Why Anger Hurts - And How to Heal

How many times have we been told that anger only (or mostly) hurts the person who is angry? Or that we should forgive others for our own sake? Anyone who's ever been angry, or frustrated, or held a grudge, which is pretty much 100% of the human population, knows that negative emotions hurt, emotionally. But are there other proven, perhaps long-term physical effects of being angry, or negative? Think of a car that is constantly being driven too fast, taking sharp turns without slowing down. Or a dishwasher that is always full, always running, the water temperature set on "hot." We would expect these machines to experience stress in some areas, to wear out from all the pressure, right? Well, the same could be said about the human body if it's frequently tuned to red: anger, or some similar upsetting state. According to Ted Zeff, PhD, author of The Highly Sensitive Person's Survival Guide, "When you become upset with someone, chemical changes occur in your body. When you are feeling resentment and frustration, stress hormones activate the central nervous system and you eventually become habituated to increased muscle tension, heart rate, and blood pressure." In the short term, these conditions might not seem terrible, but consider what happens when our body's hormones begin working against us. Zeff says that a stress hormone called "catecholamine," which is similar to adrenaline, is released during acute anger. An excess of this hormone produces apprehension, anxiety, and fear. When catecholamine increases the heart rate, cardiac problems can result. In addition, when a person is upset in terms of anger, frustration, or resentment, there is an excess of cortisol in the blood stream. This hormone, when present, actually increases agitation, while decreasing serotonin--the hormone that helps us feel calm, happy, and fulfilled. Therefore, becoming intensely angry on a regular basis is like adding fire to fire; the more angry a person feels, the longer they will feel angry, and the harder it will become to put out the flames. Finally, Zeff states, in a chronic angry state, our endorphins, which create a sense of joy, literally dry up. Chronic anger, then, can lead to depression. No doubt, when someone's actions or words upset us, it is easy and natural to become angry. We're only human, after all. However, anger is, quite literally, bad for our health. Many experts tout the benefits of practices such as meditation, yoga, and exercise, to stabilize our emotions. But sometimes, especially for those of us who struggle with intense, chronic anger, this advice is too generic. For those of us who are tired of chronic negative states, those of us who wish to avoid letting anger affect us or our relationships for too long, Zeff suggests the following scripted "heart-centered visualization" meditation: "Think of a recent experience when you felt hurt by another person and became angry. Is your attention focused on your head or your heart? Now breathe deeply and slowly into your belly. Focus on the air filling your abdomen and slowly exhale. Now shift your awareness to the left hand...left elbow...left shoulder...left side of chest into your heart. Feel your heart expanding with love. Deeply experience the peace and harmony in the stillness and calmness of being centered in your heart. Next visualize a positive experience that you've had with the same person. How did you feel toward that person then? Take plenty of time to really visualize their good qualities. Ask yourself, can you let go of the anger? Will you let go of the anger? When will you let go of the anger? The heart knows only love and will always let go of anger. Keep returning to the heart until you have released the anger. Once you have released the anger, you have shifted from a head-centered judgmental framework to heart-centered, caring love." Of Zeff's script, certain skeptics (like myself) might ask, "If the heart knows only love, why does anger make the heart race?" My proposed answer is this: The heart WANTS to know only love, and by depriving the heart of love even for a minute while anger takes a hold of us, our heart grows frightened, like an infant suddenly yanked from its mother, yearning for the familiarity of comfort, of peace, of love. Our hearts don't desire to be overwhelmed with anger anymore than our lungs want to be clogged with tar, or our livers flooded with alcohol. So the next time someone angers you, consider trying the above meditation, or at least looking closely at how anger affects you. I know I don't like the way anger hurts my body, which is why I chose to study this topic. We are a world plagued with anger and hatred, and as Ghandi once said, "If we follow the belief of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, the entire world would be blind and toothless." I already have poor eyesight and bad teeth; at this age, I would be wise to focus on nurturing my heart.

Life Lesson #147: Let Go

This push-and-pull effort, this calculating, this predicting--this attempt to control all the little details--it is dangerous, at best. It is a disease lurking on the outskirts of sanity: A guaranteed, slow, painful death. For there is no control of anything in this life, only the illusion of control, and we strangle ourselves daily with the cords of this illusion. To let go is to untangle ourselves, to set ourselves and everyone around us free, so that we might do more than exist; we might live.

Power Cleaning: Tips for sanity in the home office

"Out of sight, out of mind." Perhaps this is the adage that makes or breaks it for anyone daring enough to work from home. (Yes, I know you out-of-home workers are cringing, saying how jealous you are, that you wish you could roll out of bed in your pajamas and crawl to your desk with your cup of coffee and begin work without a commute. But in truth, working from home, like everything in life, has it's own unique pro's and con's.) Those who commute to the office each day leave their chores behind. I've never read a study that compares the productivity of an office worker versus a home office worker, but my guess is our productivity is, if not less altogether, at least less consistent. Why? The answer just might lurk somewhere within those nasty window smudges that glare at us all day long, because whose responsibility is it to wipe them away? Ours. This morning, my cluttered apartment was mocking me as I attempted to compile a list of research questions for an interview I had scheduled at 11:30. I thought to myself, as I think every...single...glaringly cluttered and smudged day: "How can I focus in this place?" Today, instead of spinning in circles--literally or figuratively--I performed an experiment. "Fifteen minutes," I said. I walked to the kitchen and set the timer on the oven for twelve minutes, knowing I would need about a three-minute warning, that I could not just drop my mop and my can of Lysol as soon as the timer beeped. I'm no stranger to power yoga, or power walking, but power cleaning is a new concept for me. I set that timer, and quickly tackled the messes that were the most nagging, the most immediate, the most obvious. In twelve quick minutes, I managed to put away my daughter's Barbies and morning craft projects, run the trash out to the dumpster, wash our breakfast dishes, Windex my bathroom mirrors, and disinfect the kitchen counter tops. At that point, the beeping ensued. I rushed to the bedroom and put away half of the folded laundry, saving the rest for another day's fifteen minutes of power cleaning. And then I sat down on the couch and wrote this sloppy blog post, which I refuse to proofread; that might take another twelve to fifteen minutes. If you've done any power cleaning today, please don't blog about it. For life's sake, get on with your life. :)

Brainstorm Walkrain

What is it about walking that stirs the brain, resuscitates memory?

MOdeRAtion

"If you put too much pressure on anything--your car, your body, your marriage--you're going to wear it out." These were the wise words of Bryan Kest, repeated often when I attended his power yoga classes in Santa Monica three years ago. They are words to live by, and yet, at the time, I failed to live by them. Staying true to my pattern of excess, I went to Kest's studio six days a week, each time for a ninety-minute session. A quick math equation tells me I was engaging in power yoga for nine hours a week. I am not Madonna. I do not have finely tuned muscles, a dietician, or a world-renowned personal trainer. Nine hours of any physical activity was too much for my underweight frame, which is why, after four months of die-hard devotion, I wound up injured, wearing a wrist brace, unable to do even one downward-facing dog pose. I discovered not long ago that my name appears in the word "moderation." All my life, I've known that this word is the key component of contentment: balance your career, your home life, your relationships, and personal life, and you might attain some sort of success in all areas. But it's taken me a long time--and many injuries, including one to my right knee, which barred me forever from my favorite sport, long-distance running--to strive for this in the physical realm. In the late 1990s, I watched Parkinson's disease consume my father's body. He chose not to do the prescribed stretches and fine motor skill exercises, and he quickly lost his flexibility, dexterity, and balance. Consequently, my father suffered many falls, caused a few minor car accidents, until finally he was hospitalized, permanently, until his death in 2000. So now, for me, athletic activity is no longer a question of force; it's a question of, do I want to maintain my balance and flexibility for as long as nature will allow? Is that important to me? The answer is yes. Recently, I began my own power yoga routine, three years post-injury. Since April, I have vowed to engage in my own thirty-minute routine composed of my favorite poses, three times a week. That's only ninety minutes a week, compared to the nine hours a week I once did. But ninety minutes a week is a whole lot more than nothing, and for me, I hope it equates to a lifetime of flexibility, and a stepping stone towards the ultimate goal: moderation. What area of your life might benefit from a little moderation?

MacBook Blogging

The problem with paragraph breaks seems to be inherent of Macs. If anyone has any advice, I still need it. Thank you!

To the beautiful girl on the bike

"To the beautiful girl on the bike: Please forgive me for being intrusive. I live in Playa Del Rey and often see you riding your bike along the Westchester Parkway. It seems to me that you are suffering in a way that I understand, because I have suffered in much the same way (and still do at times). What I refer to is the struggle with food and exercise, and the deeper and sometimes elusive reasons for this struggle. I am reaching out to you because I know, from experience, that this is a very painful and lonely place to be, and I want you to know that there are people who understand and are empathetic. No doubt, my imposition is awkward and might anger you, which is also understandable. However, I had to take the chance, because each day that I see you, my worry increases. Please consider calling or emailing me. I am not sure I can help, but I can listen and be your friend. Mora Finnerty 310.488.3263 morafinnerty@hotmail.com"

Dream Box

The last time I traveled to the East Coast alone, I returned by way of a connection in Denver. At the airport, I wandered around a quaint gift shop that featured an array of personalized trinkets. My daughter is forever searching, often in vain, to find her name on pens, mugs, and mini license plates. At the gift shop, I saw a rotating rack displaying tiny wooden boxes, each one small enough to fit in a child's palm. To my surprise, there was a whole row of boxes engraved with Ella's name, in cursive, above a detailed, mountainous landscape. Beneath the landscape, in all caps: COLORADO. When I arrived home, I gave Ella her gift. Only mildly excited (maybe she was hoping for a mini license plate, or even better, something soft and fuzzy she could cuddle), she dutifully read the label: Dream Box. On the back of the label are these instructions: "Write a wish on a piece of paper and put it inside your box. Every night at bed time, hold your Dream Box and think of your dream. Legend has it, if done faithfully your dream will come true." Ella tore a corner off of a sheet of paper and scribbled secretly in pencil. Then she showed me her wish: Make my mom nicer.

Waiting On Forgiveness

How does Pixar manage to make me cry every single time? I saw the movie Brave today, and twenty minutes in, tears were already streaming down my cheeks. It was the usual, age-old, mother-daughter strife that did me in: The mother is controlling, won't let go, wants to make the child's decisions for her, and the daughter resents her for it. In this flick (spoiler alert), the mother roars like a bear, the child calls her a beast, and soon, the mother literally turns into a bear. I have to admit, I relate to that transformation more than I'd like to confess. Never in my carefully calculated plans for motherhood did I think I would be the beast in my child's life, especially after growing up in a house rife with anger. But, as it turns out, I carry a legacy of rage within me that runs so deep, I have only recently begun to accept and name it. In short, I was a better parent before I became one. (Hopefully I am not the only mother who felt leveled by the subversive message of this film, because one of my biggest fears is suffering alone; at least, as another saying goes, there is comfort in numbers.) When we see something we dislike about ourselves, acceptance is usually the first step towards positive change. Through acceptance, I have begun to change my rage legacy, but some days it is hard. Some days, that giant, wild bear tries to claw her way through to the surface. I have made apologies to my daughter, and even to myself--apologies too numerous to count--because taking responsibility is another crucial step in the healing process. At the end of Brave, when the daughter is apologizing and wishing for her mother to turn back into a human, and their fate appears very bleak indeed, I realized a universal truth: Owning one's mistakes and saying sorry is painful, but waiting on forgiveness is downright excruciating. Is anyone waiting on your forgiveness?

Tea for Two

Have you seen her? On the Westchester Parkway? At first, I thought she was a ghost from my past, a reminder, but I have seen her too many times to know: She is real. She is real, and yet, each time I see her, she is gradually shrinking from this world. Months pass and I watch her disappear. And police cars drive by her, and I wonder, this is an emergency, why isn’t anyone stopping? Why don’t they turn on their sirens, throw down their flares, and intervene? She is as thin as a character from a Tim Burton cartoon. She pedals in the hardest gear, standing up, as rigid as a robot, as calculated as a wind-up toy. She wears short shorts and a thick scarf and oversized sunglasses and tiny Band-Aids on her forehead. I know she must be somebody’s angel--we are all angels to at least one person. She is an angel, I think, and I must try to save her. Maybe I can flag her down, ask her to lunch. No, not lunch. Am I stupid? Tea. Tea is enough; tea is safe. I am well aware: My intervention might anger her. She might tell me to fuck off. I am okay with fucking off. But I am not okay with not trying to help. So I made a plan the other day, to stop her the next time I see her, offer her my number, tell her, simply, that I want to be her friend, that I need her to be my friend, that I know she is in pain because I have been there before. I wish I could Google her instead, find her on Facebook, somehow get a hold of her name, her email address. But this confrontation must be face to face. The day I made the plan, when I felt brave enough, she didn’t show up. But today, when I saw her, I chickened out. While she pedaled past me this afternoon, with airplanes taking off from LAX to the south, I wondered, what, exactly, is she trying to escape? Could she know that I want to escape, too?

Kindness Learned

As we usher in future generations, many of us in our own households, it is important to consider what legacies we will—either wittingly or unwittingly—pass along to our human successors. For some time, I have wondered specifically about kindness, with one question in mind: Is kindness inborn, or is it learned? To study this topic, I first looked at my own personality. I tend to become irritable quite easily, which irritates me; imagine living with such a double-edged sword (that beats a chip) on your shoulder. For two decades, I have wondered why. Why am I irritable? Why am I bothered by seemingly meaningless details? Whether I like to admit it or not, I make snap judgments in my mind on a regular basis about the way other people live their lives. This is an uncomfortable habit, for sure. I have been troubled by this, trying to figure out why I am “this way,” and resenting myself for it, which only causes additional pain. Recently, I decided to examine my upbringing, not in an effort to blame anyone, but to find some measure of understanding. I reflected on the environment I grew up in, and recalled, with a bit too much clarity, how my parents, on a regular basis, gossiped about and ridiculed others for their appearances, their possessions, and their hobbies. We lived in an upper middle class white-collar neighborhood, and my family struggled to fit in, with our blue-collar roots. We were pretenders: We pretended to be rich, and pretended to be able to afford our membership at the local country club. My parents were undoubtedly insecure as telephone company workers amidst a community of doctors and lawyers. Maybe my mother and father put others down to make themselves feel better, for what they themselves lacked. What’s even worse is that they held grudges against other people and grudges against each other. Regardless of the reasons, their flagrant negativity left an impression on me—an impression that I have been trying to pound out and buff away for the last twenty years. I have been working to reprogram myself, to weed out the negativity and grow positivity in its place. Kindness, I have come to believe, is modeled and mirrored. Kindness, at its base, is a choice, but a choice made best by practice. So I ask you: How did your parents communicate, and how did their comments affect you? What was the climate of your childhood? Was it accepting, or critical? Forgiving, or resentful? Humble, or boastful? Grateful, or envious? What are you modeling for your children, or your grandchildren?

Everlasting Dawn

I am a tea junkie: earl grey, orange pekoe, pekoe black; spiced, flavored, infused. Non-caffeinated varieties like chamomile and peppermint lure me in, as well. Tea symbolizes the magic of daybreak: a glistening cup of hot, golden liquid, waiting to be sweetened, sipped, and savored. As much as I enjoy tea, the more substantial morning treats are worth mentioning: A banana—thick, sturdy, on the brink of ripeness—sliced and stirred into a heaping serving of Greek yogurt, decorated with a drizzle of organic amber honey. Two extra large eggs, scrambled easy over a melted slab of butter, served with a hunk of toasted Persian bread; more butter. Oatmeal, steel-cut, boiled on the stove, with chunks of peaches and a spoonful of plump raisins, cooled with half a cup of creamy low-fat milk. Forget about limiting these concoctions to breakfast; I will eagerly nosh them any time of day. In fact, like the Hobbits in Lord of the Rings, I often indulge in what I call “second breakfast.” The morning meal is sacred to me, just as the morning itself. Mornings, by their very nature, evoke memories of innocence, of purity, of possibility. I love to wake up to a freshly washed day, to open my eyes with childish curiosity, to step outside in wonder of what might happen or what I might accomplish. When noontime rolls around, there is a subtle but inevitable sense of loss, knowing that the day is half over, my chances half gone, my energy dwindling. By evening, I am longing for the next new day. This morning, as if by divine intervention, a word crept into my mind: Rededication. All at once, I realized why I have always wanted my mornings to last forever. The morning is a time for rededication. Whatever mistakes we made yesterday, whatever wrongs we caused, when morning arrives, we awaken with a dose of clarity; we can rededicate ourselves to being better. We can do this by remembering our early innocence, and we can rededicate ourselves to our youth at any age. We can rededicate ourselves to our values, to our goals, to our loved ones. We can commit ourselves to a lifetime’s worth of fresh starts, the newness that only dawn knows. We can make choices that help us feel alive the way a rich breakfast renews our energy, the way a sunrise stirs our soul. We can begin again. In the afternoon of my life, I appreciate the early hours more than ever. Perhaps it’s time to engage in a game of childhood make-believe, to imagine the duration of my existence as one long morning, cracked gently open on the edge of a hot pan, running free with everlasting opportunity. What do you do with your mornings?

Help...new blogspot platform

Anyone know how to create paragraph breaks with this new blogspot platform? My latest post looks silly, all one paragraph with no breaks. Thanks!

9 Sanity-Preserving Tips for New Moms

(by a mom who learned the hard way) New motherhood is a precarious situation. You leave the hospital with one more person than you entered with—a tiny life that will forever change your life. Your daily obligations will mount, and your values will likely shift, but you can, with a bit of consciousness and effort, still maintain a strong sense of who you are. Not only is it possible to preserve your individuality, but doing so is essential if you want to navigate your way through parenthood with some measure of freedom, happiness, and sanity. Here are some tips to help you along the way: 1. Walk, don’t run. Even though your baby’s birth may have been medically assisted, motherhood from here on out is not an emergency. Unless your child is in real danger, each cry does not require you to drop everything and sprint to her rescue. In fact, if you wash and dry one last bottle before rushing to your baby, you might be slowly teaching her the art of patience. 2. Manage your chores. When your baby is asleep, let all nonessential chores sleep, too. If you can fold the laundry while your little one is awake, then wait and do it then. Parents need downtime, too, to rest, drink tea, read a book, or simply stare at the wall until the baby cries again. 3. Feed yourself first. This is like putting on your own oxygen mask first. If you are drained, you won’t have energy to help anyone else. Whenever possible, grab a quick snack before devoting yourself to nourishing your baby. Not only will you have more energy, but you will likely be in a better mood, as well. 4. Be social. Adults need adult face time. In a world where we tend to post status updates and send text messages more than we knock on each other’s doors, this requires some effort. Make a rule to get out of the house and talk to at least one person, other than your baby, each day. If you are too tired to get out, invite a friend over for tea. Sometimes, we think we need to be alone; it’s during those times that we actually need others more than we realize. Time spent with a friend can revitalize the most weary of new moms. 5. Keep your passions. And entertain them often. Unless your only pre-parenthood hobby was skydiving naked somewhere above the Amazon, don’t give up any cherished activity or interest. Find a way to fit your passions into your schedule. It’s easy to get discouraged if you used to take a painting class every Tuesday evening and you find that motherhood doesn’t allow for such a commitment. But instead of cutting out an activity altogether, try cutting back. If you can’t take that painting class every week, schedule it at least once a month. Keep your passions alive and they will keep the life in you. 6. Put your marriage first. That’s right. The foundation of a happy home life is a strong partnership. If that foundation is neglected, it will begin to crumble, leaving no platform upon which to build a happy family. If you truly want to give your child the gift of love, love and support your partner. When that love is given and then returned, there is a greater chance for success. 7. Schedule time for yourself. This is in addition to that art class or cup of tea with a close friend. Pencil in time to go for a drive or simply roam around a bookstore by yourself. Everyone needs a break from obligations, and some peace and quiet; we also deserve to listen to our favorite song at full volume and sing out loud to our heart’s content. Alone time helps us remember who we are and what we enjoy. When we appreciate who we are alone, we discover who we want to be with others. Our zest for life is renewed, and we are recharged in the event that the baby keeps us awake for yet another long night. 8. Ask for help. Before you need it. Yes, don’t wait until you are absolutely ready to lose your mind. Have a plan in place for regular assistance with certain chores or errands. Some of us like to live under the illusion that we don’t need anyone, that we can do it all ourselves. This is neither healthy nor realistic. If you don’t have friends or family to ask for favors, get involved in a babysitting co-op. Or trade favors with a neighbor. But don’t get trapped in the idea that every bit of help comes with a price. You are worthy of help. All moms are. 9. Demand help. If you sense an emotional problem—you lack patience with your spouse, you’re arguing more than ever, your passions no longer interest you, and you’re just not “yourself,” make an appointment with a counselor or therapist. Don’t ignore the signs, because depression can take over a household like weeds in a neglected garden. The majority of new parents are tired and overworked. The good news is that, with enough resources, we can begin making choices that will help us reclaim our happiness.

The Birth of Graceful Age

My mother turned sixty last year, and endured a rough patch of health issues. Since her thirties, she's been struggling with a heart condition--palpitations that have sent her to the ER on countless occasions. Over the last year, she experienced a mysterious sore throat that lasted several months, a staph infection, sore hip, sore knee, sore hand, and various other questionable maladies. It seemed every time we talked on the phone, she was headed to a doctor's appointment or awaiting test results.

She was visiting me recently (we live on opposite coasts, her on the east and me on the west). One evening, I caught myself complaining about my own conditions--primarily, my interstitial cystitis. I will turn thirty-six this month, which means that my thirties are half over. In mid-sentence, I said to my mother, "I better stop. I'm never going to age gracefully if I keep complaining like this."

The next day, my mother was not her usual cheerful self. Perhaps the grind of caring for my seven-year-old during her visit had finally worn her down. We were on our way to see the movie Mirror, Mirror , a spin-off of Snow White, the age-old tale about a stepmother whose vanity becomes the bane of her existence. As my mother climbed into the car, she suddenly spouted, "Growing old is not pleasant, and it is not fun."

That got me thinking: Is there a way to set the stage, to make aging pleasant and fun? Of course, all kinds of books, articles and blogs provide advice about aging. But the attitude is the most important. I wondered, what if I start now, to cultivate a positive attitude of acceptance and tolerance? Is it possible to plant the seed now so that later on, my coping skills are better? Do I want to find myself in the backseat of a car with my granddaughter, yelling about how awful it is to grow old? Is that the kind of attitude I want to model for my daughter?

I am a single mother, and the most prominent female role model in my daughter's life. It would benefit all of us if I work on accepting myself as I am, and as I become, as time pitter patters along, etching lines of grace and wisdom upon my hopeful face.