My childhood was steeped in negativity. As an adult, I married into it, then passed it along to my children, like a genetic fault. Or a curse. So at 74 years of age, I'm completely awash in the stuff, and I've recently realized I've lost the ability to bathe in anything else.
I skewer the world with a dissatisfied gaze and simmer with indignation. Sometimes, my indignation isn't completely selfish or unproductive, like when I seethe over injustice and feel moved to take action against it. But more often than not, my indignation is petty and self-absorbed—against the driver who tailgates, the jar lid that won't unscrew, or the handle on my freezer door that some bright designer positioned perfectly for repeated, painful head knocks whenever I straighten from loading the vegetable bin down below.
I mutter to myself in anger and with an ongoing sense of injury, grousing mole hills into mountains. Not that you'd ever know it if you met me. You'd probably see me as a nice, funny, little old lady—and at my best, in the company of others, that's exactly who I am. But I'm also someone who's become an expert at keeping my complaints about the unfairness of it all to myself and hugging my negativity close, like a secret friend. Even though that "friend" has sucked most (if not all) of the joy out of my life.
Unfortunately, nobody told me that anxiety is the flipside of negativity. Viewing life through a jaundiced lens—and, to be fair to myself, through the lens of decades of abuse—always seeing the worst, leaves me vulnerable to the what-ifs. Waiting for the next shoe to drop or sword to fall, because I know it will. So I find myself living with a constant, vague dread, an ever-present fear that something wicked this way comes.
And I'm convinced I deserve what comes, because the most virulent strain of my negativity is reserved for ... me. I'm a continual disappointment to myself—not spiritual enough, not brave enough, not every-damn-thing enough. Or maybe I'm too much—too all-in for a friendship I assume arose out of a casual conversation; too gung ho when someone asks me to research medical care options, and I immediately, feverishly bombard them with more information than one person could assimilate in a lifetime ... and don't stop there. (Dad used to say, "Kathleen, you go at everything like you're killing snakes." He wasn't wrong.)
As a 1980 G.I. Joe cartoon character famously informed children after every educational PSA, "Knowing is half the battle." Maybe he was right, and that gives me hope, but then I remember what John Heywood said: "You can't teach an old dog new tricks," and I remind myself that I've spent seven decades internalizing my old tricks. Is it too late to change?
Not talking about the kind of change where you hitch up your willpower pants and buy a book called Seven Strategies for Developing a Positive Outlook. I'm talking about deep, lasting spiritual transformation, a transfiguration I believe only God can accomplish: Eyes that see beauty, even among the ashes. A heart that dares to hope. Joy, even as those eyes recognize injustice and that heart bleeds for real, overwhelming worldwide pain and suffering.
I do think I have a part to play, but not in that old "God helps those who help themselves" way. I mean, God already helped me by letting me see all this so clearly, when I clearly didn't want to see it at all. But that first step in faith (obedience?) also has to be taken; it's not enough to kick back in the recliner and say, "Okay, God, I see what You're saying. Now give me positive outlook. By Tuesday, if possible." Looking my negativity in the eye is probably the first step. Giving it a swift kick and offering it up whenever I catch it grumping in would be another. (Honestly? I get tired just thinking about that battle! Makes me want to lie down and take a nap.)
This morning I decided I would try to think about and appreciate one beautiful thing every day. I often skim the surface on this, settling for a brief nod to some blessing or other, but I want to try to change my approach by stopping on one thing and looking deeply. Pausing long enough to let my heart catch up and rejoice in that one beautiful thing. I don't know why, but I feel this is the way ....
