Moments Over Measures

Yesterday I made a commitment to give up destructive counting.  To stop measuring calories or inches or pounds or dollars earned.   To cease classifying myself as greater than , equal to, or less than anyone else.  To give up the Mad Girl Math for 30 days.

Initially I felt a calming sense of relief.  Shortly after that, a kind of wonder about what I would do with the left-over “thought time” formerly taken up by counting.  Since much of this time was spent privately while in the presence of others (I can count and judge myself silently while multi-tasking), just being present could logically fill in that time.  And I like the sound of this.  Imagine being fully present while enjoying a meal with someone I love.  A remarkable benefit right out of the gate.

After a few hours, though, the urge to count took its toll.  And in the absence of old measurements, what did I count? The number of people who read this blog, of course.  I counted page views, followers, comments and likes.  To be truthful, I didn’t have to count them.  Blogger provides an excellent overview page with significant markers indicating my success or failure at sharing my true feelings with potential readers.  I was riveted. I could even see the geographic distribution of my readership, and spent no small amount of time wondering who had viewed my page from France.  Surely that must point to some degree of success.  Day one, and I’m world-wide.   Mad Girl Math?  In the very worst way.

And while I was loath to force myself away from the numbers, doing so opened me up to something new.    I found a pleasantly surprising comfort in the experience I was having.   I had written my first blog.  It’s been more than 40 years since I first put pencil to paper (but who’s counting?), and every day since, I’ve wanted to share my words with others.  Today I did that.  When I looked away from the numbers, when I just sat with myself and my fear and my silly wonder at what possessed me to throw words up on the Internet, I had a buzzing sensation that did not go away.  My success was irrelevant.  My joy was in the driver’s seat.

I once contacted a wonderful sports/life coach while training for a marathon.  I was having trouble completing my long runs, and feeling anxiety about doing things I’d done before without issue – things I had committed myself to do.  Coach Jerry told me that on my next long run I should avoid thinking about the workout as a 17-mile endeavor.  Instead, he said to run one mile, 17 times.  And as I finished each mile, I was to ask myself:  Do I feel like going again?  His advice seemed a bit like semantics to me, but I tried it none-the-less.  And something took over.  I became present to each mile – to the joy, the pain, the breathlessness, the freedom of an individual mile.  The number 17 lost its power over me.  I ran because I chose to.  Not because my training schedule told me to.  Because I could – not because I should.

This presence to experience, this awareness to what is happening right in the moment, is a beautiful gift.  We so easily club ourselves with the numbers.  How many miles to go?  How many moments before the work day ends?  How many glasses of wine before I feel relief?  How many pounds must I shed before I am right?  But the numbers take us out of the moment, into a dimension that is unreal, unsatisfying, and unproductive.  This moment, this experience, this feeling… this is what is real.  And what is real makes us feel real.

Do we sing because people are listening?  Or because we love to sing?  Do we write because people are reading?  Or because we love to write?  Do we diet and struggle and weigh ourselves because of how harshly people might judge us – or worse, how harshly we might judge ourselves?  Or do we eat an apple over a Twinkie because it tastes better going down, gives us a lift, and provides us with what we really need to feel good?

Yesterday I was lured by the Mad Girl Math of writing.  Today I decided to write by the words, rather than the numbers.  I decided to put one finger in front of the other and move forward.  In this moment, I feel safe and sound.  In this experience, I am immediately rewarded.

How about you?