Meaning Making

It’s not always the actual events in our lives. It’s how we interpret them. The meaning we make from them.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. About how something happens to us, and then almost immediately, sometimes without even realizing we’re doing it, we begin telling ourselves a story about what it means.

And those stories can shape everything.

Does something painful cement the belief that we always need to be on guard? That if things are going well, something bad is bound to happen next? That the world is dangerous? That people can’t be trusted? That everything always falls on us?

Or do we somehow come away believing that things have a way of working themselves out? That we’ll figure it out. That even when life is difficult, there is still something worth noticing in it?

What assumptions are we carrying around that shape our lives without us even realizing they’re there? And how much of what we experience is influenced by what we have learned to expect?

I’m not sure. But I’m starting to wonder about it.

The Stories We Tell Ourselves

We have all these little sayings.

When it rains, it pours.

Bad things come in threes.

I knew this was going to happen.

Things were going too well.

That last one is interesting, isn’t it? Something bad happens after a stretch of things going well and there it is:

I knew it. Things were going too well.

As though happiness has a quota. As though the universe noticed we were getting a little too comfortable and decided it was time to straighten that out. And once we believe bad things come in threes, what happens when two bad things occur? We start looking for number three.

Something that might otherwise have been an ordinary irritation suddenly gets promoted.

There it is. Number three. Story confirmed.

Our minds are remarkably good at finding evidence for stories they already believe. And lately I’ve been wondering how many stories I’ve been carrying around without ever stopping to ask whether they’re actually true.

What Are We Feeding Ourselves?

My daughter brought something interesting to my attention recently. She had been listening to one of those incredibly popular true-crime podcasts. The hosts are funny. Their banter is entertaining. You like them. You laugh with them. It feels like entertainment. But she realized it was affecting her.

Because underneath all the funny banter, she was spending hours listening to stories about murder. Violence. Betrayal. People disappearing. People doing horrific things to other people. And she realized that no matter how lovable or entertaining the hosts were, the material itself was still incredibly dark.

That got me thinking.

What happens when we binge that kind of material? Not because true crime is inherently terrible and we should all immediately replace our podcasts with recordings of birds chirping. But what are we teaching ourselves to notice?

What version of the world are we repeatedly showing our brains? And what happens if, instead, I spend hours watching garden videos?

Suddenly I’m thinking about whether I can possibly fit another plant into my house. The answer, incidentally, is almost always yes. I start noticing leaf shapes. New growth. Light. Soil. The possibility of propagating something I hadn’t thought to attempt before.

Maybe neither activity magically changes the world outside of me. But perhaps it changes what I notice when I step into it. And that makes me wonder:

What Am I Practicing?

Then I caught myself doing something I didn’t particularly like. I’ve been complaining more. Not furious, ranting complaining. Funny complaining. Sarcastic complaining. The kind where you tell a story, everybody laughs, and for a minute you feel pretty clever about the whole thing.

Except afterward, I didn’t feel clever. I felt kind of icky. Because that isn’t really who I want to be. I don’t want to be the person who is always complaining about someone or something. And yet there I was, doing it. So I started wondering why. What was underneath all those funny stories?

And eventually I realized: I was angry. There were things I was genuinely angry about, and the sarcasm was giving that anger somewhere to go. And maybe that isn’t always terrible. Sometimes we need to vent. Sometimes we need to say that something is ridiculous. Sometimes a sarcastic joke is probably all that stands between us and screaming into a pillow. But I started asking myself a different question.

Because I think there is a difference. If I’m talking about something because I’m trying to understand it, maybe I’m processing it. If I’m writing about it because I’m trying to figure out why it hurts, maybe I’m processing it.

But if I keep telling the same story, getting angry about the same thing, collecting more evidence and replaying the whole case in my head… Maybe I’m feeding it. And every retelling puts my attention right back there. I don’t have to pretend I’m not angry. I don’t have to decide something was okay when it wasn’t.

I don’t have to rewrite history. But maybe I can say:

This happened.

I know how I feel about it.

I understand why I’m angry.

Do I want to keep feeding it?

That feels different.

If Attention Is a Garden

Which brings me, inevitably, back to plants. Because apparently I can’t think about anything for very long without eventually turning it into a garden. But maybe attention really is a little like one. A garden contains all kinds of things.

Some we planted deliberately. Some blew in on the wind. Some were there long before we arrived. Some things we nurture carefully. Some things take over without our permission. Some things have roots far deeper than we realized.

And maybe our inner lives aren’t so different.

There are beliefs we chose. Beliefs we inherited. Things people told us when we were young. Things painful experiences taught us. Stories our families told. Stories our culture tells. Stories we consume every day. Stories we tell ourselves so often that eventually we stop recognizing them as stories at all. They simply become the way things are.

And that leaves me with a question I haven’t been able to shake:

Not: How do I rip out every negative thought?

Not: How do I make sure only beautiful things grow?

I don’t think that’s possible. And honestly, I’m not interested in trying. Maybe it’s simply about noticing what is growing there. And deciding whether I want to keep feeding it.

The Sign on My Wall

There is a sign hanging on one of my walls that says: “The happiness of your life depends on the quality of your thoughts.”

It’s one of those sayings you read and think: Yes. That’s great. So you put it on the wall. And eventually you walk past it so many times that you stop seeing it at all.

But lately I’ve been thinking about it again. And I think there is something much deeper hiding underneath its inspirational-sign appearance.

Because where do I spend most of my time? Am I locked in anxiety and worry, imagining everything that might go wrong? And believe me, I am far better at this than I would like to admit.

Or am I noticing the wonder and beauty and sheer amazingness that surrounds me when I’m willing to look? And yes, I know. Life can make that incredibly difficult. Bills are real. Responsibilities can be overwhelming. Life is full of drama, trauma and crisis. Ours, our families’, our friends’. Sometimes life is just hard.

And I know you’ve probably heard some version of write down five things you’re grateful for every day approximately twelve thousand times. Then there is the whole commercialized version of the law of attraction. Just think the right thoughts. Raise your vibration. Manifest what you want. And if you don’t have the life you want, apparently you just haven’t wished for it correctly yet.

I’m not going there. Because I think that idea can become incredibly unkind.

I’m not suggesting that terrible things happen because someone thought the wrong thoughts. I’m not suggesting that illness, loss, financial hardship, trauma or tragedy can be prevented by being positive enough.

We don’t control everything that happens to us. Sometimes terrible things happen. Sometimes wonderful things happen. Sometimes utterly bizarre things happen and we have absolutely no idea what to make of them.

I’m interested in something smaller. And maybe something much more useful because it actually belongs to us.

Maybe I don’t need to replace every difficult thought with a happy one. Maybe I need to become curious about which thoughts I have allowed to become facts.

Because there is a difference between:

Something bad happened.

and

Something bad always happens.

There is a difference between:

I am angry.

and

I am an angry person.

There is a difference between:

I have a lot to deal with right now.

and

Everything always falls on me.

One is what happened. The other is the story I made from it. And sometimes those stories become so familiar that we don’t even realize we’re telling them anymore.

And Then There Was This Morning

I was driving down the road today when, completely out of nowhere, I had this almost euphoric feeling.

It was a perfect fall morning. The air was crisp and cool. The sky was bright. Puffy clouds drifted overhead and there was just enough wind to move the trees. Most of the trees were still green and full of leaves. But fall was beginning to sneak in around the edges. A yellow leaf here. A little orange there. The first flashes of red. You had to look closely. And for some reason, in that completely ordinary moment, everything felt right with the world.

Every song that came on was exactly the right song. And every person I saw seemed interesting to me. I found myself thinking about how every one of them must have quite a story. People they love. Things they’ve lost. Places they’re going. Things they’re worried about. Things they’re looking forward to. Whole lives happening inside every car passing mine. And I felt this strange kinship with all of them. For a little while, I just felt completely at home in the world.

Nothing was wrong. Nothing needed fixing. I was just there. And then, eventually, my mind wandered to everything I needed to do that day.

And the moment was gone.

But wow. It was amazing while it lasted. And here is the part I keep thinking about:

The things I had been worrying about before were still there afterward. My responsibilities hadn’t disappeared. Nobody had swooped in and completed my to-do list. My problems hadn’t magically solved themselves.

The world hadn’t changed.

For those few minutes, what had changed was where my attention was. I was looking outward instead of inward. I was noticing instead of worrying. I wasn’t trying to be grateful. I wasn’t trying to think positively. I wasn’t trying to manifest anything.

I was just paying attention. And maybe that is what I am trying to understand. Maybe meaning making isn’t about convincing myself that everything is wonderful.

It isn’t.

Maybe it isn’t about controlling my thoughts, either. Maybe it’s about becoming curious about them.

What stories am I telling myself? What stories am I consuming? What stories am I keeping alive? What have I mistaken for fact simply because I’ve thought it a thousand times? What am I teaching myself to notice?

And if I discover that I’ve been watering something I no longer want growing quite so wildly, maybe I don’t need to hate myself for planting it.

Maybe I didn’t plant it at all. Maybe it blew in years ago. Maybe its roots go deeper than I realized.

I can notice it. I can understand why it’s there. And I can decide whether I want to keep watering it. Maybe that’s enough for now.

I don’t think I’m going to become a person who never worries. I certainly don’t think I’m going to become a person who never complains. And I’m definitely not promising to stop making sarcastic comments. Let’s not get carried away. But maybe I can get better at noticing where my attention goes.

Maybe I can catch myself retelling an old story and decide I don’t need to tell it again today. Maybe I can put down the phone. Turn off the podcast. Stop arguing a case in my head that nobody is ever going to hear.

And every once in a while, just look up. Because most of the tree might still be green. Autumn might not be announcing itself yet. You might have to look closely. But somewhere among all that green might be the very first flash of red.

It was there whether you noticed it or not. You just happened to be looking.

Look closely.

The first red leaf might already be there.