“You’re Doing It For Yourself”
Walking the reservoir path, listening to podcasts, soaking up Vitamin D—small bits of sanity during this Corona Winter.
Last week, I finally caved and bought an Apple watch. While I didn’t love the idea of giving more of myself (and my wallet) to the Overlords of Cupertino, I wanted a way of tracking my pace during my runs. I figured that’s about all I would use it for, that I’d only wear it while running and exercising, but to absolutely no one’s surprise, the watch is such a pleasingly well-designed object that I find myself wearing it basically all the time. The watch does these annoying things like remind you to stand up and move around once an hour. Yesterday, as I took my laptop over to our makeshift standing desk, I said to Andrew that I hated being bossed around by this stupid watch, but I had to stand up for a while so I could earn another point, because I wanted to get those stupid rings at the end of the day, the colorful circles that tell you, you’re doing a great job! And he said: Anna, between your response to this watch and your podcast-listening habits, you’re turning into a total tech bro.
(I’m sorry, this is an incredibly long-winded way of getting to my point. The pleasures and perils of writing for yourself!)
The podcast in question is Tim Ferris. I’m a relatively recent devotee, but when I get into something, I get into something. I have a text thread with one of my best friends which is basically just us sending the episodes back and forth, saying, “Have you listened to this one yet?” There are so many good ones—Ferris is such a natural interviewer—and earlier this week he published an episode with the writer Mary Karr. For my money, it’s one of the best yet. I have to shamefully confess that I’ve never actually read Mary Karr (I know! I know!), but this interview made me fall in love with her.
There were so many gems—you should listen to the whole thing!—but here’s one particular part that sticks with me. Karr talks about her turn to Catholicism, and her relationship to prayer, which didn’t come naturally. When she was in recovery, people kept saying, You just have to get on your knees and pray, to which Karr replies, Really? God wants me to get on my knees and grovel? What kind of God wants me to say, ‘Oh, God, oooh, look at you, you’re so great?’ But then one of her sponsors says to her (in a thick Boston accent, which Karr absolutely nails), You’re not doing it for God, you asshole. You’re doing it for yourself.
So she takes the advice, and takes the simple approach, kneeling down and asking for what she needs: in her case, for help staying sober. You can hear it in Karr’s voice as she recounts this story, that in the beginning, there was something embarrassing about the simplicity. That it was difficult, making such a plain and direct request. I get that. Because, of course, when we ask for help with a thing—whether we’re talking to a friend or a family member or coworker, whether we’re praying to a god or a goddess or a nameless force—when we state that request plainly and directly, we are admitting our needs, and that admittance makes us vulnerable.
A few Sundays ago, while delivering her sermon, the reverend at my church offered this bit of advice: “Make the most of God’s mercy.” That line stuck with me for reasons I don’t quite understand, and it popped back into my head as I was listening to Mary Karr tell her story. What connects the two, I think, is the idea that there is Something there for us, an entity bigger than us, god or goddess or nameless force, and we can ask that Something for help with what we need. We can always ask that Something for help, no matter how low or shitty or undeserving we might be, no matter how self-conscious and stupid the act of asking might feel, and that Something will never judge us for asking. The scary part, of course, is that the act of asking doesn’t guarantee a certain outcome. It’s not a predictable formula. You don’t grovel and plead in order to obtain favor. It’s like what Karr’s sponsor said: You’re doing it for yourself. Because the very act of asking is a vulnerable one, and an honest one, and it’s not always easy to do, but doesn’t that make it all the more crucial?
**
Can you believe it’s November, that Thanksgiving is next week, that this has been our life for over eight months? Sometimes I think: All right, it’s been long enough, we really ought to have a handle on this Covid thing by now. Every day brings such a disorienting mixture of news, and emotions. Yesterday morning, Pfizer announced a 95% success rate in their vaccine. And that same afternoon, New York City closed down the public schools, because the positivity rate has gotten too high. We’re getting a handle on it! No, we don’t have a handle on it at all. Hope, despair. Rinse, repeat.
I took a walk in Central Park yesterday, and it felt like winter, cold enough that even a good pair of gloves couldn’t stop my fingers from going numb. I love the coziness of this season—I love the deep blue glow on clear winter evenings, I love the feeling of a hot shower after a cold run, I love the burbling sound of New York City radiators—and part of me is glad to greet the return of those creature comforts, and part of me worries that no amount of creature comforts will stop this season from feeling dark and difficult. Probably both will be true. But the cold won’t last forever, and winter will eventually turn to spring, and in the meantime, I’ll be lighting candles and playing Christmas music and baking too many cookies, and walking infinite laps in the park while listening to the wisdom of people like Mary Karr, people who have endured harder things than this.