I don’t know how to be angry. As a girl, I felt like I was expected to be ever cheerful. Constantly looking on the bright side, quickly shooing away the “negative” feelings so that I could promptly return to greener emotional pastures. Anger has felt dangerous, off limits to me. But I know that ignoring Anger is limiting my own humanity. In this moment, find that I want to experience the fullness of the emotional spectrum. I want to reclaim my wholeheartedness.
So, inspired by my Let’s Face It campaign, I’m setting off to explore the terrain of Anger within my inner landscape. I’ll kick off this expedition by sharing a portrait of My Saturday House that I wrote on June, 25th 2022. Nearly one year ago, I logged this entry on Anger into my Field Guide. In retrospect, I can see that I was gathering valuable insight as to where my Anger lives. I was writing a detailed account of my Anger’s natural habitat. Next week, I’ll be back with another, more nuanced encounter I had with my Anger in the same territory. The plot thickens.
Until then, I invite you to pay attention to where your Anger lives. Take note of what the surroundings are like when you usually encounter it.
(Also, I’m pleasantly surprised to notice that the fear I usually feel in the face of Anger has been replaced by a sense of excitement. There’s something about fancying myself an explorer traversing the “atlas of my heart,” as Brené Brown says, that feels so compelling!)
It’s just after 10 am this Saturday morning, and I finally decide to mosey on out of bed. I think my husband had a “sleepover” in my son’s room last night, and I can tell that neither of them are up yet. So, I venture out into the rest of the house.
The dining room table greets me covered in a smörgåsbord of last night’s father and son festivities. A fleshy orange mango seed wrapped in paper towels, still wet with nectar. Three smudged glass cups each filled with varying amounts of water. The brown mug I made in pottery class, still cupping all but three sips of my son’s chai tea. A still-sticky bottle of agave syrup. An empty can of grapefruit Spindrift. A gray water bottle. A copper water bottle. A little red jalapeño recently picked from our front porch garden. A little field of brown crumbs. Mechanical pencils, loose leaf papers, construction plans, a black laptop, a silver tally counter, a blue pocket-sized Zohar, a maroon Dictionary of Legal Terms unopened mail, a copper necklace, a white USB charger, a lighter wrapped in hemp wick. Sticky oblong shapes, nearly transparent, that glisten tauntingly as I round the perimeter of the faux-wood mid-century modern surface. Two deeply purple plums standing vigil over this real life still life. There are two chairs askew. A neon green boxing hand wrap strewn like ribbon on the light gray rug. A little boy’s green sandals abandoned at the edge of the room. One lonely black and red tennis shoe. Bright green Nerf bullets that litter the ground into the living room.
As I start putting things away, my heart begins to race. Vicious thoughts start filling my mind. “When they wake up, I’m going to make sure they put everything back in its place! I had nothing to do with this mess, so I shouldn’t have to be involved with cleaning it up! Why do I always have to be the one to make sure that the house doesn’t constantly look like it’s been ransacked?!” I’m spiraling.