A number of years ago I had a chance conversation with a new-age-type psychologist. We chatted about work, kids (at the time I had four, three of them in pampers), home, travel, writing. I suppose I was streaming my non-stop chatter past her in my usual too-much-to-take-in, high-energy style because suddenly her eyes glazed over briefly, then re-focused, and peered at me intently as if she were trying to locate some specific inner center sourcing this energy, a center which I do not have. My energy comes from without, gathers strength and builds to a crescendo within me, and then explodes onto whoever happens to be in my path.
"Stop!" she commanded. I stopped.
"What do you do for yourself?" She looked at me as if she already knew the answer.
For myself? I had never entertained that thought. I mumbled something about teaching my daughter's Girl Scout troop to canoe, homeschooling a highly gifted son, mentoring some talented employees with what I considered to be high potential, and, oh, yes, probably something about Donnie although he is a big boy and usually does a dandy job of taking care of himself.
As I thought would be the case, my psychologist-acquaintance was not impressed. Immediately, she began pressing me with rapid-fire questions. I could see where she was going, but I compliantly answered her questions anyway.
"Do you get physical exercise?" she asked.
Sure. Three floors to traverse at home. Toys to pick up on them all. Vacuuming, dusting, washing. Chasing kids. Watering plants. Yep, lots of exercise. And remember those canoeing Girl Scouts? I was usually in the lead canoe. BLEEP! WRONG ANSWER!
"Okay," she continued. "So, do you read?"
Oh, yes, a lot -- in preparation for teaching classes and for writing books and, of course, to the kids although, being the oldest child, daughter Lizzie does a lot of that, too. BLEEP! WRONG ANSWER! THAT DOES NOT SOUND LIKE READING FOR RELAXATION!
"Well, then, how about time alone with your spouse?"
Oh, yeah, that's an easy one. Quite a bit of time with him, in fact. As a photographer, he has dozens of stock photos and other pictures every week that have to be sorted, catalogued, and filed -- we spend hours working on them together. BLEEP! BLEEP! WRONG AGAIN!
"Arrggh! All right, there must be something you do for yourself! How about vacation time? Where do you go? What do you do?" Exasperation had not simply crept into her voice; it was jumping up and down.
Vacation? You've got to be kidding. I live in the Land of Splat!, remember? We can't afford a vacation. We have to buy pampers, as well as incontinent supplies (such as catheters) for Noelle and a myriad other medical support items for both Noelle and Doah; pay for doctors and hospitals, medicine, and hospital parking; take care of school costs; cover transportation to work; and, when we can afford it, pay all of the utilities, not just the most urgent of them (often, though, we must forego something, such as gas in the summer--who needs heating in the summer, anyway). Besides, vacations require planning, and planning is not an option: Noelle (3o surgeries and counting) and Doah (working on his second dozen) spend unplanned time in the hospital far too frequently to even consider making a plan for the next day, let alone for a vacation weeks away. I do accumulate many use-or-lose annual leave hours at work, so the potential for vacation is there, but reality and potential have no way to meet, so I give the spare hours away to chronically ill employees who would otherwise be without income.The psychologist sighed deeply and gave me "that" look, the one that indicates she is evaluating me for institutionalization. "You really need to do something for yourself in order to keep up your energy and maintain your sanity."
"Ah," I replied. "That's what you were after. Sure, I do something for myself. Let's see. I have one-on-one night outs (or day outs) with each of the kids every couple of months. I took Lizzie to Moscow with me on a work assignment, Noelle to Hawaii, Doah to New York City, and Shane to Finland. Last week, I taught the neighborhood kids to make
pysanki (Ukrainian Easter eggs), and a few weeks before that, I assisted Lizzie and her friends in building a tiny rocket launcher in the backyard, a rather neat science experiment, if I do say so myself!"
"No! No! No!" She interrupted me. "You don't get it! What do you do in order to be happy, for your own happiness?"
So much for what began as a pleasant, casual conversation! There really was nothing more to say. It had become clear that
she did not get it. I do not need diversion to be happy. My family is my happiness. Writing is my happiness. Teaching is my happiness. Helping Donnie with his photo work is my happiness. Being able to help my colleagues make it through a few more days through the transfer of annual leave hours does bring me happiness. I don't have to go looking for happiness because I already have it.
That was then. Now is now. Some things have changed. The kids have grown up. They now have children of their own, and I have acquired a new title: Grandma. The source of my happiness, though, has not changed, and I still think that psychologist did not get it. However, I do have a better answer for her these days. Now I do have something I do just for myself, for my own happiness, and I do it often. It is called prayer.
Nikolina, as I posted elsewhere, came home yesterday evening, and we had a right fine celebration at Pizza Factory with Donnie, Shane (our son), Lemony (his wife), Nathaniel (our grandson), and Nikolina. As we were finishing, Fr. Barry and the staff from the local retreat center quite coincidentally showed up, and they all got to meet Nikolina and be rewarded with her infectious smile and highly social, happy eye contact -- she's an extrovert and already a bit of a flirt. (Fr. Barry, early on in Nikolina's surgical odyssey, celebrated a mass for her and for all of us.) We all left in jolly spirits.
