Forget self-care, I'm for self-soothing.
(This post was originally published Nov. 8th, 2022)
It’s Election Day. It’s the start of this year’s UN climate summit. It’s eclipse season (did you know there was a lunar eclipse this morning?). I’m feeling a bit… overstimulated. And anxious. I might be curled up in the fetal position most of the rest of this week. So, it seemed an appropriate time to finally post this piece.
This is going to be peak suburban mom, so bear with me if that’s not your scene. But, fellow caregivers, let me ask this: why oh why the hell do we feel the need to give out party favor bags at every damn birthday, with cheap plastic crap that’s terrible for the environment and gives our children about 5 microseconds of joy before it’s forgotten? Why do we all just sign on to this collective stupidity? Do some people actually enjoy the Target runs, sifting through aisles and piles of garbage, having to get two twelve packs of something because that’s your only option because there’s 16 kids coming to the party. And then you end up with one dedicated junk drawer at home of leftover party favors nobody will ever want, until you eventually run out of room and have to throw it all away to make space for more crap. I’m just wondering how this got started, and my god, how we end it? I don’t remember getting a bag full of toys at every birthday party when I was a kid. A balloon or party hat, sure. But 4 toys, a pack of stickers, and some candy. Hell no. Can we please stop this madness, endlessly feeding the hungry ghosts of suburbia? (There’s a lot about suburbia that’s grating on me these days. Lawns. Fall leaf removal. White moderates.)
End rant.
I overstimulate easily. The older I get, the more I realize that certain situations tend to fry my nervous system. Target, namely when I have to buy loads of cheap crap for kids. I can’t do music festivals anymore (don’t miss them at all, either). Airports elicit low-key panic attacks (as you may remember from this post). And, in yet another betrayal to suburban parenthood, going to Costco kinda makes me break out in hives (love it in theory, hate it in practice. Thank god for online ordering).
But really, life as a parent (or just, human who pays attention) at the confluence of late stage capitalism/climate crisis/pandemic/Christian fascist patriarchal colonialist white supremacist fuckery, is… a lot. And I, for one, am not great at, you know, just keeping calm and carrying on.
So, lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what I really need to take better care of my frayed nerves, and I’m seeking out ways to self-soothe. Yeah, like a baby.
I’ve always cringed at the term “self-care.” Not because I’m fundamentally opposed to the idea. Rather, it too often seems like self-care is something a company is selling you. Bath bombs, CBD creams (though, I do love me some CBD/THC. Weed is truly a miraculous plant ally), spa weekends, luxury yoga retreats, meditation apps. Self-care feels like a concept designed primarily to make us feel like we’re not whole, not enough, not okay, both fueling and feeding our relentless desire for more, for being better, for feeling better. By buying a $2000 Peloton. I’ve come to recognize much of my stress and overstimulation is connected to overconsumption. But, self-soothing is about satisfaction, an absence of desire because, in this moment, our needs are met. We live in a society that saps us dry every day. We need ways to refill ourselves and resist the emptiness of capitalism — without trying to consume our way out of it.
I’ve been making a concerted effort to really pay attention to how things feel in my body. This is why I’ve begun to recognize there’s a difference between self-care and self-soothing. I’ve learned that something that’s soothing to me keeps me occupied, gently. It allows my brain to slow way down, but also focus in a way that’s different than when, say, I’m writing. A great example of this is embroidery, which I’ve taken up again recently after abandoning it for a while. (Shout out to my pal Amie at Fluorescent City for teaching me a few stitches in a workshop years ago.) I recently picked up a book called Mystical Stitches by artist and embroidery witch extraordinaire, Christi Johnson. She writes about the slowness of embroidery, and what it does to our brains:
“Embroidery offers us an opportunity to return to the natural order. Stitching by hand slows down the body and, over time, slows down the mind. It brings us out of the expedited expectations of the beta brain wave state (characteristic of a strongly engaged active mind) and into the calmer, more restful alpha brain wave state. While the beta state of heightened awareness is great for navigating heavy traffic or managing a daily schedule, it can also bring feelings of restlessness and unnecessary stress if we don’t engage in activities to transition out of this state.”
I can’t help but feel like there’s something about this slow, restful alpha state that is connected to feelings of “enough.” As I’ve been attentive to my body during these alpha states, I’ve realized there’s a very palpable physical feeling of contentment. It’s not quite the same as when I’m doing other enjoyable things like yoga or gardening, which are more active. Sometimes meditation can trigger it, though, being a total amateur, often I just feel restless. A walk in the woods is a great way for me to reach that alpha brain state, but it also depends on which woods. Our local forest preserve is often too busy, too loud, and too full of garbage (sigh) for me to go full alpha wave. (Oh, how desperately, achingly, I miss you, Cleveland Metroparks.)
When I heard the news a while back about the Chouinard family giving up most of their Patagonia fortune, I wondered if there was some connection between all that time they famously spend outside fly fishing and surfing, and an abundance of alpha wave contentment. It’s probably a stretch, but I like the idea of it.
And, if you know me, you know I’ll be shouting from the rooftops until I’m dead of heat stress, starvation, some other climate-related catastrophe, or just an aneurism, that rich people being unable to recognize “enoughness” is a cultural and spiritual sickness and environmental horror show that must be cured lest we consume ourselves to death. Cautionary tales of this sickness abound. Buddhists speak of the hungry ghost, as I mentioned above. Some American Indigenous mythologies include the Windigo. If I’m still being too obscure, Robin Wall Kimmerer, as always, has the words:
“He is the obscene of the Anthropocene, the colon of colonization, the grinder of salt into the original wound of this country, but lest I spend any more words on cathartic name-calling, let me say that Windigo is the name for that which cares more for itself than for anything else. It shrieks with unmet want — consumed with consumption, it lays waste to humankind and our more-than-human kin.
Windigo tales arose in a commons-based society where sharing was a survival value and greed made one a danger to the whole. But in a profit-based society, the indulgent self-interest that our people once held as monstrous is now celebrated as success. Americans are called on to admire what our people viewed as unforgivable.”
So, when you find yourself stressed and overstimulated, whether on election day or every other day that you’re a human in a sick world, hungry for comfort, I suggest finding a way to self-soothe. Practice enoughness. Resist the urge to go buy some crap that will supposedly make you feel better, look better, or be better. Just slow down, pull out your knitting needles or whatever, and ride those alpha waves of contentment.