68. refuse to complain for 7 days

This one did not go as smoothly as anticipated. On the morning of the first day I knew I had problems, because I couldn't define what counted as complaining and what didn't. If I talked about anything I don't like, would that be whining? Was I allowed to speak only of things I enjoy? But this was the end of the semester, the last week of classes. I might conceivabley have been mute the whole week. That isn't success.

So there was one rule: I can say anything I want so long as I follow it up with, "and I like it."

There ensued two days of blatant absurdity. "I am painfully hungry and I like it. This music is wretched and I like it. You have thrust me into the pit of misery with your thoughtless remarks and I like it." It felt like cheating. I gave up on liking things and instead tried to track my commentary for hints of frusteration, irritation, anger, and gloom. The plan was to muzzle the complaint in progress and switch to some positive observation. This also didn't get very far. As it happens, all my thoughts clump around what doesn't make me happy. I hunt for positive observations and dry up after one brief statement. How do you converse when all you've got is, "My, the sky is pretty"?

That was the first week. At the end the thing did not feel accomplished. I gave myself a break one day long (complaint without restraint!) and then donned the muzzle for the next six days. Tuesday stands out as particularly good. I got as far as 4pm and realized I had not yet spoken that day, and the rush of pleasure (yes! I have not yet screwed it up!) was like wind beneath my wings. Then I visited some friends and spoke much; the evening cannot have been clear of moaning, because our subject matter touched on painful truths I am still trying to sort through. Being honest seemed more important than being cheerful.

What to do when the bones of life aren't working out? Silence? Obsession with trivia? "My, this sandwich is tasty." Or maybe you give up and lie. "I'm failing and I like it." There must be a better answer than these. After two weeks of search, I have the beginnings of one answer:

The words I use don't matter so much. Whatever phrase I choose, it cannot help but reflect the contents of my head. Until the tone of my thinking changes to become more grateful and less wounded, even declarations about pretty sky and tasty sandwiches will be undergirded by a silent accusation to the cosmos, a miasmic reproach. If I grant more space to gratitude and less to the internal pain registry, more of what I say will be clean of complaint.

I can't say item 68 is wrapped up. I gave it the time, but so far I'm still just theorizing. The practicum is yet to be attempted. I'll have a run at it when I move on to item 88 - two weeks of chosen happiness.