If you’ve had the misfortune to meet me in real life, you’ve probably felt the intensity and propulsive drive of my energy. In most recent years, as a result of my mental health challenges, I’ve had to temper that fire, but if you had met me back in college, even the slightest interaction with me would have left you scorched and razed. I was thoroughly unharnessed back then, but, far worse, I was angry. Very angry. Not a good combo.
It’s been a long journey from there. We’ve learned our (annoying) lessons and reduced the blaze to a much more manageable flame. We’ve even become aware of the way people respond to the light. Some are like moths. They love it. They can’t get enough of it. Others are like dried leaves, rustling in the wind, swirling about, ready to be consumed. Most, however – and this was news to me – are actually afraid of it. I’m talking about the kind of people who jerk back when the heat from a baking tray leaks through their kitchen mitts. The kind of people who wait for matches to go cold before they throw them in the trash. You know. The careful kind. The kind that actually survives.
I’ve spent much of my life in friction with the careful kind. And yes, it all starts with my mother (I mean, when you think of it….. doesn’t everything start with the mother?). Considering the first two paragraphs, you won’t be surprised to hear that when I was young, I was a wild child. I ran in dizzying circles, hooked to a hamster wheel of ceaselessness, burn, burn, burn, always more to go around. I peeked out from under my eyelids to watch the hands of the clock move during kindergarten nap time. I picked up things and pulled them apart so I could see what was going on inside. I swung upside-down from monkey bars with a vengeance and furiously pedaled my bike down every hill.
My poor mother. She saw all that energy and knew I wouldn’t make it very far if I kept shooting fire. She was the careful kind. The wise kind. She wanted me to survive. “Slow down, Anjana,” she would tell me very sternly, anxiety sharpening the edges of her words. “You need to learn how to patient. You’ll last longer.”
Oh, how I hated to hear those words. Slow down? Slow down? Are you kidding! How could I slow down when there was just so much to see and do and explore and know and experience? Did Nancy Drew slow down? Did Jhansi Rani slow down? Did Nick Allen slow down? No! I didn’t think so! And who wanted to last longer? I wanted to be the brightest flame, not the one that endured. How boring.
But, she was my mother, and she had the power to control many of the circumstances of my life as well as my emotions. She could take away my toys. She could tell me to go to my room. She could make me feel ashamed for not thinking about the consequences of my actions. Anjana, if you’re not careful, you can hurt your sister when you’re playing with her.
Every time she would tell me to slow down, I would feel the constriction, the restriction, the contraction in my throat and in my chest. Oh, it felt awful. Why did Amma get upset with me when I was just being myself? I didn’t understand. To feel bad because I had made Amma anxious, but to also know I hadn’t done anything wrong… holding contradictions can be exhausting.
And so, throughout my childhood, I had no real choice but to listen to my mother, to smell the rubber when she slammed the brakes. Still, the voice inside told me to burn. You are fire, baby, burn, burn, burn. For years, I chafed against the handcuffs and then, as I moved through adolescence, I began to throw gasoline on that voice. If my insides were going to hurt this much, why not incinerate?
It’s been a long journey from there to where I am now (which, as my therapist, describes, much to my amusement, as “grounded”) but still, there are times when I encounter that same friction with the careful kind, and snap – I’m right back to Amma and me. That feeling of having to restrain myself to fit into a box that makes other people comfortable. It makes me itch.
But, as I’ve been learning in both my professional and personal life, there are actually lots of benefits to putting people at ease. Turns out, a lot more gets done when people are not on fire. But, the question becomes, how do I moderate my flame, that desire to do and move the world, which, at its root is good and beneficial, in a way that doesn’t snuff it but instead controls it so that it can be productive?
As much as I hate to admit it, my mother was right (why are mothers alwaysright?). It’s all about patience.
Ugh. Patience. The word aggravates me. Because when I think of patience, I think of my mother sending me to my room, her severity. I think of my pent-up energy, gone to waste, all the experiences and opportunities, the fun, that I was denied. But I’ve been working with my therapist to turn that negative connotation around. Perhaps, my therapist challenged me this week, I could think of patience as something different. Perhaps I could have a different physical and emotional reaction when I think of that word, that concept.
And the opportunity to practice has presented itself. Something happened to me this week that really forced me to think about patience. I was confronted with a truth that I did not want to accept. No, I shook my head vehemently, stamped my foot on the ground, this cannot be true. I want this to be different. I was tempted to turn the dial and burn it all down so the dream I had in my heart could rise like a phoenix, but it seems as though I really have grown because, my friends, I did not turn the dial.
Instead, I took a deep breath and realized I finally needed to grapple with that insipid word, “patience”, a lesson I have put off my entire life. Patience. I needed to learn how to be patient.
In this situation, I reminded myself, I had put my energy out there. I needed to give the other person enough time to evaluate what I had presented and make an informed choice. This situation was a push and pull that would continue until an equilibrium was reached, an equilibrium that would take time. These undulations, I realized, had been causing me, a person who likes to make quick decisions and charge forward, much discomfort. I wanted that discomfort to go away and my go-to reaction? Burn. But not this time. This time, I was, feet dragging or no, choosing patience.
And as I thought about this situation and my relationship to patience, finally, an alternative way to visualize this process came to me. I saw a magnolia tree, in full bloom, but for one flower. Ah, yes, I realized, there were so many other blossoms I could water, nurture, and appreciate while I waited to see if the last one would bloom. And even though I did not know if the bud would bloom this time or if it needed another revolution around the sun, I could still hope because I knew how sweet that flower would be when it finally decided to open.
Yes, I could see now that that was patience, the ability to accept all possibilities, even if the outcome I desired did not materialize. And as I looked at the magnolia tree, I realized, wasn’t this a lovely sort of waiting? Not the twisted feeling of being tied up, but instead a re-routing of my energy while waiting, waiting, waiting for the little runt of the litter, the one I loved most of all, to find his footing. If that was what being patient could look like, feel like, then sign me up. Much more romantic than being kenneled.
Patience in a new light. Thank you, my pink magnolias.
So, here I am, holding it all, the wishes, the contradictions, the bud and the open flower, and here I will stay, patient, patient, until I receive an answer because I have remembered that it is the flowerthat blooms in adversity that is the most rare and beautiful of all.
And finally, finally, the fire inside is willing to just wait.
Movie Corner: Speaking of fire, the chemistry between Cher and Nicholas Cage (an unlikely pair!) plus a searingly honest exploration of love – the messiness, the scandal, the angst, the betrayal, the loyalty, the grandeur, la bella luna – makes Moonstruck one of my favorite movies. I used to think I was Cher, but let’s be real – my chaotic energy is deffo Nic Cage vibes.
Music Corner: Here’s what I was listening to while I was writing this essay – from my brother’s playlist, a classic, and, you know it, some a capella (this time with Tamil, my mother tongue’s neighbor!).
Originally posted on LinkedIn.
