The Distiller

The Distiller on a good day

There is a part inside me that sees the world in black and white. She measures my successes in one hundred percent parcels, working day and night to protect me from criticism, judgements and failures. I call her the Distiller, distilling right from wrong, success from failure, black from white. I see her in my mind’s eye. She’s a little girl, six or seven, with braids in her hair and innocent eyes as large as the world. In her stockinged feet and with her little girl’s hands, like a miniature Atlas she helps me hold up my globe of self confidence, self appreciation and self love.

The Distiller believes that criticism will end my writing. She also believes I cannot handle praise. She has records and can prove her point. I’m right, she tells me, her braids swinging. What will happen when someone dislikes your book, as inevitably will happen if you get published? she asks me. You’d better not publish, she advises. But you can write, if you must.

She loves me, the Distiller. I can feel her affection for me, the caring which she puts into weighing every situation, determining if it is something which will break me. She thinks me fragile as a hollow porcelain doll, as though too much content inside will make me break. Tirelessly she beseeches me to do less, work less, write less, take more help. She comforts me whenever I am tired, urging me to rest. You don’t have to write right now, she urges me. You’re tired. You’ll be even more tired after you write. And I listen to her and go rest, even though my Inner Judge huffs and puffs and lets out a string of complaints.

The Distiller hushes him. She’s the intermediary, the gate keeper to his harsh opinions, sometimes soothing them, sometimes letting them through. I know that together with the Judge, the Distiller blocks my ambitions as a writer, and yet I like her. In her way she only wants what’s good for me. She simplifies my world. I think of the Distiller as my doorway, and if I can get her to crack the door open just a little bit more, perhaps there will be space enough for me to spread my wings and fly.

These last few days have been good for my writing, but I can do better than this. Stories bubble within me, eager to come out. My imagination spins tales, and my hands can’t move fast enough to type them out. I want to open up a dialog with the Distiller. I’d like to explain that success and failure are many shades of grey apart, that we together, she and I, can define what success and failure mean, and that even our new definition can be flexible. Let me fly, little Doorkeeper. I promise to behave. I know I can depend on you to support me and to care, but together we can understand: changing our definition of success is the best and most foolproof method to insure that I do not fail.

Becoming Good Enough

If there is one question I worry about, it is whether I’m good enough. I should probably not have been surprised to discover that my kids similarly question themselves. But I was. Surprised and dismayed. I’d like my kids to grow up to love themselves. After all, I love them and think they are amazing and wonderful. How could they possibly think otherwise? But can I teach my kids to love who they are when I constantly judge myself?

So when my son said, “I’m bad at playing my instruments,” those few words shook me to the core. I love that Uri plays the clarinet and violin. I can barely get a sound out of the clarinet when I try to blow into it, and the violin is so complicated an instrument! Yet Uri took to both with an ease that defies my comprehension, especially considering how extremely different the clarinet and violin are.

After exclaiming and disclaiming (“You play both very well!), I decided to approach the subject from a different direction. I asked Uri what it meant to him to play well. Playing well, was his response, is playing like his teachers or on CD. Wow, I guess he also got the perfectionism gene from me.

I felt inadequately prepared to discuss this. Comparing himself to professional musicians when he had been playing less than a year seemed absurd. I decided to ask Uri’s clarinet teacher, Jeff Sanford, for help. Perhaps he can convince Uri that he plays well. To my surprise, Jeff approached the subject from a different angle. Rather than looking at Uri’s playing as a whole, Jeff tackled one song at a time. He explained that “playing well” is a relative term. The first time Uri plays a song he might struggle, but after a few practice sessions he plays that song well.

I don’t know if Uri understood this completely, but this way of looking at the world was an AHA! moment for me. I judge myself constantly on my performance as a whole. It does not occur to me to say, “Today when I sat with the kids doing homework I did very well.” Instead, when I mess up in one instance (like being impatient before they go to sleep), I say “I’m a bad mother.” I generalize. And almost always negatively.

I wish to apply this idea in my life more often. I hope I’ll remember it and tell myself, “Today my writing flows.” Or, “Today I was very patient and loving to the kids.” Or, “When I listened to Eden before she went to sleep I enjoyed feeling like a good mother. I did well.”

Perhaps it’s time to put generalization to rest, to stop putting myself down. Time to appreciate myself for the little things I do and forgive myself for my mistakes. And while I practice this self compassion, I hope the kids will learn to love and appreciate themselves as well. Nothing like personal example to make this wonderful change.

If you're interested, this is Jeff Sanford's jazz website. I don't know if he has any other life advice on there, but there is good music. To learn more about self compassion, check out this great website from Kristin Neff.