Ahoy

At the 3am wake-up call, I crawled into Bug's bed and let him nestle into a big bowl of mommy. The chilly October air made the closeness a particular comfort. Bug promptly crashed. Warmth is apparently fear's kryptonite. I let myself drift, but a cackle from my son startled me to alertness. In his sleep, Bug was snickering. The sound roused him, too, and he pushed closer to me, grinning. "I had a dream, Mommy." He began to tell it just as the words turned to cake batter in his mouth. He was back under. A few minutes later, another dose of his giggles jolted me awake.

I can't know how the anxiety of splitting a life between two homes might be affecting my son. It isn't fair to him, is it? Tee and I know we can't live together, yet I still fantasize about biting the bullet and making a go of it. One bed for Bug? A single set of books, of boots, of parents, of expectations? Why should this little boy carry the bulk of the discomfort? That's a pretty big shot of adaptation to demand of a kid.

Nevertheless, the ship has left port. On the phone prior to the meeting, the lawyer was prepared to take Tee to the mat. "Bring in his 401K records, his pay stubs, your joint tax documents. You may be entitled to child support, and you are entitled to half the marital assets."

I ignored her. The only papers I brought were ones Tee and I created and reviewed together: Separation Agreement, 26-point Parenting Plan, Virginia divorce paperwork. No subterfuge, no secret strategies. She combed through the pages to make sure Bug is protected, Tee and I have a plan for every contingency, and everything is polished up for the judge to stamp it legal.

At the end of the consultation, the lawyer looked up at me and smiled. "You guys really did all this yourselves?" I nodded, trying not to let the wave of relief and pride upend me. "You two have done an excellent job on this. You've covered everything and more." She cut the retainer in half and told me we should be able to move through the remaining steps without a hitch. If Bug never knows how much effort it has taken to keep this vessel steady on relentlessly churning seas, then we can claim victory.

We sail on in this way, the rigging tight in our grasp. Tee and I have been planning Bug's pirate-themed birthday party for over two months. Never once did it occur to me to do this alone, or to leave the organizing to the parent whose weekend is shared with Bug. Half the task list fell to each of us according to our strengths and preferences. A friend is on the payroll, making a treasure chest out of cake. Bug's Grandma and I have assembled the food and helium balloons and favors decorated with skulls. Tee is managing a treasure hunt and limbo, invitations and thank you notes. Occasional check-ins at allow us to make sure details and numbers are in sync. Beyond that, we trust each other to take care of business. We are a professional partnership now.

In four hours, 35 members of Bug’s growing circle will turn the park where Tee and I were married into a Caribbean island peppered with hidden riches. My objective is to have our son never know that his two parents could have behaved in ways that would have made this impossible. Normal = cooperation. Tortuga may be today’s destination, but civility is our true north.

None of us knows how much our children will have to pay for our choices. This question has kept me awake at night for well over a year. All too often, when sleep does come, tsunamis and rising tides have me racing for a shrinking scrap of safe ground. This is why I am grateful when I startle awake and discover the culprit to be Bug’s mirth.

Dream Job

Yesterday, a camp job appeared in my inbox. I know. I should have unsubscribed from the list a year ago. Most of the postings only confirm that camp life is not sustainable. The pay is low, the sites are remote, and the opportunities for spouses are limited. I've learned the hard way that having housing attached to a position is a tainted apple. It’s good until it isn’t, and then you’re not only unemployed, you’re a nomad again.

But this job. . . oh my. The salary, for once, isn’t horrible. The previous camp wife was the office administrator, so a role is all but guaranteed for her successor. Its Pennsylvania location lands it smack between Bug’s New England cousins and his DC area grandparents.

Not that I’m thinking about it or anything.

I understand now why the Commonwealth of Virginia requires a one-year separation before even considering a divorce. The initial blaze dies down and cool heads take over. Weary from 52 weeks of custody discussions and a malnourished wallet, some folks might decide the marriage is the lesser of the evils.

Some folks might.

The camp opportunity really socked it to me. Part of me wants it back with the desperation of a refugee. The fierce, maternal pull in me longs to return my family to the woods to heal. I can picture Bug riding the school bus home to the end of that dirt road every day, running through trees and along the edge of the lake to find his mommy and daddy both there. The camp life nourishes us all back to life.

Or so I have believed.

I sink my teeth into the sweet flesh of this perception, and crack hard against the stone. Tee could not sustain it. The entire picture fit perfectly around the fiction of my husband’s success as a camp director. It is possible, of course, that magic could reveal some unknown well of potency within him. Hell, the next woman may whisper just the right spell to rouse the dormant hero.

Something between us did not work to this end. We left two camps in a whirlwind of noisy silence. Endless explanations obscured unexamined truth. The third camp ripped away the pretense. Under all the chatter, the emperor was, in fact, buck naked.

The job posting has kicked off an avalanche of fantasies about offering Tee the possibility of reconciliation. This would be conditional on his taking charge of his career and landing a position – in the camping industry or, really, anywhere – that could support his family. That reconciliation is mine to offer and the conditions upon it mine to determine are insane notions. What kind of marital farce have we been conducting all these years?  The major decisions affecting the well-being of my family are, yet again, left to me. For the better part of a decade, this has been the dynamic. Somehow, I contributed to such dizzying imbalance. It is stunning to realize that the strength of my personality could steer me so wrong. Yet, all along, I received such patchy assistance (or resistance) from Tee that it became easy to justify.

Pursuing the divorce, Tee has determined, is my choice. He wants no part of making the split happen but also claims he has no power to set things right. Splice or cleave. Whether my son gets one home or two is up to me. Whether he grows up in the woods, the city, or a small town in the Midwest is up to me.

Astounding, really, isn’t it? Such a silly, directionless girl, holding all the cards. Forgive me, please, if I falter.

The leadership of a family must be shared. The power to make decisions is a burden, it is true. But now I understand that no one spouse can free the other from that difficult work. We all may like to believe we can avoid the toughest calls by not making them. No choice is a choice, after all.  It was inaction that exposed the weaknesses in the foundation of our camp family and left us without a home and without an income 15 months ago. I could decide to take charge again. I could, perhaps, encourage and cajole Tee back into that life. I could throw all my chips behind rebuilding our home in the woods. Tee at the helm of a camp may reveal to both of us a man who can prosper.

In doing so, I could build a beautiful facade destined for an even more devastating collapse.

Or, I could release my grip and let Bug’s parents each chart their own course.

Which would be the lesser evil?

Hot

My dad comes dragging in from tennis about the time I fall through the door. I have just forfeited Round Two with Tee. The mercury is pushing past 100 degrees. Humidity tightens its straightjacket around our tempers. We each down a tall glass of ice water then wobble into the shallow end of the pool.

“I started to get worried out on the court,” my dad says, wiping the sweat off his flushed face. “I might have pushed it a little too hard.”

“Yeah?”

I ease down in the deep and let him regale me with his tale of near heat-stroke on the scorching clay.

Two days of attempted diplomacy with Tee about our parenting agreement have pushed my interest in speech to its limit. It has also sent my self-control to the outer reaches. Tee and I made admirable progress during Round One, which took up most of Saturday. We gained momentum by tackling the less contentious issues first. We scored a deuce and called it a day. Sunday, we found out we were on an entirely different court. This one was made of tinder and flint.

In the pool, my dad goes on. “I just kept at it against the backboard, but I was starting to wonder if maybe it was too much.”

“That’s the problem with heat stroke, you know,” I say. “Your ability to judge the degree of damage is impaired by the damage you are doing.”

“That’s true. But!” My father is kicking around the deep end of the pool now, smiling big, pleased with his toughness. “But I have a way to know. Never fails. One thing tells me if I’ve pushed it past the limit out there.”

This man loves the buildup. He won’t tell me if I don’t ask. “Okay, Williams. What’s the one thing?”

He grabs the edge of the pool and stands up tall for effect. “It’s the stumble.”

---

Tee and I tried to move with care. We left the hardest issue for last – not the wisest choice, perhaps. At hour three on day two, we shined our torches on the question of college funding. Our emergency buckets were already dry. Emotion’s slow burn caught a bright wind. In an instant, we were popping and sparking. Righteous indignation, replaying old narratives, blaming, self-doubting. Higher and higher.  I was impulsive. Then I was confused. Tee was quiet. Then he was bitter.

In the ensuing conflagration I could not quiet my foolish tongue.  I cursed it even as it skewered Tee. We were still dancing around the topic at hand, but the words were losing their reference points, were turning to smoke and ash. The heat scorched the fertile earth we had tilled with care the day before.

Then I heard a sentence come out of my mouth I never imagined myself saying to someone I care about. It was hurtful and pointless, and I saw Tee lean away from the sting of it.

---

In the pool, I turn a lazy circle. “The stumble, huh?”

“Yep, the stumble. That’s when I know.”

---

Seeing the blow to Tee, my overheated brain licked at the door, threatening to spew words even more combustible than the ones before. On the other side, a tiny trickle of cool calm remained. It made itself known. It urged me to my feet. Even though Tee and I had driven in the same car to this public meeting place, even though we had intended to work through the weekend, that cool trickle called me to follow it. I collected my computer, packed away my half-eaten lunch, and stuffed my papers into my satchel. All of this I did while I continued to say things Tee does not need to hear from me, things about our marriage that have nothing to do with now. A fixation with ancient history compelled me to climb further in even as floor was giving way under me.

“I have to go,” I said, ungluing myself. Tears began to mix with the spill of blazing words. “I’m sorry to walk away from this, and I do want to keep at it, but right now, I am saying things you don’t deserve to hear.” I was still talking over my shoulder as I moved towards the exit, unable to stop my voice. “I have to cool down before I make it any worse.” Without a ride, I walked out into the 100 degree heat. I wandered for 30 minutes under the unrelenting sun until my mother found me and whisked me home.

---

My father has gotten hold of a frosty Sam Adams. As he bobs in the shallow end, he takes a swig. “It’s that stumble,” he goes on. “When I start tripping over my own feet going after the ball, I know something isn’t working right, and it’s time to get myself off that court.”

“Do you?”

“Hell yeah,” he says. “Every time.”

I doubt that. I smirk and shake my head. The blue ripples roll on past.

Aren’t the emotional embers hot enough on their own? Slipping and giving voice to the uglier side of the story only fuels the flames. Anyone foolish enough to believe firing anger at an ex will relieve the pressure learns soon enough. The blowback may be worse than the blaze.

The challenge lies in knowing when your judgment is impaired.  Gauges break under intense heat. The flood of responses burns out the circuitry. Until you stumble, until you actually see the hot earth speeding toward your face, you may not realize the danger you are in.

That’s when you calmly, firmly, set down the racket and walk off the court. Find yourself a tall glass of ice water, immerse yourself in the aquamarine. Cool your way back to your better self.

Walk On

In the dreams, I am wandering through a strange city. Somewhere, someone who cares about me is waiting for me. A sense of urgency about reaching the destination keeps my feet moving. Always, it is my own momentum propelling me forward.

Around me surges a throng of people. It is alternately summer steam and winter slush. I turn a corner, and my way is suddenly even more obscure. The street grid gives way to a maze of town homes lining looping, inescapable cul-de-sacs. The people disappear. The homes have no numbers, the street signs are blank. I walk on, aiming for vaguely familiar buildings whose facades morph into something foreign once I near them.

In the dreams, I have no map. Someone is still waiting, yet I also know no one is trying to find me. I have to get there on my own.

I keep walking.

- - -

Tomorrow, Tee and  I will sit down to carve out a parenting plan. So far, this document contains 26 points and runs to a dozen single-spaced pages. In it, we outline our plans for sharing custody of our son. How will we organize time and finances? How will we resolve conflicts? What will be our means of communication, and what values will guide our decisions?

When parents split up, they have a choice to make about how to proceed. So far, Tee and I have agreed to keep our differences out of court. Our tight finances should probably take more of the credit than our cool tempers. We continue to talk with relative calm. Somehow, we are managing to hammer out the details of our future while we breathe through the pull to re-visit the past.

As hard as this task is in the short term, allowing our son to have two homes and two equally responsible parents seems to be the best we can offer in these sad circumstances. We aim to proceed without a battle and to show the state (and each other and our little boy) that we really do intend to co-parent. This means we have to draft the blueprint of our new life. Our parenting agreement is the place for us to develop plans of action for every educational and medical decision, every holiday, every move, every new partner, and every catastrophe.

This is only one of many miles to cover in the slog across the convoluted landscape of Divorce City. Once we have written out our parenting agreement, we have to tackle the 70 pages of legal paperwork the Commonwealth of Virginia requires us to file.

Tomorrow, I will proceed with care down another unfamiliar street. I have no map, but I believe a table is set and a door is open across town. Someone and something await my arrival. I may not know the most direct route, but I keep walking. My trusty feet will guide me.

How Sweet

I close my eyes at night
Wondering where I would be without you in my life.

The last time June 11th fell on a Saturday, I woke up single and went to bed with a new last name. That's a lot of change in the span of a day.

Last year's anniversary was not so happy an occasion. June 11 was the day I landed in Virginia with the remains of all my worldly possessions crammed into my little Saturn. My kid and my dog were heaped on top of the luggage in the back. We pulled into the driveway of my parents' house where my husband was waiting for me. We had no jobs, no home, no idea what would become of us. The word "divorce" had not yet joined the family, but it was banging on the door.

Now, we are both well employed and our son has two loving homes.

That's a lot of change in the span of  a year.

Today, I am waking up to a wide-open morning at the beginning of a four-day weekend with my kid. I could not imagine on that sweltering Saturday in 2005 the activities comprising this life now. I had not yet met some of the people I cherish most today. One of them will be crawling into my bed with a giant grin and a pile of books a little after sunrise this morning.

In six years, a person can become only a faint reflection of a former self. So can a date. Anniversaries reside in memory, after all. The day itself is just a square on a calendar, coming around year after year, full of new possibility.

One thing I recall about our wedding was the music. The entire assembled mass rose to its feet to sing along while my friend, Robyn, filled the field with the chords of James Taylor's "How Sweet It Is." My uncle had suffered a stroke a few years earlier and had lost all but five words. When the melody began, he opened his mouth and sang right along. The lyrics had planted themselves so deeply in his memory, they bypassed language and moved directly to voice.

The mind has a way of re-configuring itself to take on the world as it is. This adaptive capacity is the key to survival. (A song now and then don't hurt).

The next time June 11th falls on a Saturday, who knows what my name will be? My address, my line of work? I make my plans but keep nimble. It is hard to be angry or even very sad when it is so clear this is just one chapter in a grand adventure. It helps to have a chatty, dancing, 4-foot reminder of the real reason to celebrate this anniversary. No matter how broken I feel, I always manage to find a song.

We are all imperfect creatures, and we are all doing our best. The man I married was as generous in his love as he knew how to be. Whether it's because of Tee or my own dumb luck or that fickle bastard, Fate, all happens to well on this summer day. For that, a little gratitude is in order.

I just want to stop
and thank you baby

Bugging Out

It's time. Past time, actually. The temperatures have been creeping up into the 80's here in the suburbs of the Nation's Capital. I may only be a temporary inhabitant of the second floor spare room, but summer is coming no matter whose name is on the mortgage. There is just no more avoiding the inevitable. The storm windows must go up. The screens must come down.

Only two tools are required for the job: a vacuum and a big dose of courage. 

Inside the aged seal of the window frame, a whole community of stink bugs has taken up residence. They have mated, built homes, borne young, grown old, and died. They have hung the carcasses of chosen ancestors in the cobweb drapery of their makeshift castle. They have nested in the dark detritus of their forgotten dead.

The hardy stink bug is a recent arrival in this region of the world. They were first discovered in Pennsylvania in the late 1990's, having made their way to this continent from Asia. With no natural predators in the States, their spread is damaging fruit crops and causing widespread disgust among human residents of the eastern seaboard.

This slow-moving little insect wields considerable power. The stink bug is not stinky when it is just loping around. When you crush one, however, it smells like dirty gym socks. This makes removal an ongoing adventure. As one creeps up the curtains looking for a cozy bed, you cannot just remove your shoe and give it the spider treatment. Overriding the basic bug-smashing instinct is not easy. Instead, you  have to take a deep breath, find a tissue, pick the thing up gently, and ferry it to the toilet. Be sure to flush, however, because they can swim and have no problem gaining purchase as they make their way out of the bowl.

My own four-year-old Bug has no beef with most wildlife in the outdoors. He will pick up a worm with his bare fingers and transport it to a different part of the garden. However, a stink bug on his dresser sends him into hysterics. As the weather warms up and the sun shines on his south-facing bedroom wall, the numbers of visitors making their lazy way across his territory are on the rise. Bug will stay awake until nearly midnight, hollering every ten or fifteen minutes, "Mommy, there's another stink bug!"

No man in the bed next to me means no man to elbow into action. If anyone is going to drown the bugs and slay the dragons around here, it will have to be me.

Which brings me back to the windows.

I take a few deep breath, remind myself that they do not bite, and raise the sash on my bedroom window. Vacuum hose roaring, I demolish the stink bug village. I have declared a scorched earth policy. No insect will safe haven here. Down come the spiderwebs with their gristly ornaments. Even the refugees hiding in crevices stand no chance against the Wrath of Hoover. The townsfolk attempt escape, taking wing and buzzing straight for me in their disorientation. I squeal and try desperately to still the urge to smack at them. I chase them around my bed and body with the hose.

This is just the first phase of the attack. The storm windows still have to go up. As I squeeze the release buttons and lift the pane, a horde of stowaways rains down on me. I scream, drop the pane, vacuum madly, and repeat. I can only get the storm window halfway up before I am simultaneously hyperventilating and hurling profanities at the little monsters. Inside my rational mind, I hear myself saying, They're harmless! They're just stink bugs! This mantra aims to drown out the other voice, the one sneering, This is what you get, lady, for splitting up with your guy. Now MAN UP!

I swallow back tears that have no place here. This task must be done. The second floor is famished for breeze. No one is going to tackle this for me, so I had better get used to it. These days, I air up my own tires and pull ticks from the dog. Divorce exacts its price. Not all fees show up on the invoice.

After a few centering breaths, I reach past the climbing, falling confusion of insects and squeeze the latches once more. I only lift the pane a few inches before another flurry of bugs falls down on my exposed forearms. I scream but don't let go, pushing the pane higher.

A moment later, I hear footsteps on the stairs. "What the hell is going on up here?"

I let go of the latches and sit back, shaking. My father is stepping into the breach.

"For crying out loud, they're just stink bugs! They're harmless! Here." He pushes the pane up. "Turn that vacuum on! Quick!" Together, we jump and roar after the bugs. We slide the screen down and chase the few stragglers into the hose before they can sneak back into the crevices. My dad chuckles at me as I squeal and squirm. "You're such a wuss," he says.

He is right. I am. But only because I can be, just for this brief stretch of time while I share a house with my father. Once my son and I get it together to get out on our own, I will be flying solo on Stink Bug Patrol. I am ready for it. I am! It will be good practice for the return of the 17-year cicada in 2021.

For today, though, I will just enjoy the fresh air making its way into that spare room on the second floor.

Row Your Boat Gently

When children are free to love both their parents without conflict of loyalty, to have access to both without fear of losing either, they can get on with the totally absorbing work of growing up, on schedule. They can learn to master the tasks that life places before them with confidence and a sense of security. And both parents and children can learn that something as hurtful and as earthshaking as a separation or divorce can eventually be handled constructively. - Mom's House, Dad's House, Isolina Ricci

In the early spring sun, Tee and I met at a nearby playground. Bug scrambled around the trees and jungle gyms with the other kids while we chatted. The meeting was meant to be nothing more than a pick-up exchange, but the lazy sun lulled us into dropping our defenses. We began to talk. I shared a suggestion from my counselor, and we discussed some of what is ahead for our co-parenting relationship.

In a flash, Tee was off the bench, storming away, too angry even to sit next to me anymore. What set him off is still unclear. Was it a word, a phrase? Was it a buildup of grief and frustration finally having its chance to blow? Several brewing weather fronts collided at that mile of sky, and the tempest was immediate and total. The conversation spiraled into a barely contained series of accusations and excuses. Each of us lost our inhibition, and even the proximity of our child and our neighbors didn't rein us in.

Some semblance of control must have remained. We did not find ourselves in a screaming battle or calling each other terrible names, and I would hope we made the other parents merely uncomfortable rather than fearful. I have no doubt, however, that Bug sensed something was not right. It can only have caused him distress. Even the April sunshine has only so much power to alleviate a little boy's fear.

The interaction caught us both off guard. Most of our emotional storm fronts stay off shore, and we have only ventured out under them separately and in the company of counselors or friends. Six months have passed since Tee moved out. A few things have shifted during that time. We are each more settled in our work, our childcare routine, and our separate social lives. I am less interested in what Tee does with his private time, and I am more confident in each of our abilities to stay steady through the changes. Nothing succeeds like success. We can talk a good game about our commitment to our child, but the evidence is in the behaviors we exhibit over time. He has not moved away and neither have I. We are not in court. We each trust the other to care well for our son.

One significant shift has to do with the location of my attention. For the first several months, I was caught up in explaining and understanding the choice to separate. I became one of those insufferable people who suck all the air out of a room blathering on about the drama, the failings, the ex, and what went wrong. Fortunately, my friends and family are patient with me. Only a few have abandoned me altogether during this chaotic time. Because leaving a marriage, especially one with a child involved, is such a significant decision, it cannot be made lightly. It is easy to become consumed by the justifications for doing so. The pull to find fault with the partnership and the partner is almost addictive. It allays the guilt and shame, and it serves as a way to say to the world (and the self), "Look what I had to live with! It's a wonder I stayed as long as I did!"

Separation and divorce land a person in leaky boat, rowing madly for shore. I, for one, am still not sure how I got here. Seeking the reasons may be useful over time so that I don't repeat toxic patterns in future relationships. However, the spiraling diagnosis of the past is a kind of Bermuda Triangle. I have to haul myself out of the pull of "Why" and get myself into "What now?"

Shifting direction is easier said than done. "What now" means making decisions and creating entirely new approaches. "What now" means drawing on one's own resources and letting go of the fantasy of rescue. I have been lost for months. In many ways, I still am. Where is my attention supposed to be? Dangers loom. Sharks circle. Storm clouds gather, maps are out-of-date. For those first weeks and months in this rickety vessel, my mind could not focus on any one thing. Sometimes I found myself paralyzed. Sometime all I could do was curse the sky.

But six months apart have calmed the stormy waters around separation. My gaze is finally settling where it should. Blaming Tee, or myself, or our naivete and blind spots is no longer useful. The attention needs to be on the far horizon. What will our lives as co-parents look like? How do we want to arrange our two homes to meet Bug's needs? I may not have a map, but I have a point of orientation. Now, I need to attend more to the tone of the exchanges with Tee as a parent than to the feelings about him as a spouse. The arrangement we build from here on out will need to look like a business relationship. Courteous communication, structured meetings, explicit agreements, and respect for privacy should characterize our interactions in the future. 

The language we use has the power to shape our sense of what is real. If I speak of Tee not as my soon-to-be-ex-husband, but instead as Bug's father, I remove the marriage (and its demise) as the central factor in our relationship. If I say, "Our marriage ended," instead of "Our family fell apart," it allows for a more even keel.

Bug's family is intact. He has two of them: one with his father and the one with me. He has two homes. In the eyes of our son, we are each a whole person with the capacity to shelter him, care for him, and help him grow. His families are solid, his homes are complete. Tee is a good and capable father. I am a loving and resourceful mother. I will do my best to draw these thoughts into the front of my mind when I interact with Tee. I will allow the respectful and hopeful picture of Bug's future guide my words.

Those two stable homes exist on that distant shore. I will keep my eyes trained there as I pull this family over the miles of open water to reach it.

Flourish

High-hope people believe that the future will be better than the present and that they have the power to make it so. 

- Shane Lopez

The canopy of flowering plums and crabapples bobs under cool April rain. On this Friday when much of the Washington area is battening down the hatches for a government shutdown, a collection of bouyant humans from various corners of the globe parted the morning's curtain of mist and shed both warmth and light on a little corner of Fairfax, Virginia. George Mason University's slick new hotel digs, the Mason Inn, hosted this flagship Leading to Well-Being conference.

You might have a picture in your mind of a bunch of feel-good hedonists trotting out their inner hippies while munching on Marriott canteloupe slices. You might be as surprised as I was to find the list of attendees weighed heavily with research scholars from institutions like Princeton's Woodrow Wilson School, UNC Chapel Hill, and the University of Cambridge. Sure, meditation and yoga sessions were on offer even before the first dry pastry was served, but most of the day focused on the outcomes of scientific studies linking mindfulness to the well-being of individuals, organizations, and even nations.

Historically, much of the psychological field has focused on understanding and eliminating negative emotional experiences. Digging around in people's traumas and patterns was thought to be the way to uproot the bad to make way for the good. The trend now seems to be focusing on constructing positive, healing, and future-oriented approaches to generating well-being. Much more than emphasizing what is not working, most of us need to place greater attention on cultivating practices that move us towards good relationships, purpose, and accomplishment in our lives. As Martin Seligman shared in his keynote, he likes to grow roses. Sure, this involves a certain amount of pulling up weeds and clearing out space. However, "You don't get roses by weeding." To generate meaning and health, what do we plant? What do we work to create?

The research that most captured my attention revolved around the physiological changes occurring when positive emotions are introduced through regular practices such as meditation, appreciation, and caring for others. Measurable neurological changes begin to take place through the simple (though repeated) act of attending. "Attending" can take any number of forms. It might be keeing an eye on the present moment through mindfulness meditation. It also might be an increase in attention to what is going well, to feelings of warmth for a loved one, or perhaps to a hopeful picture of the future. Through any number of these practices, not only do people report a greater sense of well-being, but their brain function also increases.

Researchers are beginning to explore the changes occuring even on a cellular level. The vagus nerve, extending from the base of the cranium to the heart, seems to play a role in regulating cardiac function, as one example. Meditation has been shown to improve the health of this nerve and, consequently, the rhythms of the heart. The effect appears to sustain when the practice is continued, meaning the effect is more than simply a response to novelty. Decreases in illness and increases in longevity are not simply nice side-effects of feeling good. Inflammatory responses seem to lessen with regular practice of attention, and over time, the actual organism - the whole body - becomes more capable of fighting off disease and even thriving.

Putting some of this in the context of daily life, the Losada Ratio is an old-ish tool with new implications. I'm going to be sloppy here, but it more or less explains that the ratio of positivity to negativity in an organization or relationship has an impact on whether or not it will flourish. For each type of relationship, there is a "tipping point" below which dysfunction occurs. For a marriage, the ratio is 5:1. This means for every one dumb-ass thing you say to your spouse, you need to do at least five aweome things to make up for it. Because five is the tipping point, you actually need to be doing, oh, twenty or thirty, for the partnership to thrive. On a day-to-day basis, people in relationships, in workplaces, in classrooms, and in communities need to have a much higher quantity of appreciative, healing, hopeful, postivie experiences for every yucky one in order to acheive well-being.

Shane Lopez, Barbara Fredrickson, and Felicia Huppert were a few of the folks who presented both findings and interventions today. Their publications do a much better job than this little blog at explaining the implications. I am most interested, of course, in how I can apply the ideas as well as the tools to the various quarters of my life. When I am advising doctoral students, how might I employ appreciative techniques to help them through the rigors of the work? Is it possible to encourage both expansiveness of vision and singularity of focus? With my son, how might his daily experience improve if I tell him ten things he is doing well for every one thing that drives me bananas? What forms can mindfulness practice take in the life of a four-year-old, and how can we cultivate them in our rather frantic lives?

Most fascinating is the question of positive emotion in the midst of a divorce. For the past eight months or so, Tee and I have been moving through this separation with amazing control. Neither of us has gone nuclear, and we still speak with decency to one another. However, we have a lifetime of co-parenting ahead, as well as the looming challenge of courts (possibly) and custody arrangements (inevitably). If I am to believe the research, creating a balance of 5 or more:1 even in this relationship is key to making it work. Can you imagine? I somehow have to come up with seven or ten things I appreciate and admire for every one thing I criticize about a man I am divorcing? And I actually have to say them? Out loud? To him?

I am sensing I have the power to set a tone of creativity, hope, collaboration, and caring even in a relationship that is becoming something very different than what either of us wanted or imagined. Ugliness, however, is only one narrative of divorce. It might be possible for us to craft our own story. In the one I am just beginning to envision, Tee and I are the heroes who choose virtue and noble purpose over short-cuts, and our son is the ultimate victor.