Today I discovered that my friends (and daughter) were being descriptive. I am like my mother. I could see it today.
I almost cracked up the car when I I finally got it. I was driving. I was driving my mom. And I took a different route back to her house, trying to make the way more familiar, because she's been losing her way of late.
When we got to College Ave things started to look familiar to her.
"That nail salon," she said. "They're unclean. They give you fungus."
"That bookstore," she said. "They don't have high quality books. I don't go there."
She commented on just about every business we passed. The ones she recognized, anyway.
"Filippo's," she said with a scowl at her usual favorite neighborhood restaurant. "Not up to par."
And on and on it went, until at last we had turned on Ashby and the Elmwood neighborhood shopping area was past us.
I do that, I thought.
Not the same way, of course. I've got excuses for the nonstop negativity.
"Protection against the evil eye," I say. Can't say something good because something terrible will happen.
But it amounts to the same thing. One negative statement after another. What a drag I must be to be around. Or at the very least, exhausting.
Which is weird, because I actually think the world is filled with beauty and not just shit. I see beauty. I strive for it. I'm filled with awe this time of year at the fall colors on the Berkeley trees. Giant bouquets of reds and yellows and browns. God I love Berkeley in the fall.
And I don't, as I drive, say: "well it's not Vermont. Vermont does this so much better." I never say that. I don't even think it. I'm immersed in the beauty of the world.
I recognize the onslaught of negative thinking. And I'm vowing to pay attention to it.
Lately, I've been saying the positive bits much more than the negative. Especially the ultimate faux pas:
I'm happy.Not sure I ever said that one out loud before, but I've been saying it of late. Tempting the fates, as it were. Because I really and truly do believe that talking about one's good fortune is the kiss of death. Possibly quite literally. Does NLP help reprogram the brain on this one? Does psychoanalysis? Not that I plan on trying either one. But I could read about it. Think about it.
Oh, but wait. No. I take that back.
Meanwhile. I'm happy.
And that means—
But let's leave it right there.