21 posts tagged “lessons from the universe”
I just spent the last hour struggling through a guitar lesson.
Wow I am dreadful at guitar. But I have secretly always wanted to play. I love to listen to someone picking out a song. I am that person who is always hovering at the park, sitting close enough to the stranger strumming that I can bask in the glow of their music. A kind of peeping-Tom--a "listening-Tom" I guess it would be called.
Truth be told, I have always had a weak spot for a guy with a guitar on his lap. If he was talented, it was all over. Good night Irene. But all too often I realized it was the music not him I loved. I just wanted to listen to the live guitar, songs played for an audience of one-- let the music wash over me and seep through the cracks in the stone wall around my heart right into that vulnerable place where my soul lived. A guitar could reach where no person ever could.
So I became a perpetual groupie. I had to be in order to get my fix of music--the thing that could get me high.
Because, see I had a story I told myself. It was a story that said I couldn't play the music myself. I could dance while others made music. But play...oh dear me, no. I was bad at it. I would never be good at it. Never. There was no use in trying.
The man I married wasn't a guitar player. But like me he loved it and always wanted to play. We shared a common guitar envy. His father played so beautifully it would make me weep. His brother in law too. There was music all around our house--Los Panchos in the kitchen, Bob Dylan in the car. We could listen to guitar for hours--any kind really. And one day, we said, one day we would learn--or rather I intended to pay for him to learn. I would sit at his feet and swoon. Because my story (and I was sticking to it) was that I couldn't play.
There were other stories I told myself too. Stories like "Our love is so durable that we can withstand anything" or stories like "I need him to function, let alone make my heart sing". When I was pregnant with Max I would stand in the shower and cry for fear that he would die and leave me all alone with our child. I believed my stories so fervently. I thought I wouldn't survive without him. I thought I would blow away.
The day he walked out the door, all those stories that I had used to protect myself, the stories that formed the protective wall around my heart, they started to crack. Some shattered immediately, blown to bits by the bomb that just went off in my life. Others started crumbling more slowly. Some would need a couple of well placed sledge hammer blows to move. Three years later they are still falling away.
So here I am, tonight, Wednesday, the night of my third lesson. I sit on the couch with my new friend Jeff. The night this summer that I sat in his back yard and heard that he taught guitar, I realized that the universe had delivered a gift to me. "Girl", the universe said to me, "Girl, its time you got rid of that story--the one that says you can't play for yourself. Its time you learn to play your own music."
Jeff helped me buy a cute used guitar--perfect for me. A pretty little sound. The day he delivered her to me, just days after I turned 38, was one of the craziest most blissful nights I had in a long time. She became a symbol for me--of my new independence--of my new fearlessness. Of a heart that lives so much lighter without all those stories around me. My first two lessons were fun. I was feeling empowered, amazing--a woman who could do anything. A woman who wasn't afraid of kicking those story boards down and grinding them beneath her mighty feet. Triumphant.
So imagine how suprised I was tonight to find myself sitting with my dear new friend, unable to play for him--terrified, nervous. Unable to start showing him my homework assignment that I had so diligently worked on all week. A nervous wreck--completely freaked out. Paralyzed.
I was suddenly awash in my fear and an unexpected vulnerability bubbling up from somewhere unknown. I was standing in my shower again--naked and sobbing--believing my stories again--or at least the story that said I wasn't any good at music. I wanted to put my guitar down and beg him to play for me...Dylan, Wilco, the Rev Gary Davis, the Beatles...anything so that I wouldn't have to strum on my own. Jeff (I should say for the record) plays in a way that can make my heart break from the beauty of it. "Play my friend" I wanted to beg."get me high. Just don't make me play for myself."
But even more disappointing than my inability to play, was my fear. Afterall I am now supposed to be the girl who is embracing doing things that scare her...Who is not afraid...Who pushes the limit...Who says "yes" to life and "no" to can't. I am the girl who dropped all the stories, who walks lighter without them. Who is so carefree and silly. I thought of all the paths I have walked down in the last several years with a bounce in my step. Of the challenges I tackle with nary a shudder. I am the girl who faced her worst fear and LIVED.
So why was I sitting on my couch paralyzed. Why was I unable to start?
I wanted to throw that scared silly child out the window. She really was pissing me off. She was blowing my cover and exposing me as someone who was not fearless but terrified, nervous, weak, vulnerable--a complete wreck...a fraud.
Jeff is one of the most encouraging people I have met since my 4th grade teacher.
"Breathe" he told me. "Breathe. Its just me." I breathed. I then closed my eyes. I tried tapping my foot. I couldn't find a tempo. I laughed nervously. I admitted to him how scared I was and I felt so so small for having to admit it.
After what felt like an etermity I knew I couldn't do this on my own. I said, "Play with me please'. He started to play so so slowly and told me to join him when I was ready. I did. And then when I was going--he dropped out. And my lesson got started. And I was neither scared nor fearless. Just there. Attempting to make my own music.
And so my lesson goes. Jeff playfully kicks my butt for rushing. He writes me a note in big block letters: SLOWLY!!! it says. My impatience is getting in my way and tripping me up. Over and over again he gently reminds me that I am holding on to the guitar too tightly. That I need to loosen my grip. Hold it all so much more lightly. We spend the better part of the hour deconstructing a superhero theme song. Its unrecognizable now but with practice...aaah I will play for my own inner superhero. While we work through my mistakes, drilling down on the difficult things he draws my attention to the things I am doing well--The things I couldn't do three lessons (or even three minutes) ago. He draws my focus away from the horizon to the baby steps I have taken up this mountain. He pushes me and makes me practice the hard parts over and over again.
I knew that I would befriend Jeff when I realized that he is the only person I know who stretches metaphors as far as I do. There was a lot of that today as we worked on very basic skills--as I tried to make my hands do impossible tricks. A lot of his metaphors made me giggle from the absurdity. But they worked.
But I can't help but wonder however if the biggest metaphor of all is lost on him, this new friend who knows just a little bit about the journey I have walked the last few years. He may miss it but I wrap my arms around it as I hug him goodbye.
I am learning to make my own music and while its imperfect, its mine. Just mine.
I am turning a corner in my journey. I am walking up a new path with a guitar strapped to my back. And much of what I think I need to know as I take off on this adventure, I believe my sweet little guitar will teach me.
When Max was a few days old, Juan went off to work, my mother climbed onto an airplane and I was left all alone with a strange little person who couldn't seem to get the hang of nursing and who screamed bloody murder whenever he was put down. I remember sitting with him on the couch, trying to figure him out, wishing he had an owners manual attached to his little foot.
Motherhood wasn't going as planned.
I assumed I would be a natural at mothering. I had imagined that soon after delivery I would be sailing along effortlessly, nurturing and listening to my baby's cues, managing the house, and taking a break from my stressful DC job, as good at the art of parenting as I was at everything else in my life that I had tackled. Instead, I sat sobbing on the couch frustrated that I couldn't figure out how to simultaneously hold him and feed myself lunch. I was so hungry, he was so needy and we were both absolutely miserable.
Even weeks later, I beat myself up for not knowing what the hell I was doing. I was not effortlessly swaddling my little bambino in a sling as I arrived for my lunch appointment. Instead I was sobbing as I tried for the 5th time to tuck him in, an hour and a half late for an appointment with a friend downtown, yellow mustard poop smeared on my arm, my breasts leaking through my shirt.
It was then, at that exact moment that I discovered the art of baby steps.
I stopped trying to fufill my ultimate vision and dropped my standards to the sub-basement level. I would define victory in the smallest of ways. "Today I went to the bathroom." "Today I made myself lunch." "Today I combed my hair." I remember how exhilerating it was when Max was three and a half weeks old I was able to pack him up all by myself and get to a friend's house. Granted, I was so exhausted from the effort of getting out all I could do was sit in her hammock swing and nurse my son sleepily, but I had done it all by myself. For a Type-A, Washington overachiever, it seemed like a pretty lame accomplishment but to me that victory felt sweeter than anything I had accomplished in the previous 10 years of work.
It dawned on me as I was swinging there on her porch that this was the first time I had attempted to do something I wasn't naturally good at. I really had no choice after all. But this was a departure from the rhythm of my life up to that point.
See, I was used to being good at things. As a child and young adult I was a classic overachiever. I was interested in anything I excelled at and so I chose my activities very carefully, filling my time with things I could sail through effortlessly and then focused all my energy at being the best. I quickly lost interest in anything that was hard.
Dance--I had been a natural since my first ballet class at 4. It stuck and became my major extracurricular activity all the way through college. On the other hand there was tennis and downhill skiing, I fell too much and had a weak swing. Swimming--I was slow and always behind the others, a little out of breathe. I left those activities in the dust (with a bit of regret) and didn't look back.
As much as I sometimes wished for it, I didn't have the option of leaving mothering behind in pursuit of something I could do so much better. So at age 32, I finally allowed myself to indulge in taking things slow, in fumbling along in a half-assed manner, in failing every day and in taking baby steps.
I learned the pure joy of sticking with something I was bad at, of toughing it out and struggling through. Getting through the muck and surviving. And while I still daily make classic mistakes that would lead many a social worker shake to her head in dismay, I have really become a pretty decent mom,. It was a bumpy ride l to get here but looking into those big brown eyes of Max's I know that every second its been worth it.
Max helped me discover the pure joy of doing something because I love it not because I am going to be good at it. And this beautiful little angel, he has opened up doors for me. I am now free to do things for pure and utter joy of it. There are so many beautiful things that I cant do well! Giving myself permission to plunge into all of them has been liberating. And it has been the biggest creative gift the universe has ever passed along.
Since Juan left, I regularly practice doing things I am bad at. I know longer crave the praise from doing the things that I naturally do well. Instead, I fill my free hours struggling through with no hope of ever being great, striving to be good enough. Despite the often poor results I keep going--an addict now to the adrenline rush of the tiny victory.
I was thinking about all this this evening because I have a bunch of new projects on my plate now that really do not play to my strengths. Struggling through them could be the understatement of the year. I am spending hours with little results, taking my baby steps, one by one and relentlessly congratulating myself on the smallest of successes.
I am so proud of myself to be doing so much so badly. For finally choosing to do things for the joy of them and not for the flashy results.
Today I signed the divorce agreement papers.
I was off to one of my favorite gardens to do a version of this ritual, a ritual I thought would be perfect for the fall season, a ritual I so desperately needed. The sky was a brilliant clear blue, the air felt neither too hot nor too cold, a light breeze was blowing. Everything was at peace in my little world and in my little heart and I knew that this day was the day to get it done.
It was really simple--too simple. All I had to do was go to the notary public down the street and sign three copies. People all around me were busy making plans for vacations to India and sending money back home to family in Russia. Laughing, living. The notary asked me what kind of document I would be signing. I whispered, a little choked up: "A divorce agreement". I half expected her to kick me out--to tell me to take my somber business elsewhere. She simple shrugged, wrote it down in her log and asked me for my ID. She didn't notice that my hand shook as I signed. She was busy chatting with her partner.
When it was all over I drove immediately to Brookside Gardens, one of my favorite places. It was hard at first to find a quiet place, a place with enough solitude for me to do what I needed to do. It was the perfect day for wandering the gardens and so the place was packed with families. I told myself that if it didn't feel right I would leave. I stopped worrying about it and let my heart lead.
I walked along the path looking for fallen leaves, gathering a bag. As I walked over the crest of a hill, this tree called out to me. Her roots were like two arms, offering an embrace, a safe place for me to do my work, her weeping boughs offering shelter and privacy. I surprised myself when I said outloud--"This tree is for me". I walked over, touched her bark and settled in her arms.
I took from my bag a few smooth stones and wrote the names of things that weighed me down. I had intended to only write one word but thoughts, phrases, memories all came tumbling out. My stone was full. I had one stone covered in images of Loss, one in images of Want, another in Shame and so on.
And then when I was done, I began to write my fears on the leaves, one by one.
When I was done I said goodbye and one by one thew the rocks into the lake. Then I took each fear one by one. I thanked it for doing its best to protect me but I told it why I didn't need it anymore. I asked it to leave and threw the the leaf into the water and watched the water carry it away.
Some of my fears were old acquaintances. We once were fast friends these fears and me, but now they only popped over every once and awhile. It was time to say goodbye for good, although it really felt more like a formality. We had outgrown each other. But it lightened my load to let them go.
But then, as I sat writing, I discovered there were some fears that really were important to me. These were the fears that most recently did a pretty good job protecting my heart from the threat of more grief and loss and lonliness. These were the ones I most needed to get rid of but saying goodbye to them was like ripping a bandaid off my heart, exposing her to the wide wide world. Walking back to my car I felt lighter yes, more centered, more present in reality but oh did I feel vulnerable too. Truly truly exposed. Like a lobster who had just molted, naked and without armor. But growing...
I drove back to meet Max. We spent the day in the quiet comfort of our neighborhood family. Then I took Max and we drove. I felt the need to just hang out with him but to be out of the house. To be us against the world again. We drove until we found a place to eat and played games and drew pictures while we ordered.
I know that this vulnerability is good. It means that my heart is growing. That letting go of fear makes room for new love, new experiences and new joy. And I am grateful that I have places to go to tend to my heart--my writing, creativity, space with Max, walks in the autumn sunshine.
Tonight it rained. I sat in wonder and listened to the sound of the rain against my windows. I stood out on the front steps and let me feet get damp. It has been such a dry summer. The rain smelled miraculous and hopeful, the harbinger of good things. Life giving and cleansing. Just what we needed.
I have thought alot about my trip to Rio --the one I took two Octobers ago. We took this photo our first night there. Eddie's friend, an ex-pat who had settled in this magical city, had taken us for a walking tour and showed us his favorite spot, a park across a lake from the hustle and bustle of this city. A rainstorm rolled in suddenly, unexpectedly, catching us on the wrong side of the park. It fell in sheets soaking us all as we ran for cover under some trees, laughing. I laughed harder than I had in months. At that moment, laughter bubbled up unexpectedly, as unstoppable as the rain. It was so absurd and silly and joyful. We were dressed to the nines for a night out on the town, with water running down our noses, with my chic outfit dripping and misshapen, my "oh-so-Rio" sandals squishing and making ridiculous noises. It was the funniest thing ever to be in Rio in the warm rain. I jumped in a puddle and lost my shoe. Pretty soon we were all laughing because I couldn't stop laughing
I had felt so heavy and stressed when I got to Brazil. I was at the height of my financial panic and I had just started to wrap my heart around the idea that Juan was not coming back. I arrived at the airport after flying all night with only $20 American and a three day training to run in Spanish. I went to the cash machine at the airport to take out money for taxi fare and found my account was overdrawn. My cell phone was out of batteries. I had forgotten my credit card at home. I had no idea what I would do next. I went up to the money exchange counter and cashed in my $20. I hoped it would be enough to get me to the hotel where I could regroup and figure out my next move. I thought I had hit rock bottom. I felt so alone, like such a failure. To keep myself from breaking down in this strange city, I repeated a mantra "It is going to work out all right" and then I added a fervent "please" and threw in a prayer for good measure.
The taxi fare was exactly what I had in my wallet.
I got to the hotel and they told me my room was already paid for. I slept a heavy deep dreamless sleep. I woke up to find lunch. A a friend of a friend living in Sao Paolo who had come to meet me. A fully charged cell phone and a Dad on the other end able to wire some cash to get me through the week. And best of all when Eddie arrived that evening he had two airplane tickets to Rio.
Four days later I was standing in the rain in Rio, laughing as the water poured over my toes and ran down my fingers. I remember thinking that the rain washed some of my grief away that night, just let it slip right away and run into this lake, leaving me feeling a tiny bit lighter and ready to start healing.
The rhythm of our life is slowing down now. Its the way of autumn. With the birthday celebrations and the hullaballoo of the start of the new school year behind us, we are settling into the quiet of fall. Tonight I kissed Max goodnight and went through the rituals that he needs to let go of his fears and drift off to sleep. A book, a cuddle, an extra check of the doors. "Yes they are locked my dear. You can sleep now." He is frightened of being alone. I assure him that while I will get up I will be back soon and I will be here when morning comes. He holds my hand as he drifts into sleep.
I find that the days between the Fall Equinox and the Winter Solstice are a time of introspection for me. I find myself turning inward, pulling away into myself a bit. Its a time of reflection and soul repair. I actually feel myself slowing down, becoming less social. I call less, email less, talk less. I am still more. I sit and listen to the noise of the outside, to the house breathing.
And frankly, sometimes I am a bit uncomfortable in this place. I prefer the energy of loud dinner parties, of boisterous giggling, of passing the wine and sharing food. Because it is here in this quiet solitary place I hear my fears speaking to me. And nothing scares me more than fear.
But I am at peace knowing that I am not alone here. While spring seems to be the universal season of renewal, autumn seems to be the time to struggle with fear. As the darkness lengthens we face our demons at Halloween, mark our grief and mourning on el dia de los muertos or All Souls Day, look inward and repent on Yom Kippur. I take comfort in knowing that many souls before me have walked this path and created rituals that allow us to face our fears and then let them go. I am not out of sorts as I drift into myself, no I am just following the anciet rhythms of the season.
Two years ago late in October, I went to Rio de Janiero with my friend Eddie. We had spent the week running a training in Sao Paolo and he convinced me we deserved a trip to the beach. It rained the whole time we were there. One day we both felt the need for some alone time. He hiked along the mountains and the beach while I wandered down the streets of Ipanema, in and out of coffeehouses, bookstores and music shops along the stormy shore. After awhile I realized that my mind had grown completely quiet. I was alone, as alone as absolutely possible--wandering in a foreign country where I didn't speak the language on a rainy day in a city known for its beaches on the opposite side of the globe from almost everyone I loved. I had spent the whole season creating so much noise and activity around me, fearful of being alone, fearful of my fears. But when I sat with them quietly on the streets of Ipanema they became the consistency of mist, and I was able to let them go.
Jen Lemen recently posted about this beautiful ritual to let go of fear and things that weigh you down. I am dying to try it myself. It is all that I can do not to abandon my loved ones and work to drive to the countryside tomorrow. Short of returning to Rio, I think it is the perfect ritual to mark the inward turning season of fall and to face those fears that lurk in the shadows. Because I have a bunch I need to face and then I need to let them go I need to let them slip away like mist so I can rest peacefully in the quiet darkness of the winter.
We've got two lives
One we're given and the other one we make
And the world won't stop & actions speak louder
Listen to your heart and your heart might say
Everything we got we got the hard way...
--Mary Chapin Carpenter
Staring at my computer, in an office in downtown DC today I had an "A-ha" moment. Its one I have had before, but then I conveniently forget. Its so easy to forget it.
Life is hard.
Once upon a time, when I was just a youngster I truly believed it when my father said "The difference between a hard life and an easy one is all about choices." I interpreted this to mean that if only I made the right choice I would be rewarded with a life of bliss, ease and good times. I interpreted the struggle I faced as a young person in the world as a result of bad life choices.
And there was some truth to that. I made a lot of bad choices over my years. But I have also made some good ones too. But many times over I have been amazed to learn that good choices or bad, life has been no less hard. Good choices led me down some pretty difficult paths but ultimately took me in a direction I wanted to go. Bad choices sometimes were exhilerating but took me away from my true north. Both of those paths were filled with hard work and difficulty.
Sometimes, I get very grouchy when I am stuck in a hard-work kind of place. I want it all to be so SIMPLE so very clear cut and easy. I want to breeze through life the way I breezed through elementary school, without a care in the world and three steps ahead, and someone to solve it all for me when it got to sticky. I just want to do the one thing that will make it all fall into place. I revert to my childish notions that good choices lead to easy-peasy paths to joy all around. And then, when I realize that there is nothing that you can do to assure an easy journey I get mopey and disappointed,
Lately, I have made lots of good choices and I have to say the path I have taken has been laced with much joy. There are these moments I have, when life seems perfect. I am surrounded by a community I love, my job is exciting and we are healthy and well and then--BAM it hits me. My amazing and beautiful loved ones are human, imperfect people, just like me, and we sometimes struggle to see eye-to-eye. Or I make a mistake that needs to be fixed and fixing it takes everything I have got and more. Or sometimes life just throws a curve ball. And it takes hard work to set it all right. Or doing something fun turns into a ton of really tedious work and I want to give up.
Its hard to be a single mom and do it all alone. But I know its also really really hard to make a healthy relationship work and to keep it fresh, open and moving in the right direction. Doing a job I hate can be really hard. But as I am learning, sometimes, doing a job I love can be miserably hard too.
And sometimes when I realize all this I feel cheated. I am pissed off that there is no way around the difficult. But then, sometimes with a bit of grace,I have one of these aha moments.
LIFE IS HARD. Trying to avoid (or believing I can avoid) the difficult is what leads me to disappointment and sorrow. Picking up and slogging through the hard work with optimism, eyes on the lovely scenery and a sense of humor can make it all so much more pleasant--and joyful-- and fun.
Dad was right in some way. Life IS all about choices. Following your true north, making choices that ring true in your heart can lead to joy. But I have found I can also choose to rob myself of joy by mucking around disappointed and grouchy that I have to work through some hard stuff.
So, whats a girl who just had an aha moment to do? Crank up Mary Chapin Carpenter, slip on some boots, and dance dance dance...
Caught up in our little lives, there's not a lot left over
I see what's missing in your eyes; you're searching for that field of clover
So show a little inspiration, show a little spark
Show the world a little light when you show it your heart
We've got two lives, one we're given and the other one we make
And the world won't stop, & actions speak louder
Listen to your heart, and your heart might say
Everything we got, we got the hard way...
I have been told that you know you are healing from a great loss, not by the absence of suffering but by the fact that the length of time between each episode of intense grief gets longer and longer still. Its been awhile now since I cried over the dissolution of my marriage with Juan, since I dwelt on the reality that all I had hoped for as a young bride turned out so differently. I know I am healing because it has been months since I felt so sad. It is this fact that I cling to tonight even as my tears keep me awake.
And its true that I have noticed that I no longer feel the need to go to the sub sub basement of despair. I am now content to rest on the stairs between the ground floor and the basement of my emotions. A softer sort of sad.
And it is also true that I no longer fight my grief. I no longer am afraid of the waves of emotion. I know that they will tumble over me and that they will go and happiness and joy will once again rule my day. Over the last few years I have learned that I can sit with Sadness. I know that if I don't ignore her she will eventually leave. I listen to what she tells me. She tells me I am capable of great great love and deep forgiveness. She tells me that once I dared to live a beautiful dream. She tells me that I gave of myself so completely, that I learned to trust, that I gave my all for something. She tells me I was one of the lucky ones to have known love. These are beautiful things to know. And so I cling to that too.
These signs, not the absence of grief, are what tell me I am healing.
I have been waiting for months for Juan to sign off on some very important papers. Today he handed them to me. It is not the end of our process but it is an important step. Yes it is a very positive turn of events, one that enables me to move on. But as it is a milestone it marks our way along a path I did not choose, and this fact, this is what makes me grieve. I long for the path I started out on--for the path I was so happily treading along until the day he told me he was leaving. This path I have been on has been strewn with lots of rocks and mud and icky flies but also great beauty and new sights I never would have known. And I cling to this too.
So all day today I have not been able to control the leaking of tears from my eyes. I have been sniffling uncontrollably, hoping that all those who see me attribute it to a bad cold or allergies. I don't mind the sadness but I do mind being so publicly sad. And I mind it when sadness robs me of precious sleep, of the comfort of my bed.
I know from past experience that eventually I will sleep. Sleep will help. So will tea and warm oatmeal with apples. I will be a different person tomorrow. If not tomorrow then the next day...or the next.
Joy will eventually return and I will know I am one step closer to healing.
I am a little nervous about writing so openly about these issues of faith and my view of God in such a public forum. I am not a churchy person--it is one of the few things I keep close. But today it seemed approrpriate so here are a few of my thoughts...
Several months ago, Max came home from a playdate depressed and sad. It took a little prodding, but I finally got him to tell me what was wrong.
Max: (with indignation in his voice): Mom...Jake says we aren't Jewish. He says we are Christian.
Me: We are Christian. Actually we are Catholic which is a kind of Christian, although we sometimes worship at the Episcopal church. (I think to myself...IF we actually go to church.)
Max: WHAT? (with sadness and disappointment in his voice) But...we celebrate all the holidays...
It's true. We do. The New Year with his best friend Jake and family, Yom Kippur with our dear friends Stephen and Marilyn. We light Channakah candles with several different families each December, and we have sat at many a Passover Seder table in his young years. We have been to so many Shabbat dinners that Max actually can say the prayers over the candles along with our host if he or she prays slow enough.
And its also true that we are really bad at celebrating the Christian holidays--other than the big holidays of Christmas and Easter, which frankly feel so commercial despite my efforts to combat this at home. Aside from these two, there are not many Christian community celebrations that ring true for me. Lighting Advent candles and opening Advent calendars are quiet at home family affairs. We are not great about getting to church--in fact we are really bad at church. And those saints' feast days do not call out for big loud family dinners.
And Max and me, we are great at big, loud, chaotic gathering that involve food and bread and wine and apples dipped in honey. It is part of how we sing our prayers of thanksgiving. The Jewish holidays call to us in this way and so we find ourselves often worshipping alongside our Jewish friends who so lovingly welcome us into their homes.
I have struggled alot about how to raise my son in faith, how to give him a framework upon which to hang his own understanding of the mysteries of the world. And while I have never struggled with my own faith and my spirituality, I do struggle greatly with institutionalized religion and the Catholic Church in particular. I struggle with the limited role for women in my church. I struggle with the church's position on the love shared by my gay friends. I struggle with power-hungry bishops and money-hungry pastors and a bureaucracy that let so many children get hurt to protect priests who were sick. I have issues.
But my God, I have no issues with Him. I see Her face in the face of my friends, my loved ones. I see His hand in the tremendous people I know who work very hard for justice, fairness and kindness in the world. God is omnipresent to me in the laughter of children, in the bloom of a flower, in a blue blue sky and in the kind words of a stranger. But my God is also most present to me in the face of my loved ones, in food prepared with love, in big tables around which our most cherished ones sit. And that is why for us, these harvest holidays, the lighting of candles around a table, the breaking of bread and the introspection of the new year celebrations are what call us to worship.
I find myself thinking about something my neighborhood grandma once told me...something that rings truer each day. Grandma was the wise older woman in our neighborhood who looked after all us kids and loved us all as her own. She is Jewish and she and I were talking about her own children, one who had converted to Catholism in marriage. We were also talking about another of the neighborhood grandkids who had become a wiccan.
"Meggie," she said. "Yahweh, She is so big. None of us humans can understand how deep, complex and awesome He is. But God wanted to know us all. She/He gave each of our cultures a little window to look upon Him with, to communicate with Him/Her in a way we could understand given our culture. Religion is just the window--no one view is more or less correct. Its the same loving God. And thats the only thing that is important."
Perhaps I am a spiritual traveler, one who enjoys the view through many windows. In that spirit, I say to all my dear ones and all the strangers who pass this way, those who celebrate today and those who chose to celebrate in other ways or not at all: L'shanah Tova! --May your new year be filled with love, community, nourishment and joy!
We just returned home from West Virginia. The house is quiet now, the unpacking of dirty clothes, of camping gear and photos has been done in a burst of efficiency. Max is fast asleep. The crickets alone keep my company.
Last week when I woke to my 7th straight day of a migraine I knew something had to change. It wasn't just the migraines however that had me shaking. I felt like I was struggling, that nothing I did was enough to make it work. The balancing of work and parenting and being a good friend all seemed to be too much. I felt myself tightening from want.
It must have been the Universe who inspired my dear Jackie to call me and invite us to the woods. At the time she offered it sounded as though it was the only thing I should do. We dropped everything and ran.
I should know now that there is nothing that grounds me like eating and sleeping outside among the trees. The energy of the woods, the mountains, the river repairs me even when I am at my most frayed. Over and over again I rediscover this about myself. I am not sure why I forget so easily.
Indeed it was everything I needed to soothe my tired brain, my achey grouchy soul. It was like an amazing power nap, a kind of (in the words of Eric) reboot for the brain. I feel as though I have been away for weeks, I am so refreshed. The stresses that seemed to paralyze me last week have floated away, like leaves carried away by a stream. Joy is now running circulating freely once more--no longer stuck in the muck am I.
Indeed I feel the entire universe conspired to make this weekend perfect. The sky was the most intense cloudless blue, the air temperature was perfect. It felt as though the forest was in cahoots with our merry band of travelers. The river was perfectly refreshing for us. There were long stretches of little children laughing, shrieking, falling down from silliness. And beautiful moments of silence. And music. And endless firewood. And the perfect amount of yummy food.
Alone and together in shifting combinations we moved about the day, collecting, observing, creating. Each moment unfolded effortlessly as both chaos and community flowed as sweetly as the Potomac around the bend, rippling and bubbling and smoothing out the edges of our lives.
I feel so inspired in so many ways but I feel I cannot unpack it all just yet. I struggle here, tripping over my own bliss as I try and write about it, about the way I feel somehow knit back to together around my frayed edges. I just know that I am. And that at this moment is enough.
For more photos of our adventure, click here.
I recently read this post over at the wise and funny Notes to Self. I love Kyran's writing - its not unusual for me to leave that site teary eyed. This time however, it wasn't just the deep honesty and beautiful pose that moved me but a deep sense of empathy about living without margins. I read the post with tears dripping off my chin, falling shamelessly into my lap.
Kyran was writing about living on the financial edge. This is something I can relate to all too well. When Juan left me with a child and one income it didn't take long for my social justice salary to leave us struggling. I remember nights staying up sorting through Max's beautiful grandma-purchased clothes trying to figure out what we could consign to help pay the babysitter or emptying out the spare change jar that Juan and I had started when we started dating and cashing it all in to pay for food and gas for the week. The rollercoaster of panic (will we make it this week?) and relief--all the effort that went into figuring out how to keep it together left me depleted and a shadow of my best self. I was so scared to ask for help from anyone afraid of what it would say about me (Would it mean I had failed?!?) but bit by bit the universe worked its little chisel on my pride and finally one night I was on the phone with my dad, choking back tears and asking humbly for a little help to get over the hump. Not too much longer, I was on my knees sobbing praying for a little help from anywhere.
I am glad to say that I am writing this from a better place on the financial front. Ask and you shall receive is a truth I can attest to. We are still living paycheck to paycheck over here and savings are a luxury I can barely afford. We don't splurge much on movies or pretty things and when we do I often reeling from it for weeks. My budget has very little margins for excess or comforts. But we are making it and I am no longer sick to my stomach each time I need to visit the cash machine. I am comfortable that as long as I stick to the basics the money is there.
But I wish I could say that about 2 other critical resources: time and energy. I am now in a similar desperate place that feels eerily similar to how I felt about my finances not that long ago.
I feel I don't have enough time for even the basics--like the laundry and cooking dinner or picking up the mess that has become our house. I feel I have cut out all the fat I can (no mindless TV, no relaxing baths) but it is still not enough. My schedule operates with no margin of error. I drop Max at childcare at the earliest possible moment and rush in to the office and maybe make it to work on time but often am late to a meeting. I rush through my work day and need to leave at 5 on the dot. God forbid there is traffic because I need to be home at 5:30, not a minute later. We barely unpack our days before it is far too late for dinner. On too many occassions, I am dragging him out to run errands at the time most children his age are in pjs in bed. The mad dash and the fact that I go to sleep each night with so many loose ends dangling leaves me feeling edgey and like a top spinning out of control.
My energy too is at an all time low and this is making this time crunch thing all the more troubling. I move so much slower these days. I fall into bed too early and wake too late. Precious hours are lost while I hit the snooze button or sleep through my alarm. I cannot multi-task anymore. I need to focus every bit of energy I do have on simply accomplishing one thing at a time. When I do pretend that I can move faster, things start to fall apart at the seams. This past week I had no childcare for Max so I thought I could bring him with me into work. In the effort to get him packed up to spend the day with me I forgot to pack my own purse and ended up with no wallet to pay for our lunch and parking. On good days I laugh light heartedly about the aburdity of this--my turtle pace, the chaos exploding around me, my inability to keep it all together. But at night when all is quiet I shiver a bit thinking about it all and pray that tomorrow it may feel a little bit better and I pray--please don't let it get worse.
Every day is an exercise in pushing the limits of my comfort zone. How much stress and time pressure and "rock and a hard place" choices can I live with today? I laugh thinking about how I was three or four years ago--how little I could take. I simultaneously feel like a champion (what a victory to keep surviving in this climate!) and a loser (why can't I just keep the kitchen clean or feed my son a real dinner?)
The time/energy crunch-its become a noose that I feel tightening around my throat--sometimes I have to remind myself to breathe. There are moments when I feel I am drowning from the stress of it all and I realize--I am holding my breath. Just the other day I thought if my life was a story written on a page I am spilling off the page. There are no margins on my paper. There is no room for errors, no room for scribbled comments--no place to put a forgotten word. I wonder when am I going to lose it living like this? I smile because clearly its not going to be today so if I can just focus on today I can loosen the noose a little. Yes...now I am breathing on my own. Good girl.
And yet I feel so silly even worrying about this all. Today my friend told me a story about a friend of hers--a woman who's has struggled with so much more. Her story makes me understand just how wide my margins really are--or rather what its really like to live with no wiggle room. Hearing her story I hang my head in shame and embarrassment that I fret so when my life is really so precious and blessed. For God's sake...I am writing a blog. Its not that bad when I have time to write a blog, is it? But the thought of giving up this newly reclaimed creative time feels like a dealbreaker. My journaling, my creative friendships they are keeping me afloat, they are keeping me sane. The laundry will just have to stay dirty and I will just have to forgive myself--but can I?
But I remember today this week when it has felt so loosey goosey that asking for help is magic and so I get down on my knees and ask the universe to deliver it in whatever way she sees fit. A cure for my energy blues? That would be nice. Someone to help me get organized and together? That would also work. A new way of working smarter not harder? Brilliant! A giant huge serving of perspective? That would do me just fine. Something I haven't even thought of? Yes. Any help--any little bit of help at all. Its hard to ask for help but its the only way I know to expand the margins even just a tiny bit.
