Being
positive sucks. It is so much easier to spend your days complaining or
wallowing around
in your own crabbiness or causing others misery. I get it. I
am the first to admit I have a natural tendency to head to my bed, turn off all
the lights, and eat my way through a pizza while thinking of worse case
scenarios of any troublesome situation I face in life. I have to make a daily conscious
effort to remain positive and optimistic in my thoughts.
Not to get all new-agey on your ass, but I believe the
thoughts and actions you send out into the world are mirrored and sent back to
you as circumstances in your life. If you send out thoughts of being happy, you
will begin to be happy. If you send out thoughts of having enough money, you
will begin to have enough money. Be careful, though, because you have to be
very specific, and you have to be willing to do the work in your actions and
your daily life.
Yes, I am a positive-thinking reader and fan of books like The Secret. I believe in cosmic
relationships, relationships with the Cosmic, and even that certain sound waves
can affect your mood and thinking. I try to meditate. Most importantly, I try
to do good things—help people who need it, be a friend, volunteer for a cause,
and other pleasant things. But the core of my living a positive life is found
deep down inside me in a place only I can access. It is a place I have to
nurture and tend to regularly.
If I don’t, just like the potted plants sitting
on my porch in the August heat and humidity, it will begin to droop
and wilt
away, slowly dying and leave me feeling uneasy and full of gloom and doom. When
this does happen, when I fall off the Positive Wagon, I can immediately tell a
difference in not only my thinking but also the way I feel physically. My
snarkiness fades, my energy level drops, and anxiety rises. I feel like a
cartoon character who has a little black rain cloud following him wherever he
goes.
A good example of this occurred just a couple of weeks
ago. At the end of July, I attended the Appalachian Writers Workshop, a
week-long writing event held at the Settlement School in Hindman, Kentucky.
This workshop is one of the South’s most prominent gatherings of writers,
drawing participants from all over the country. The setting is very similar to
summer camp with the exception being the average age of the campers is probably
somewhere in the mid-40s.
Some aspects of human nature never really change, though,
regardless of the age of the group. When you have a hundred people gathered
together in communal living, you are going to have groups that naturally form
among certain attendees. Also, this workshop is in its 36th year, so
you have people who are regular attendees who look forward to spending the week
with old friends each year. All completely understandable.
Then there is me.
This was only my second year attending, and in my crazy
obsession to fit in and be friends with every one, I wanted to be a part of
every group. I wanted immediate, deep friendships, complete with inside jokes,
nicknames, and “remember when” stories. Of course, I already knew many of the
attendees who were there and was busy creating those exact types of
friendships. But instead of focusing on that, I chose to worry
about whether or
not this person or that person liked me, about whether or not I would be
invited to a party or a get-together, about whether or not I had made a good
impression on some random stranger I had just met. Suddenly, I let my 42-year
old self become an insecure high-school freshman all over again.
Thankfully, I realized this before the week at Hindman
was over. I gave myself a swift kick to the rear, knocking my head loose from
its stuck position there, and started counting my blessings for the week: I was
getting to know my current friends there on a deeper level, I had made several
new friends with whom I really connected and hoped would continue getting to
know better, and had received many compliments and encouragement on my writing
from both faculty and attendees.
As soon as I realized this and began to view the
positive, my entire outlook changed. I was energized and inspired. I was happy
meeting and talking to whoever I could that week, and I came home with a bag
full of ideas for new writing and several new friends.
For me, being positive is work. It is a conscious
decision that I have to commit to daily. The alternative is unacceptable to me.
The results are so worth whatever self-butt-kicking is needed in order to be
happy.
I guess what I am saying is that it takes a lot of work
to be as fabulous as me.
