Call it the envelope of tension. The tension envelope.
Years ago, I was arrested by the sight of a sign on a
commercial building seen from Interstate 80 near Hackensack-ack-ack-ack, New
Jersey. It's on the left as you head toward the George Washington Bridge.
Tension Envelopes,
it declares.
It long ago inspired my own inner pause and reflection.
Namely: the world does not suffer from a dearth of tension envelopes, does it?
Aren’t we enveloped by tensions at work, at home, on the road, and in our
hearts? Our inner landscapes are dotted with these tension envelopes, both
individually and collectively. They come in all sizes, shapes, and colors.
Is our envelope of tension paper-thin or stretchable and
impermeable? Who affixes postage
to it so that we can mail that tension to anyone, near or far? That’s easy. I’m
the one in charge of dispatching my very own, specially designed,
jittery-filled packages to anyone of my own choosing. Sometimes I send my
tension envelopes C.O.D. (collect on delivery; capacity on demand; chew on dis;
come, on dude!; change or die).
How do you send your
tension envelopes? And to whom?
And are they received as “warmly” as mine? [Insert ironic
emoji.]
Somewhere in the oceanic, discursive writings of Marcel
Proust, I encountered his observation that the human body is a "nervous
envelope." In remembrance of such a thing past, I bent the upper corner of
a page. I don't know which one. But I can’t argue with Monsieur Proust’s take.
We live in this envelope that begs for relief and inner peace. Our nervous
envelopes seek serenity or release, distraction or diversion.
If our tension envelopes are empty, what do we fill them
with? (They wouldn’t be tension envelopes if they were totally empty; by
definition some tension electrons must crackle and roam around or reside there.)
The candidate tension-reducers list is familiar to any wanderer of the modern
world: sex, drugs, alcohol, food, work, danger, gambling, anger, other
people-places-things, you-name-it ad infinitum.
As I type it, I realize my tension-envelope mitigation (TEM)
list is skewed toward the negative. It doesn’t feel complete or whole; it doesn’t
possess enough dimensions for the 3-D world.
I can’t seem to connect the dots or check off the right
multiple-choice answers. I need your help. Work with me here.
An alternative, or parallel, parade of TEMs might include
the following: meditation, mindfulness, prayer, walking, running, painting,
sculpting, gardening, woodworking, weightlifting, yoga, pilates, massage, or
doing the dishes.
Agree? (Add your own.)
But I have a sheepish confession to make. The second list
sounds a tad boring compared to the first. I’m embarrassed to admit this.
Does that make me “less than”? Does it reveal a personality
best left kept private?
Or does it merely make me One of Us?
