The Tasmanian Devil In My Head
“Fix it! Fix it! FIX IT!”
That’s the alarm bell that goes off inside of me anytime someone I care about is having a hard time. I don’t know why I have this alarm. My therapist has a few theories. Regardless of whether it was nature or nurture or I was cursed by a witch on the first full moon after my birth, this alarm is something I work with and I’m guessing I always will. Despite all of my therapy, mindfulness training, meditation practice, and vast essential oil collection, I have a control freak side of me that ignites a four-alarm fire in my chest when someone I love is struggling. My default, knee-jerk reaction is to jump into action, start researching, bake a casserole, or find some way to try to make it stop. Anything but sit in the discomfort of the struggle.
I really got the opportunity to observe this compulsion this year. I had an inordinate amount of friends who were really going through some shit, and there was literally NOTHING I could do to fix it. After some kicking and screaming and an internal temper tantrum, I remembered my meditation practice, and it has been my lifeline. When I meditate, I can watch this Tasmanian devil-like creature inside of my head. I like to call her Whirling Wendy. (Sorry to all the Wendys out there). I imagine that Wendy is running from side to side, up and down, and all around looking for solutions to all of the problems for all the people in my orbit including mine. This exhausted little creature is constantly running to and fro trying to get everything just right and wipe away all the darkness.
Thank goodness, there is another approach. I can focus on my breath. Yes at first, it’s only for a second or two before Wendy taps me on the shoulder and reminds me that I have problems to solve, but then I remember my breath again. I pay attention to the sensation of oxygen going in and out, and then back again to Whirling Wendy and so on... This ping pong match lasts for a little while, but eventually, my mind settles and I can have some freedom, and Wendy can finally get some rest.
The cold hard reality is that sometimes I just can’t fix it. In fact, I often can’t fix it. But if I can connect to my breath, and be aware of the potential for some peace in the face of Whirling Wendy, peace usually shows up at some point in my practice. Then, when it’s time for me to show up for those I care about it, even though I know I can’t fix it, I know I can hold space. I can be with it. I can care. I can be curious. I can be kind. I can be non-judgmental, and I’m not so hi-jacked by Wendy that I can’t do all of those things. It’s so counterintuitive… sitting with the discomfort, but the only way out for me is through.
