tl;dr: what holds us back and what pushes us forward.

I’ve been thinking and feeling fear lately. I’m sure some of it has to do with the annus horribilis that 2020 is, but some of it is my own attachment to “success’ as the metric which I judge my life.

Success for me has often meant academic and financial achievement.

It’s just how I am, but I am starting to realize that the attachment to success, not only financial/career but across the board, is actually creating a preponderance of fear in me which, ironically, is preventing me from achieving the very same success to which I aspire.

The fear sits with me and gives me the reasons why I am unlikely to succeed. Fear of failure then is the albatross and since it’s not a physical and only a construct of my mind, I am, in fact, the one holding myself back.

The challenge that I face, and I suspect I’m not alone, is to ignore these fears, shaking loose of the weight on my shoulders.

Sun as Renewal

A few weeks ago, I wrote about “Words as Energy” conveyed from one person to another.

However, the words we say to ourselves are also a form of energy. When we use fear words, we are injecting negative energy into our Minds. When we use success words, we are injecting positive energy into our Minds.

The idea of “words as energy” was something I picked up in my class on “the Tanya.”, the most important text in the literature of the Chabad Lubavitch movement.

Another idea that came up in that class is that, each morning, when you wake up, take your first conscious breath and see the sun for the first time, that is a moment of renewal.

Maybe that is why Admiral McRaven suggests that the first thing you do is “make your bed.”

Or maybe it’s why the mere act of allowing the sun to shine on your face can change the feelings in your heart, changing your emotional state.

I am going to go outside now for a moment and watch the sunrise.

But I will leave with you an article I got from my friend, Dr. Mark Banschick, called “November Sun.”

I think it’s a beautiful example of this idea and a beautiful tribute.

November Sun

By Mark Banschick MD

A November day and mom‘s been gone for awhile.

The sun kicked back in. 70°F. I’m sitting in a blue portable chair next to the beach. Seagulls all around. The sun warm against my face. Shorts, a golf shirt and a wool cap.

I have a jacket next to me, don’t worry. Was that you? Or, was it mom‘s voice? She could never stand that I’d run out into the cold under dressed. Where is your jacket? You never take a jacket. You’ll get sick! Don’t worry, the jacket’s here in case the wind kicks up some more.

A steady breeze, the sun bouncing off rippling waves and into my eyes. At 30° above the horizon and the water at my feet, it’s two burning intensities; blinding, so deliciously blinding. Helen was her name. She would have liked this.

A car passes by with music blaring. It fades in and out. I close my eyes. Letting the breeze, the seagulls, the smells and the regularity of the waves touch my heart. She’s here. And she’s not. My imagination. My reality. Kind of how I feel about the Lord.

Death is the most human of experiences. Unless you’re unfortunate and part too young, we all lose someone. I’m 64 years old and there’s nothing to complain about except to complain.

It’s funny, the day mom passed, I was moving out of my office of 25 years. COVID-19. The space was up for renewal and it made no sense to stay. It’s as close as I’ve ever gotten to a divorce. For 25 years it worked. Then it stopped; a basic experience.

Sometimes you have to face the music. I was not going to pay for something I wasn’t going to use. And so I let go into the future, putting the entire office into storage.

Seeing patients by Zoom. Letting go of some thing that was good, but no longer is.

I think of my special green leather couch. How many sessions? How many tears? How many laughs? How many insights? Yes, how many mistakes? Torn in the middle after years of loyal service, I kept repairing her with green tape. Wondering when I would get my beloved couch to a repair shop. Never happened. It was time to go – and I let go.

Is there a mourning ritual for a couch? Some of my patients understand. They grieve with me. A small grief. But real. Do you have such a couch? So, I’m letting go now. Not of mom‘s memory, not of the 64 years. But at the tug going forward. Boy, do I love you mom. And boy, did I love you mom. And, boy did you drive me crazy sometimes. And boy, did I sometimes disappoint. But we came together.

Mom, you had some temper! And, for some reason I could push back. We argued. We made up. Let’s just stop arguing, you’d simply say. And we did. Like a period at the end of a sentence.

We laughed a lot. In someways friends, in someways never so. We shared regret at the nature of life. How religious life is central, but when folks gather, things can get problematic. How, it’s the individual people that really count – who to hold close – and how to know. More importantly, she valued the textures of this life.

She exercised and prayed every day. Organized her home. Inquired about others. Helen’s hand written letters to family and friends required new stacks of greeting cards every Thanksgiving, Rosh Hashanah, Hanukkah and Passover. Her adorable berets. So many colors. Cute scarves. Mom was beautifully dressed, but never spent money. An artist. Open. Colorful. Unique. Herself. Mom was not afraid of death. She spoke to her soul using the Jewish term, Neshoma. What do we need to do today? She would ask her Neshoma. What’s required of us now? God was never the problem for her. Just what was required.

She leaves us all wondering about the role of authority. Of culture. Of folks who tell us how to behave, The guardians of the way. And there are so many. She was not afraid of death because she already felt close to God.

Almost relatives. We were able to talk about these matters for many years without anxiety. I consider this a gift. My mother’s last words. I’m OK. Just be happy. Everybody should be happy.

We watched the Food Channel together on Yom Kippur; four hours straight. Me, the semi-Orthodox Jew. Bree, a twenty four year old aide sent from some alternative universe. And mom, Helen Banschick, regal, frail, not quite herself, but every bit herself. Yes, I was fasting. And yes, it was the Food Channel. We were laughing and having fun. I stroked her hair. Her aide massaged her hand. Three people. One sunny moment.

The music drifts towards me. More life. Somebody in the car enjoying what they’re listening to. Nothing harsh. Simply enjoying. Mom would’ve loved this.

A seagull drifts by.

Story copyright Mark Banschick, 2020.