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I bet that if you allow yourself to contemplate frustration, you’ll feel it in your body. Things tighten: face crumples into tight furrows, fingers make fists, stance broadens. Tears and a rush of heat may wash over the face. Adrenaline may rise up, lifting those fists, bringing a leg up so the foot can stomp. There may be a loud shout of a strong epithet or two, full of crisp consonance and sharp fricatives. And then, perhaps, a drop of shame to have behaved “like a baby,” been childish, lost control.
I know that my frustration is often just beneath the surface, and I know why, generally: I allow my schedule to get too tight, I don’t meditate or exercise enough to release the pent-up stress, I push myself too much in some ways and not enough in others. My expectations are not grounded in the reality of time and the physical body.
I tend to ignore the symptoms of frustration till they conk me on the head. This past weekend was full of such whacks, and in the process of recovering from the conks, I’ve managed to learn a little bit about where I am in the lifelong quest to remain calm in the midst of frustration. Among other things, I learn that the word “frustration” comes from the Latin frustrare, “to disappoint.” Oh yes, I hate that one too, feels helpless and ridiculous when I am disappointed.
On Sunday, I am invited to a rock-painting party: a group of therapists gather at a house by a lake to paint peace rocks, listen to music, eat good food. I take deviled eggs, and know that the other women will bring their usual treats too: chicken soup, baked brie, fresh fruit salad, cake. There will be wonderful rocks rubbed smooth on the Maine seashore, glorious paints in every color and tone, brushes and pens, all laid out neatly on a work table overlooking the lake. The music will be a mix of blues and pop, largely background to desultory conversation. I’ll get my soul back.
Only I don’t. I go to the party after a grief-filled time in church, All Saints Day: the music is glorious, and my mother, who died nine months ago, is very present in my heart, especially when we sing one of her favorite hymns, “For All the Saints.” I have one of those moments when I panic: Am I going to bawl, right here in public, up here in the choir loft with everyone looking at me? I manage not to go quite that far, but I cry, and feel the pressure of the sobs loaded in my heart.
At the party, I settle in to paint mandalas on rocks: the mindful, repetitive motion of making dots in pretty patterns soothes the pain inside me. About halfway through, one of the women offers to show us how to make elegant Christmas trees out of folded paper. Folded paper. I should realize what that means, and run away, but I don’t. I just see the seemingly simple tree she has made, and think, “Oh yes, that would be fun!” and start. I get the first set of folds right, with a bit of coaching. But then I have to visualize 3-dimensional results in order to tuck paper in the right places and it hits me: “This is origami,” and I know that I am doomed. All my life I have tried to fold-and-tuck paper, and every time my brain shuts down.
I immediately try to withdraw from the group of tree-makers, but the leader, Jan, keeps helping me. I feel my failure to comprehend rising up, taking over my brain, stopping all normal function. Jan, unaware, doesn’t realize that in fact she, and not I, has made the first piece of my tree, and that I am starting to want to disappear. Finally, as she hands me the second piece of paper for me to fold and tuck “just like you did the first one,” I stand up and say, “I am sorry, but I can’t do this. It is making me want to cry.” Jan looks up at me, startled. “Oh, Elizabeth, you can do this!” she says. “No,” I say firmly now. “No, I can’t. Thank you, but I can’t.”
I stumble back to the painting table, where my dotted rocks await. A friend who had opted not to attempt a tree, looks at me, sizes up the situation, and hands me a bottle of bright purple paint. “Here, get back to those mandalas.” “I’m going to,” I say, shame oozing out of every pore, “as soon as I comfort myself for not being able to fold a Christmas tree.” She laughs, as I mean for her to, but as I fill my plate—someone has brought my favorite coffee cake, and the hell with counting carbs!—I think, “What is your problem, Elizabeth? Why are you having such a strong reaction? ” And a little tiny voice inside squeaks, “Because I wanted to make a Christmas tree.” I want to, and I can’t.
When I get home that night, with some nice peace rocks to put in my flower garden next spring, I find that the man who does my yard has finally been over and done the fall clean-up. I’m so relieved that I burst into tears again. He had not come, and not come, and not come, despite reassuring texts that he’d be over to rake, to mow, to put the garden to bed, to turn off the spigot for the hose before it freezes and floods my basement.
That morning I had finally texted him that I realized he didn’t have time to come and that I would hire someone else to do the clean-up, trying not to let the fear and resentment, the looming sense of abandonment, and the self-blame for not doing my own yard work, pervade my message. But clearly, I failed at that, because he immediately texted back, reassuring me that he would come that morning (while I was off crying in church). He did it all, and when I saw the yard tidied up and contained, I felt safe again. Although I will pay him a lot of money, it couldn't possibly be enough to cover the invaluable security of having this reliable handyman. Nothing could be.
And then last night, as if the origami debacle had not been enough, I go off to my printmaking class, which is supposed to be soothing like the rock-painting, with a heavy load of frustration. I have spent valuable hours attempting to design my enormous woodblock, gotten a much-too detailed sketch drawn, realized that I had put the cat’s face right where the pine would be hardest to carve, tried to carve it, cut my palm in two places and not cut the wood properly, and felt both anger and blame. Anger at myself for not planning it well: I knew that the knot would be difficult to cut. Anger also at Angela, the teacher of the class, who last week had sent me home to carve without enough knowledge or skill. Anger grows into blame: She must be a bad teacher to have prepared me so poorly, and look! I had gotten hurt too! Maybe I won’t go to class—that’ll show her!
As soon as that childish voice cuts through the anger, I laugh. I’ve had other frustrations in the class—it’s hard to be good at something as you are learning how to do it—and each time Angela has calmly shown how to manipulate a tool in a different way, how to turn a mistake into a creative gesture that enriches the design, how to look at something from a different angle, literally and figuratively. I love her because she helps me grow every week, while we listen to music, talk about life and art and books, sip tea, stoke the wood stove, pet her big dog, Shakespeare.
I walk into the studio and say, “Help!” and Angela laughs. She spends the evening helping, and when I come home, I’m really pleased with the fact that my design has become a cat-astronaut wearing a chainmail helmet. Whimsy reigns. As Angela says, “People will know there’s a story behind this print.”
Part of the story is frustration: feeling like I’m trapped in an alien environment, outer space, where I can’t control my experience. A need for protection of my vulnerability: the helmet made of good old-fashioned armor that allows me to be safe--and to breathe. Unmet expectations: this cat is supposed to be asleep on a warm pillow; this cat (or is it I?) am supposed to be on familiar ground, not floating in a pod up in the cold night sky. At this point in the printmaking, the theme is fear, alienation, danger.
But the rest of the picture isn’t done yet. The cat will have long whiskers and beautiful glinting eyes; her mouth will curve up in a kitty grin. Her feet will be planted firmly in the pod, and she will look out from the helmet over the whole universe. The sky will be full of stars and planets.
She will be beyond disappointment, away from frustration. She’ll be floating far away from the little things that thwart us. And I, having created her, will have shifted from anger and blame to laughter and hope. I can already picture her smiling down at me from her spaceship.
