praise and adoration.

The basis for this change in thinking has to do with new neuro-scientific discoveries about the brain, which tell us that our brain is capable of growth and change throughout our entire lives, rather than being fixed at a certain capacity from birth. From this knowledge, psychologists and educators have extrapolated that children who are unconditionally praised tend to grow up thinking of themselves as “fixed” learners, as if their abilities are complete and unchangeable, while children whose actions are specifically noticed believe that effort is worthwhile and will lead to further learning.

I recently read an article summarizing research on this subject, and found myself getting teary-eyed. The descriptions of a “fixed learner” described me as perfectly as if the researchers had reached inside my head and taken notes on what they found there. "The fixed learner cares first and foremost about how they will be judged, smart or not smart,” the article contends. “They reject opportunities to learn because they might make mistakes. They are afraid of effort because they feel dumb and believe if you have ability you shouldn’t need effort. They don’t recover from setbacks, and decrease their efforts when they reach one."

Check. Check. Check. And check again.

I wondered - could my entire perception about myself have been different? What would my life be like now if my parents had employed this new method of effective praise rather than always telling me how smart and sweet and beautiful and good I was?

I know, it’s a ridiculous first world problem and I was immediately ashamed of myself for even thinking about it. I was the most fortunate of little girls, growing up as the only child of two parents who thought the sun rose and set on their precious daughter. No matter that they treated me somewhat like I treat my little dogs, lavishing love and kisses on me every time I turned around, making me believe the world was my oyster and I could do or be whatever I wanted.

Certainly they thought they were doing the right thing, although I’m quite sure neither one of them had been pampered or praised throughout their early years. They were children of the Depression, and although my mother was also an only child, she grew up in a small country town with parents who worked their farm from sunup to sundown. My dad was in the middle of a pack of six children, all of them less than two years apart. He considered himself lucky not to go to bed hungry at night. There was little time or thought for praise or self-esteem building in either of these households. I don’t know why my parents decided it was important to treat me differently. Perhaps because they had longed for it themselves? Perhaps simply because time and circumstance allowed.

I am an encourager by nature. I want people (especially children and dogs it would seem) to feel successful and worthy. I want that for others because I want it for myself. I’ve never responded to “tough love” motivation tactics. At the first hint of criticism, I shut down and crawl back to my corner, certain that I’ll never amount to anything ever again. But I will blossom with tender loving care and gentle encouragement. If ever anyone needed proof that positive reinforcement is an effective psychological behavioral tool, I’m your test case.

As one who believes in the power of positive thinking to determine attitude and action, it was at first difficult for me to reject the notion that constant praise can backfire in a child’s emotional development. My husband and I are both only children but brought up in very different family environments. We each tend toward perfectionism but for very different reasons. My in-laws were never quite satisfied with anything in life - everything could always have been just a little bit better, thus their praise for any of his accomplishments was always tinged with some disappointment, no matter how minor. My parents thought everything I did was perfect - so I was under pressure to uphold my reputation! Two very different methods of parenting, with similar outcomes in psyche.

I’m thinking this new concept has some definite merit, at least in child-rearing. Encouraging the specific effort, noting the positive outcomes, these are just different ways to provide positive reinforcement to children as they grow  without the added pressure of needing to live up to certain expectations - positive or negative.

But I’m wondering how effective it would be with dogs? Imagine this - “Magic, your breakfast must have tasted very good this morning, you ate it all on your own!” or “Molly, I can tell you want to play with the fuzzy carrot squeak toy. I’m glad you found it in the toy basket!"

Maybe in their case I’ll just stick with “Good dogs!” In the canine world, I don’t think there’s any danger of having too much of a “good” thing.

Enchanted

Enchanted. That’s how I felt this morning when I stepped outside, bundled up almost beyond movement, into the icy cold air. A rime of ice covered every tree branch, each one etched like crystals against the cloudless blue sky. The sun illuminated minuscule ice crystals drifting through the air onto my head like fairy dust. I  expected Tinker Bell to appear at any moment, waving her magic wand in front of my eyes. The dogs pulled restlessly at their leashes, their own noses to the ground, oblivious to the beauty overhead. I stopped dead in my tracks and stared heavenward, my mouth open in amazement, the air cold enough to freeze my lungs on every inhale.  I wished I were a photographer, a painter, or a poet - to be able to capture this moment and do it justice, to preserve it in my memory for days when the endless gray of winter seem overbearing.

Lately I have been looking for a way in to write about this winter, this breaker-of-records winter, this worse-than-ever winter. I think back to our innocence last Thanksgiving, when the ground was still earth and not covered with mountains of snow. We had no idea what was ahead, how nature would get stuck in her endless loop of snow followed by cold followed by ice followed by snow. We couldn’t know that it would snow measurably every week starting the first week of December. That schools would reach their limit of allowable “snow days” almost before the new year began.

We didn’t know what was coming.

But that’s the thing. We never know what’s ahead.

I do not love winter. This year has been difficult, especially living in the condo. I must go outside every time the dogs go outside. I must shovel paths for them because their legs are short and they are small. I must do the grocery shopping and errands for my mother who is fearful of being out in the cold, fearful of falling, of getting sick. I must worry about driving on icy roads, about how I will get to these places I must go.

But still, and deep down, I have not minded overmuch. I come in from the cold and sit in front of the fire, a dog on either side, reading and warming my hands. I watch the birds flock to feeders all around the house, smile at them when they peek inside at me as if to say “thank you” for the sunflower seeds, thank you for the thistle and suet, before turning their tiny beaks back to their meal. I make coffee in my favorite cup, arrange bright flowers in a crystal vase. I listen to Horowitz play Chopin and Mozart, pieces I’ve listened to for more than 20 years, notes that have (clumsily) flowed from my own fingers on the keys.

I find enchantment today.

Because who knows what tomorrow will bring.

I wish this for you, that you might find something of beauty in your day today. May it be something left for you as a surprise, like tree branches alight with ice, or something you create for yourself within the pattern of your own daily life.

Find it. Savor it, slack jawed with gratitude.

Be enchanted.

Gut Instinct

Someone once told me that I “live in my head a lot.” She didn’t mean it as a compliment, although I was inclined to take it as one anyway. What was so bad about being thoughtful? I wondered. Why shouldn’t I ponder and weigh possibilities in the privacy of my own mind? Aren’t we always being advised to “think things through”, to “weigh all the possibilities?” To “give it some thought?" But I’ve finally begun to realize the value of following my instinct rather than my intellect. And I have my digestive system to thank for that.

Don’t worry, I won’t go into graphic details - suffice it to say my gut hasn’t been in the best working order. I wasn’t giving it much thought, other than being annoyed with feeling less than my best, until I read something that started me thinking my gastrointestinal system might be sending me a deeper message than one about changing my diet.

“Thoughts can spin our reactions to whatever we encounter,” writes Martha Beck, “while the gut-deep impulses we get from instinct are usually more honest.” Instinctual behavior is thousands of years old, while complex thinking patterns developed during more recent stages of evolution. Yet most of us rely on complex thinking to govern our lives. We let logic and social training talk us out of (or into) situations where instinct might lead us in another direction.

For those of us raised to contemplate, to consider, to cogitate, the big question is how to discern what our instinct is trying to say. That’s where the gut comes in.

“Trust your gut,” says that folksy phrase I’ve heard but rarely heeded. My left brain has become super effective at blocking my instincts, feelings that not only help us decide what to do in any given situation but preserve us from danger and distress.

“If you’re having trouble tapping into your instincts,” Beck suggests, “recall a positive situation from your past or a person who’s proven to be a positive presence in your life. Recall moments when you realized you were doing the right thing at the right time, or moments when you felt love and trust for that person you’ve identified. Notice your physical sensations - did you smile, relax your shoulders, feel a warm glow in your solar plexus?” Conversely, when you consider a negative situation or relationship, what happens to you body? Does your heart race? Does your stomach lurch?

I began paying closer attention to the ever-present tightening in my physical gut. Was this really just indigestion, or could it be my primitive instinct talking? I applied Beck’s litmus test to some of the situations in my current life with interesting results. Listening to my instinct is helping me determine what really matters to me right now. 

“Your life is waiting to help you choose what’s right for you,” Beck says, “even when other people tell you that their code-red desires should take priority. It does this by making things taxing when they’re not important and delicious and relatively effortless when they are. If you tend to include others’ priorities in your decision making, you must untangle yourself to know what’s important."

I know life can’t always be “delicious and relatively effortless.” But identifying the areas of life that are “taxing” your heart and soul (not to mention your intestines!) is the first step to changing what can be changed, and also to feeling good about making those changes. Most of the situations that tax my happiness resources arise from my need to please people, to help them in their endeavors, to be the “good girl” who always does what’s expected, often at the expense of my own plans and desires. I always think I have to do what people ask of me, think that once I’ve agreed to a course of action, taken on a responsibility, then it’s mine for life whether it proves to be rewarding or not. It’s taken almost 58 years of living to realize I don’t have to live that way, that it isn’t indulgent or selfish to want what I want for a change.

Now I find myself itching to get started living this life I envision for myself, the one my gut tells me is right for this particular moment. The one that has me spending more time in the sanctuary of my home, with the people that mean the most to me, doing the things that satisfy my spirit.

Picturing this scenario makes me feel all warm and fuzzy - peaceful and relaxed from the inside out. It’s definitely a gut reaction, and one I’m excited to follow.  

New Thoughts for The Journey

While I’m sitting here in my cozy room very early on a bitterly cold winter morning, my husband has just left for a meeting at his office about 30 miles away. He is not a morning person, and when a 7:00 a.m. meeting is called, my heart sinks for him because I know how difficult his day will be. He has worked in the professional world for almost 40 years now, and during that time has spent long, long hours hunched over drafting tables and computers. He has crawled through scaffolding in probably every automotive assembly plant in this country. He traveled to China thirty years ago (before it was cool to do so) to instill “American quality standards” in his company’s operational facility in a small village in Outer Mongolia.

But his working days are winding down, and we are blessed that his current job allows him a great deal of flexibility in time and working  conditions. These early morning meetings are rare, and he can often work from home if he chooses. In fact, I was somewhat surprised to hear him say recently that he wouldn’t mind working at this job until he was 65 or even older.

Nevertheless, we are beginning to think about another new stage in our lives. The Third Act is a term I’m hearing bandied about among folks our age - that time when your children have all not only flown the nest, but are independently managing nests of their own, when you’ve “retired” from the daily grind, when you’re still (hopefully) physically fit enough to live without assistance.

I’ve been re-reading Katrina Kenison’s book Magical Journey (which was this week released in paperback). I read the book for the first time last January, and was so moved by the way she wrote about facing the challenges of mid-life and how a woman re-fashions her life during this time of change. But here is what I love about re-reading…now, a year later, I come to the book at a different stage in my own life, and with a new focus and interest. Last year, so intent was I on my own inner journey, that I didn’t fully absorb what Kenison has to say about what happens to a marriage during this time.

To grow without growing apart, to allow the one you love to be different today than he or she was yesterday and to love him or her anyway, even as you struggle to figure out what’s changed: Perhaps this is the challenge that must ultimately be surmounted in every long term relationship if it’s to remain fresh and resilient, rather than growing stiff with age, too brittle to bend and stretch with time. I know my husband and I love each other. But now it seems we’re both coming to see that love alone isn’t enough to keep a commitment alive; we need imagination, too. And enough creativity and courage to create a new form for our marriage, a marriage that’s growing old and being forced to adapt, just as we are.

I think of the evolution of our relationship over the 37 years we’ve been married, how we slipped easily and naturally into roles often driven by the demands of Jim’s work. Because he worked SO much, was gone from home for many long hours, even weeks sometimes, I became the one who kept the home fires burning. The details of domesticity were things I could handle to give him as much free time as possible. When Brian was born, I became the primary caregiver, happy to be a “SAHM" and devote much of my time and energy to making a home. I became accustomed to doing my own thing, to setting my own schedule, to finding ways to nurture my own interests. And although we remained close as a couple and still loved our time together, in some ways we led separate lives which intersected whenever Jim’s workday happened to end.

Now the dynamic is very, very different. I realize I’ve been chafing against that for a while, with one foot in that old life where I run things on my schedule, based on my calendar and my needs. Who is this interloper, I was thinking, this man hanging around my house so much of the time, interfering with my plans for laundry and cooking and piano practice?

But I feel a shift in my attitude these days, a sense of gratitude for his presence, for this extra time we’re able to share. After all those years of being apart for hours and hours every day, now there are many days when we potter around the house together, doing our separate work and meeting in the kitchen for lunch. On nice days, he joins me for the morning dog walk. We start every day (even early morning meeting days like today) with coffee and our books.

"To grow without growing apart, to allow the one you love to be different today than he or she was yesterday and to love him or her anyway, even as you struggle to figure out what’s changed…"

Change. There’s that word again, the one I used to be so afraid of.

But now when I say it, when I think of it in terms of our relationship, I feel a tiny frisson of anticipation. We talk about ways we can spend winters in a warmer climate, how we might even like to spend a few months living in the UK once, just to see what that’s like.  We wonder about ways to pursue our mutual interests in music. We smile at thoughts about watching our grandson grow up and imagine the things he might do. And even knowing there will inevitably be hard changes ahead does not dampen my enthusiasm for this new opportunity to renew and re-imagine our relationship.

“I stepped into marriage twenty five years ago,” Kenison writes, “convinced that passion would sustain us; now I know better. We will endure by the grace of acquiescence, cooperation, patience, and the small daily rituals that keep us close even as change transforms the landscape of our lives."

We have certainly grown so much from those dewey-eyed 20 year olds who committed ourselves together for life, not knowing what would be written on the landscape of our years together. So as we travel into the future together, still not knowing the details, I’m confident in our ability to sustain through the “grace of acquiescence, cooperation, patience, and the small daily rituals that keep us close."

And I’m so grateful for my partner on the journey.

Magical Journey is a transformative book, one I keep on my bedside table to dip into at regular intervals for a dose of guidance and inspiration. It was released in paperback this week, and I was thrilled to have an opportunity to participate in the launch team. I’ve purchased several copies that will be gifted to close friends. You can be one of those people - if you’d like a copy of the book, please leave a comment below and tell me a little about where you are on life’s journey. I’ll choose a random winner on January 30, 2014.

Magical Journey (paperback)

Author: Katrina Kenison

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing, a Division of Hachette Books

Pages: 288

Buy a Copy: Amazon|Barnes & Noble

Hopelessly Devoted

For several days I’ve been waking around 4 or 5 a.m. - not with the kind of agitation and anxiety to which I’m prone, but with a sense of quiet energy and anticipation. I don’t bother fighting my wakefulness, but slip as quietly as possible out of the warm nest of blankets and dogs and make my way to the kitchen. While the coffee is coursing its way through the Cuisinart, I take a few moments to stand at the window and greet the silent, snowy day, before I empty the dishwasher and preheat my favorite mug. With my coffee balanced on a small, cloth lined tray, I make my way back upstairs and into the Room of My Own, the bedroom in our house that’s become my de facto office/reading room/retreat. For the next few hours, I read, write, think.  As the sky brightens outside the window, I allow myself to sink deeper into my ideas, my thoughts, my memories. By the time my family is awake, I am spent, but also energized. I feel a sense of accomplishment, and excitement. The words are taking me places I’ve never been, and I’m excited for this journey.

This is my work these days, and I am devoted to it.

Devotion is my key word for this year. It is a word layered with many levels of meaning, a word that began to crop up in my thoughts several months ago when I decided this would be the year I devoted to myself, my projects, my creativity. It is a word that carries traces of the holiness which I hope to bring to daily life. It is a loving word, a word that means giving freely of time and attention to that which is important. It is a gentle word, that implies persistence without the need for perfection.

It is a word I bring to my writing, but also to my body with all its desires and imperfections. To my husband and our marriage, in honor of true generosity and faith. To my mother, whose needs increase with age but whose love is proportionately far greater than her expectations of us. It is a word I bring to Life in General, with a growing awareness and acceptance of what makes me happy and a genuine dedication to seeking it in my daily living.

Enjoyment, then, is another important layer in the concept of devotion. It feels almost sinfully luxurious  to have the time and ability to ponder and pursue these things - this writing, this life, time to sit with what I’ve learned and explore things I want to learn more about. It’s like receiving a box of Belgian chocolates and knowing you can eat as many as you want without gaining an ounce. I smile at the very thought, don’t you?

For the past year or two, I’ve been about the business of stripping away layers - layers of clutter, of memories, of  expectations. So much has changed during that time. I’ve streamlined my living, literally and figuratively. I once thought change was evil - I dreaded it and fretted over it and hung around the edges of it as long as I could. But if there’s one thing that’s certain in life, it’s the fact that nothing stays the same, nothing is static. I’m finally starting to be okay with that idea. Lately, change has been good to me, and for me.  Now I can devote myself to seeing where it all will take me.