Zen Summer

Of the four years that I spent as a teacher, there was only one summer that I didn’t either work or go to school. That was the Summer of the Jigsaw Puzzle. Living in a small town and having limited transportation available (meaning that the nearest shopping mall was over an hour’s drive away, and my car was a very unreliable 1965 Ford Galaxie with black leather interior and no air conditioning), I had to find ways to entertain myself that didn’t involve a lot of money or travel.

There was a small cadre of young teachers in Boardman, that summer. We had befriended each other during the school year, and so we naturally gravitated toward each other for company over the summer. Although there were a few evening hours spent at the local pub, weekly rotating dinners where we practiced our emerging skills in the kitchen, and the occasional party, mostly we needed something to do each day that would protect our reputations and stimulate our minds, on our very short purse-strings.

One day we took a group trip into the nearest town with a thrift store, which was 20 miles away. As we idly picked through the random items, not sure if we were even looking for something or just trying to get rid of another day of vacation, I came across a display of jigsaw puzzles. I started looking through them and became intrigued as I sorted through pictures of cherry blossoms, fall leaves against a forest floor, clouds against a sky so blue and so clear that the breeze could almost be felt off of the box top, and a 1000 piece monster that seemed simple: Cracker Jack pieces scattered and stacked, with the Cracker Jack logo placed discreetly in the corner.

I waved to my fellow shoppers and they saw what I was beginning to see: hours, days, and even weeks of cheap entertainment for low, low prices. We each chose two or three puzzles, and headed home. With no children, and many of us with no spouses to dine with, our dining tables quickly became piled with puzzle pieces, and puzzle pictures taking shape as time went on. We quickly, and a little obsessively, worked at our play.

As one puzzle would get completed, each of us would happily trade with another, so no one was ever without. Then, the Cracker Jack attacked. I will confess to being the one who purchased the dreaded candy-coated monster. Hour after hour was spent trying to match pieces that all had the same color scheme, and almost, but just not quite the same shape. Being foolish, I found all the pieces that had the logo first. This left approximately 950 pieces of nothing but caramel corn and peanuts. Instead of a day or two, maybe three or four for something like the cherry blossoms, this monster stretched into weeks, before it was finally finished. And when it was, there was only one thing to do: take it all apart and send it to the next person on the list. I hated to do both, but did. Every single member of the Round Robin Puzzlers hated that monster. I can’t say that they were too thrilled with me for buying it either, but I think it made for a great finale.

There was something about doing the puzzles that was healing for me that summer. It was the only time I had ever not worked or gone to school. Puzzling over the pieces and the pictures, imagining how the parts would become a whole, kept my mind working when I wasn’t. It’s soothing to do something productive, even when the end result isn’t something permanent. I imagine the Zen Buddhists that create sand Mandalas, only to brush them away when they are done. Life is transitory. That is what the Zen masters are demonstrating with their art. The jigsaw puzzle summer was fun, enlightening, and a perfect Zen experience.

It’s Always 3 a.m. In My Head

I am born worrier. I not only started young, but continued throughout my life, to find more ways to keep myself and others up all night with a multitude of anxiety producing ideas.

What if the monsters under my bed are not just real, but carnivorous? What if that’s what really happened to all those missing kids you hear about on TV (this, in answer to being told there are no monsters. Turns out at three, I was actually closer to the answer than I knew.)

I have worried about everything from those childhood fears, to bigger and bigger worries. Unfinished homework during my school years would loom large in the middle of the night, assuring me that 6th grade math would prevent my entering college, or even being released from elementary school. I had visions of driving to 6th grade, to continually face my math book.

Junior high was when I was sure I would remain 4 ½ feet tall and flat chested for the rest of my life. I was sure I could get through the rest of those years, if someone could just assure me that I would get taller and have boobs in a few years. I would like to go back and tell that self that there is more to worry about…and there are boobs in the future. I wouldn’t mention the height thing, probably.

My worries about love, acceptance, and achievement plagued me throughout high school and college, with fears of failure and a destiny of dateless single hood clutching at me in the middle of my nights. No way to reassure myself with report cards full of A’s and B’s or a busy social life. The 3 a.m. closing arguments of each day were always more convincing than any evidence I might try to present myself.

Parenthood is no cure for a worrier. It’s like trying to put out a fire with gasoline. Not only did I have the Encyclopedia of concerns to refer to from my lifetime of anxiety, but also now had an easy quick-reference version at hand every moment of every day, from the moment that the test came back positive from my first pregnancy. Did I conceive before or after that party I went to for a friend, where I had a few drinks? Had I used paint in a closed room during that time period? The fumes had been pretty strong. Medications? Foods? Illnesses? What about family diseases that might be a risk for the baby? Should I have amnio? Ultrasound? Lamaze? And this was all just the day the test turned pink. Or blue. Or whatever. It only gets worse after birth, worrying about what you do, they do, others do…I don’t think I’ve slept for 16 years now.

But now it has actually gotten worse. There is only one thing worse for a worrier than, well, living. And that is having a child…with a driver’s license. I thought it would be a blessing, to finally have this child that I have had to chauffer around for 16 years finally able to drive herself around. It was very exciting for the first 2 minutes after she got her license and to watch her enjoy feeling grown up. Then she left the house with my car, and without me. I don’t think I have taken a breath since. There are so many things to worry about, all so very real, and some so deeply horrifying I can’t even write them down. It’s not even a trust issue, since she is bright and conservative, not given to speeding, racing, unsafe actions, drinking, or other things that I could worry about. But she is inexperienced, which is just a fact of life, and out on the roads with a bunch of idiots, who are given to speeding, racing, drinking, and unsafe actions. I would go on, but I’m having trouble breathing. Every time she leaves the house, my heart and respirations stop until she returns. The longer her outings, the more I worry for her safety, and possibly my own survival.

I have had people share so many tips and tricks for how to handle worry, I could write a book about it myself. I have prayed about it. I’ve been medicated for it. In the end though, I think there are people who are serene and accepting without need for advice or prescriptions in order to handle the roller coaster twists and turns that are life’s ride. And others are likely to be screaming and gripping the safety bar, even if they are only on a kiddie ride. I’m a gripping screamer. Whether or not my life is a coaster or kiddie ride is hard to know, perhaps until the end. But every 3 a.m. I’m prepared for the possibility that there is terror around the next corner, even if the only monster under my bed is one I’ve put there myself.