Accepting the Unacceptable

climbing up on the chair of epiphanies

I live in a historic building with pre-historic windows. They don’t make ‘em like they used to, some may say, meaning grand, obstinate portals of history that stand as sentinels to a time when craftsmanship outweighed convenience.

They are 10 foot tall. Made completely of splintered, paint-chipped wood, and thin panes of glass that hospitably allow the outside weather in.

To open the windows, you must curl your fingers around two rusted, upside-down hooks fashioned as handles and perform a mighty flick of the wrists.

a Pileal plant cyclops poses with said upside-down rusted hook.

If it's been raining, the wood will have swelled and no amount of exertion will move it. Though, sometimes, the beastly window will let out a great howl and make it's way up the metal groove to three spots ,and three spots only: six inches above, one foot, or sometimes, the sash will shoot up like a cannon to a cool yard, where one's shirt has to be held by a companion on the ground while they climb up on a chair to retrieve it, lest they fall out of the 7th floor opening to their death.

If my husband isn't around and the beast flies up to a yard, I wear every sweater, use every blanket, to avoid having to close it. And when it’s closed, well, I'd rather roast.

Though sometimes, if I’m feeling risky, I'll climb up not on a chair, but a stool (I am much shorter in height than he) and put all my weight on my wrists as I struggle to push the great beast down again, endangering both myself and my dogs (who are always at my feet, and who I could fall on), in the process.

Always there at my feet…

There are times when I find the struggle unacceptable. Each acrobatic maneuver a reminder that what I want (easy windows), and what I have (beastly windows), are in great conflict.

I make things worse. I fall into comparison: imagine all the people who live with windows that open and close with ease. I fall into regret: my naive younger self who romanticized industrial living instead of reliable new construction. I fall into victimhood: I am ‘wrong’ and my life is ‘not right’ and therefore I am dealt intolerable circumstances.

The death spiral of forcing industrial architecture to serve residential utility, we’ve all been there.

I needed a different lens.

“What need is there to weep over parts of life? The whole of it calls for tears.”

• Roman philosopher, Seneca

Seneca believed the purpose of philosophy is to disappoint us gently on everyday matters, so when the great disappointments of life come around, we suffer less. Can I think of these windows as disappointment training? Hmmmm…

Aus so krummem Holze, als woraus der Mensch gemacht ist, kann nichts ganz Gerades gezimmert werden.

Out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing was ever made.

• German philosopher, Immanuel Kant

Kant elucidated that all human beings are slightly off-center, because we are creatures of passion and erroneous instinct before we are creatures of reason and intelligence. In other words, can I think of the wonkiness of life as a birthright? Maybe?

It's precisely these moments that beckon me to revisit the great mindfulness tenant of Radical Acceptance. Life, much like these windows, often refuses to conform to our expectations, reminding me that control is but an illusion. When I reach this point, there is nothing to do but the radical act of accepting my reality totally and completely. Ugh.

Radical acceptance. Ugh. From @MyMindSalon manifesto.

The thought, "I chose to live in a historic building and my windows don't work so well, and that is what is actually, currently happening," will cause my mind to rage. "If you accept this fact about your windows, things will never change!" “I should do something about this feeling!” And I'll need to allow my mind to have those reactions.

My body will contract, my breath will seize, and even that, I will need to accept is happening, and allow it to happen. Speaking it out helps: "My body seizes up when I have the thought of being stuck forever with fatal windows."

This allowing of the previously un-allowable can feel like finally admitting something you had been harboring, either consciously or unconsciously, and that admittance can be an epiphany.

It gets easier, as you continue down this allowing path. And, eventually, when you do this seemingly unproductive practice, a pretty amazing thing happens: You become the observer of this unacceptable thing, which could only mean you aren’t it, you are something else. You get more distance. And the more distance you get from the disliked thing, it recedes from the center of your attention, and you can pay attention to other, better things.

The great beasts make a cameo in my profile pic…

The funny thing about the windows is they were the main selling point of the place. The very attribute that lured me in becomes the crucible of my contemplation: A wall of big, loft windows that fill the space with light, whose greenhouse conditions my forrest of plants thrive in. In lieu of an outdoor space, the immense size, when open, makes you feel like you're standing on a balcony looking out at the building tops. And in the night, we can watch the moon and stars from the couch.

I love these windows. They're flawed and complex and alive with history. I forgot that I think perfect is boring. When have I ever liked perfect? I’m enamored by the audacity of embracing flaws.

And with this remembering, I stumble upon my epiphany:

How freeing it is to reject the bland allure of perfection and to revel in the textured chaos of existence!

It’s an ongoing, arduous process, this allowing the disliked things to exist. But it’s a process that can produce a dramatically renewed sense of self, liberated from the persistent doubts, anxieties, and conflicting voices that had been previously running the show. My wish for you, dear reader, is to let there be nothing about yourself or your life that you can not admit to yourself.

Let your acceptance include it all, even the obstinate and pre-historic.

With erroneous instinct,

Abigail

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