I've been reading a novel I picked up at the library recently. I find such joy in reading books and it feels like a special treat when one surprises you with a "truth nugget" right in the middle of an otherwise normal narrative. One of the characters is as nostalgic as I am. As she's processing her divorce, she comes to this conclusion. "It's funny what comes to mind when the worst possible thing happens. After Jim left, I thought my life was over. I had tried so hard, and Jim had stopped loving me anyway. But failing isn't proof that nothing matters or that we were fools to care. We fail even though things matter very much; it's the possibility of failure that makes them matter even more."*
Grief causes us to go back to what we lost and to reassess its value. Sometimes we overvalue what is was, living in the "glory days" and remembering everything from that time through rose-colored glasses. Other times, usually when we don't want to feel the pain of loss, we try to convince ourselves that what we had before was not as good as it really was. It allows us to squash the grief we feel so we can limp forward in search of something better.
I love what this character is saying. When something fails (loss is all failure of some kind: death is failure to live; divorce is failure to work things out, etc.) that does not diminish its value. In fact, we put more value in things that have the potential to fail. Relationships fail. And rather than saying that, in order to grieve that failure, we must carry it forever (rose-colored glasses) or devalue our experience (denial of pain) of it, she's saying that the very act of failure gives evidence of its meaning.
This idea blows my mind. I often find myself so disappointed when something fails. As an achiever and a perfectionist, I try so hard to make my life (and the lives of those I care about, see: caretaking) work. And when things don't, it's so easy to want to reduce the value of that experience. The pain of loss is so great, and often I take on the responsibility for that failure regardless of the situation. So on top of grief, I add on a heaping measure of shame. It's so much easier to say that whatever failed was not worth the effort it required to continue.
She goes on to say, "At fifty-three years old, I almost lost what I had somehow known from the time I was a small girl. I almost lost the knowledge that made my life work...the faith that made three decades of marriage possible and everything good that happened in those years: the family we had, the friends we made, the laughs we shared, the tears, the everything of it. At fifty-three, I almost forgot what Avis Briggs always knew. It all matters."
She's saying that just because her marriage didn't last forever (and believe me, she's grieving that in a big way) does not mean that their thirty years together were a waste. Just because she's crying now, her years of laughter still happened and still matter. I find this idea so beautiful, so comforting and so, so true to my life. I want my experiences, both painful and beautiful, to have meaning.
I have no control over how my life will go. I know everyone reading that last line will have a gut check reaction to that truth because we so desperately want that to not be true. We want our good behavior to control the future, that bad things won't happen to us if we behave ourselves, that we will not experience failure in the places that are the most vulnerable in our hearts if we just keep trying. We want to box in our world, our God, our choices, whatever it takes to know that everything will be okay. But the joy of this narrative, both in the novel I'm reading and in the life I'm living is that experiencing pain does not erase the experience of joy.
As a black and white thinker, I often paint things with a broad brush. If the teen girl gets pregnant, then she shouldn't have had sex with that boy. No matter that she loved him, no matter that she wanted to, no matter that she learned something. She shouldn't have done it and now she's reaping the consequences of her choices. But this is life. The joy of sex and the fear of parenting. The safety of a thirty year marriage and the shock of divorce. The fun of loving your babies and the grief of them moving on. On and on it goes. We want to live in a way that we think we can foresee the consequences and learn to avoid them. Or that the foreseeable ones shouldn't hurt as much as they do. Of course, there are obvious high-risk choices and some of us are more prone to them than others. But there is no way to have complete foresight, no true security in life.
While there is a lot of fear in acknowledging this, in some ways it comes as a relief to me. For one, it's true in what I've seen and experienced and when I stop denying my heart, I find peace. Two, it takes me off my high horse. It's a lot easier to judge people when you think you've got this life thing all sorted out. Three, it creates community. The lack of security we have in this life fosters dependence on each other in a way that is beautiful, sacred and ironically, security-giving. When we know we have hands to catch us, falling is not as devastating. Four, it takes the pressure off needing to figure everything out, being the one who always needs to be the giver. It levels the playing field, this acknowledging of our collective human experience. We have so much more in common with each other than the areas in which we differ. Five, if we know failure is part of life and therefore, inevitable, does that not make the victories more sweet? When things work out, isn't it almost an unexpected surprise? When we pick up a random novel off a shelf and we find hidden gems of truth, this is the sweetness of life. It's pure, unexpected and resonates with the truth in my heart.
* For anyone who's interested, the novel is called We Are Called to Rise by Laura McBride.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
Friday, February 20, 2015
Mothers & Daughters...Adversaries, Friends & Everything In Between
It is well documented that the mother/daughter relationship is tricky. I have friends who are estranged from their mothers, ones in enmeshed relationships and everything in between. It is a very strange thing, to be in relationship with someone who literally was your first home. I know this applies to all mother/child relationships, but there is something unique about the mother/daughter dynamic (mother/son, father/son, and father/daughter, of course all have their own baggage too).
There are a lot of expectations on both sides, whether they are spoken or not. Perhaps this comes from the fact that subconsciously, I think all children hold their mother most responsible for their childhood experience. If yours was difficult, then it's probably mom who wasn't nurturing enough, who should have stayed home, should have worked, etc. Even when the problem was obviously dad, say he's an abuser, somehow we still hold mom responsible for not standing up to him, for not appeasing him, for staying with him or for leaving. Maybe that's even why our society still blames women when they get raped, based on how she was dressed, how much she drank and where she was when innocently walking alone.
No matter the reason, being a mother and being a daughter is an intense experience. I've written poetry documenting some of these feelings, the tidal wave of gratitude, fear and fathomless love I felt becoming a mother for the first time. The way becoming a mother reshaped how I saw my own mother and her mother before her. I've written about the pain of parting ways with some of the beliefs my mother taught me about God, life and myself. There is a true awkwardness facing a reality that your parents can't speak into, that they don't know or fully understand. And while it feels juvenile to me to have those feelings, it makes sense. For years, your mother is the steward of your experiences. She's the keeper of the memories. It's mom who knows your friends, teachers, boyfriends. Mom is the one in tune with your inner angst, joy, heartache. She creates, cultivates and monitors your environment.* Heck, she IS your environment for those first several months and years of your life. To move outside of that influence is both terrifying and critical for true adulthood.
There are a lot of things I know my mom did right. It brings me great comfort as I confront her humanity. One of the things that I treasure most is that my mom was the one who woke up with us every morning. While my dad slept til 9, mom got up at 6 to make breakfast, pack lunches, set out our vitamins and sit at the kitchen table with us. Every. Single. Day. I don't have one childhood memory of my dad in the early morning, unless we were taking a road trip. While that is weird and maybe even sad, I cherish those hours spent with my mother. There is a true comfort and confidence that comes with that peaceful yet busy attention. It buoys you as you face the world each day.
Lucky for me, I am the morning person between Tim and I just as my mother was. When Macy started preschool, it was decided that I would get up to get her ready for school each day. I love this time with her. And while I have always loved it, it has become more precious to me of late. Macy is turning 7 in a few weeks and every morning (at least the ones Penny sleeps in) I get a full hour just me and her. She eats her breakfast and I pack her lunch. Often I will read her a Bible story. We discuss her ideas about God. We talk about school and her friends. I give her hugs and kisses and we laugh together.
She's currently recovering from a sinus infection and just started back at school yesterday. Emotions are right at the surface. This morning she fell out of her chair, hard. As she was crying, I picked her up and held her. I sat her on my lap while she let out her feelings. As she gets older, these moments grow fewer so I marveled at the joy of her sitting on my lap, both my arms wrapped tightly around her. There is nothing sweeter than receiving comfort from your mother and now, as an adult, being the one who gives it.
I've been feeling down about myself lately, wondering what exactly it is that I do all day and if it is enough. It's sad that I'm in this place. Tim doesn't understand it, believing strongly in all the things I do. I made a list of all my responsibilities and that made me feel better. But all in all, as an achiever, at some point, the lists can be very long and you still fight this feeling of inadequacy. It's not so much whether you're doing enough but should you be doing more. It's a terrible mentality and I wouldn't wish it on anyone. At some point, I have to give value in my head to what I already know in my heart. What I do matters greatly. Maybe someday I will transition to a time where my day to day tasks look more accomplished, when my resume reads impressively, when I have titles and recognition. But in this time of lap-sitting and lunch-making, I must remind myself that in these moments, I am contributing to society in a big way. When we raise confident, loved children, good things happen in the world. And that's all I really want, to a be a part of something good. I can only hope that this time with Macy brings her courage to face the world at large and make it better, one morning at a time.
* I recognize that not all children have a mother like mine. There are instances where the father is the more in-tune, nurturing parent. While I acknowledge that happens, because it wasn't my experience, I can't speak into that dynamic.
There are a lot of expectations on both sides, whether they are spoken or not. Perhaps this comes from the fact that subconsciously, I think all children hold their mother most responsible for their childhood experience. If yours was difficult, then it's probably mom who wasn't nurturing enough, who should have stayed home, should have worked, etc. Even when the problem was obviously dad, say he's an abuser, somehow we still hold mom responsible for not standing up to him, for not appeasing him, for staying with him or for leaving. Maybe that's even why our society still blames women when they get raped, based on how she was dressed, how much she drank and where she was when innocently walking alone.
No matter the reason, being a mother and being a daughter is an intense experience. I've written poetry documenting some of these feelings, the tidal wave of gratitude, fear and fathomless love I felt becoming a mother for the first time. The way becoming a mother reshaped how I saw my own mother and her mother before her. I've written about the pain of parting ways with some of the beliefs my mother taught me about God, life and myself. There is a true awkwardness facing a reality that your parents can't speak into, that they don't know or fully understand. And while it feels juvenile to me to have those feelings, it makes sense. For years, your mother is the steward of your experiences. She's the keeper of the memories. It's mom who knows your friends, teachers, boyfriends. Mom is the one in tune with your inner angst, joy, heartache. She creates, cultivates and monitors your environment.* Heck, she IS your environment for those first several months and years of your life. To move outside of that influence is both terrifying and critical for true adulthood.
There are a lot of things I know my mom did right. It brings me great comfort as I confront her humanity. One of the things that I treasure most is that my mom was the one who woke up with us every morning. While my dad slept til 9, mom got up at 6 to make breakfast, pack lunches, set out our vitamins and sit at the kitchen table with us. Every. Single. Day. I don't have one childhood memory of my dad in the early morning, unless we were taking a road trip. While that is weird and maybe even sad, I cherish those hours spent with my mother. There is a true comfort and confidence that comes with that peaceful yet busy attention. It buoys you as you face the world each day.
Lucky for me, I am the morning person between Tim and I just as my mother was. When Macy started preschool, it was decided that I would get up to get her ready for school each day. I love this time with her. And while I have always loved it, it has become more precious to me of late. Macy is turning 7 in a few weeks and every morning (at least the ones Penny sleeps in) I get a full hour just me and her. She eats her breakfast and I pack her lunch. Often I will read her a Bible story. We discuss her ideas about God. We talk about school and her friends. I give her hugs and kisses and we laugh together.
She's currently recovering from a sinus infection and just started back at school yesterday. Emotions are right at the surface. This morning she fell out of her chair, hard. As she was crying, I picked her up and held her. I sat her on my lap while she let out her feelings. As she gets older, these moments grow fewer so I marveled at the joy of her sitting on my lap, both my arms wrapped tightly around her. There is nothing sweeter than receiving comfort from your mother and now, as an adult, being the one who gives it.
I've been feeling down about myself lately, wondering what exactly it is that I do all day and if it is enough. It's sad that I'm in this place. Tim doesn't understand it, believing strongly in all the things I do. I made a list of all my responsibilities and that made me feel better. But all in all, as an achiever, at some point, the lists can be very long and you still fight this feeling of inadequacy. It's not so much whether you're doing enough but should you be doing more. It's a terrible mentality and I wouldn't wish it on anyone. At some point, I have to give value in my head to what I already know in my heart. What I do matters greatly. Maybe someday I will transition to a time where my day to day tasks look more accomplished, when my resume reads impressively, when I have titles and recognition. But in this time of lap-sitting and lunch-making, I must remind myself that in these moments, I am contributing to society in a big way. When we raise confident, loved children, good things happen in the world. And that's all I really want, to a be a part of something good. I can only hope that this time with Macy brings her courage to face the world at large and make it better, one morning at a time.
* I recognize that not all children have a mother like mine. There are instances where the father is the more in-tune, nurturing parent. While I acknowledge that happens, because it wasn't my experience, I can't speak into that dynamic.
Sunday, February 8, 2015
Perfect Moments
Life is made up a series of choices that lead us down whatever path we find ourselves on. Some things that happen in our lives are not a result of our own choice, but that of another, and sometimes straight-up freak things happen. But even what we do in those freak moments still comes down to choice. I say this not because I don't have compassion for why we make poor choices or because there is always one clear, good choice. I say this for the opposite reason, actually. Life is a lot harder to navigate when you think you know what all the right choices are, not only for yourself, but also for everyone else.
It's an illusion, really. When you think you know what all the right choices are, it feels very secure and safe. You don't really have to wonder or worry about what to do. You may feel weak or unable to do what you're supposed to do, but you usually have a clear idea about what that is. And if you don't, you usually wait until you do. The problem is, as soon as something happens to you that doesn't fit into that paradigm, you either adapt your worldview to incorporate that reality, deny your reality, or try to make it still fit (insert pithy spiritual band-aids here).
I've already discussed this in one of my very firsts posts about my idea of "lived-in theology." The reason I bring it up tonight is because this reality of choice sometimes is what freezes us from making choices at all. As a perfectionist, I want to make THE RIGHT CHOICE. It's sweet, really, the naivete required to believe that the right choice always exists and that there's only one. And of course, that you're fully capable of making it. It also makes grace unnecessary.
The first time I froze in the face of a huge decision without an obvious right/wrong answer was when I got engaged to my beloved Tim. It wasn't that we weren't in love or that I didn't want to get married. Absolutely, both of those things were true. But the idea of getting married meant that those years ahead of me would be married years. Does that make sense? I wanted my season of singleness to continue AND I wanted to be with Tim. But there's no way to be both single and married. We don't get to live in parallel universes. So, I made the choice that I knew I would regret forever if I didn't and got married.
Here's the thing: I loved being single and I love being married. There are days singleness was wonderful and there were days it was awful. I could say the exact same thing about marriage. As a perfectionist, I'm well aware that life is fleeting and that can sometimes be paralyzing. You want everything to be right! The sad thing is, when we insist on life looking a certain way, we miss some of the most beautiful things about it.
I must say, we've had a terrible week. Penny's been sick, which in our world = shrill toddler. I got a migraine, which led to me spending 19 hours in bed. Tim had a terrible headache today while we were taking our family pictures. It's been rough. But tonight, Penny and I were home alone and of course, she didn't want me to read articles on Fifty Shades of Grey on my phone (seriously, there are so many good articles out!). Penny doesn't care about that. She wanted my full attention. Rather than my usual grumbling about delaying self-care, I decided to embrace it. We had a full-on mommy/baby dance party. And it was awesome. We started it with Adele's version of "To Make You Feel My Love." How poignant her lyrics were to me tonight:
It's an illusion, really. When you think you know what all the right choices are, it feels very secure and safe. You don't really have to wonder or worry about what to do. You may feel weak or unable to do what you're supposed to do, but you usually have a clear idea about what that is. And if you don't, you usually wait until you do. The problem is, as soon as something happens to you that doesn't fit into that paradigm, you either adapt your worldview to incorporate that reality, deny your reality, or try to make it still fit (insert pithy spiritual band-aids here).
I've already discussed this in one of my very firsts posts about my idea of "lived-in theology." The reason I bring it up tonight is because this reality of choice sometimes is what freezes us from making choices at all. As a perfectionist, I want to make THE RIGHT CHOICE. It's sweet, really, the naivete required to believe that the right choice always exists and that there's only one. And of course, that you're fully capable of making it. It also makes grace unnecessary.
The first time I froze in the face of a huge decision without an obvious right/wrong answer was when I got engaged to my beloved Tim. It wasn't that we weren't in love or that I didn't want to get married. Absolutely, both of those things were true. But the idea of getting married meant that those years ahead of me would be married years. Does that make sense? I wanted my season of singleness to continue AND I wanted to be with Tim. But there's no way to be both single and married. We don't get to live in parallel universes. So, I made the choice that I knew I would regret forever if I didn't and got married.
Here's the thing: I loved being single and I love being married. There are days singleness was wonderful and there were days it was awful. I could say the exact same thing about marriage. As a perfectionist, I'm well aware that life is fleeting and that can sometimes be paralyzing. You want everything to be right! The sad thing is, when we insist on life looking a certain way, we miss some of the most beautiful things about it.
I must say, we've had a terrible week. Penny's been sick, which in our world = shrill toddler. I got a migraine, which led to me spending 19 hours in bed. Tim had a terrible headache today while we were taking our family pictures. It's been rough. But tonight, Penny and I were home alone and of course, she didn't want me to read articles on Fifty Shades of Grey on my phone (seriously, there are so many good articles out!). Penny doesn't care about that. She wanted my full attention. Rather than my usual grumbling about delaying self-care, I decided to embrace it. We had a full-on mommy/baby dance party. And it was awesome. We started it with Adele's version of "To Make You Feel My Love." How poignant her lyrics were to me tonight:
When the rain is blowing in your face,
And the whole world is on your case,
I could offer you a warm embrace
To make you feel my love.
When the evening shadows and the stars appear,
And there is no one there to dry your tears,
I could hold you for a million years
To make you feel my love.
I know you haven't made your mind up yet,
But I will never do you wrong.
I've known it from the moment that we met,
No doubt in my mind where you belong.
I'd go hungry; I'd go black and blue,
And I'd go crawling down the avenue.
No, there's nothing that I wouldn't do
To make you feel my love.
The storms are raging on the rolling sea
And on the highway of regret.
The winds of change are blowing wild and free,
You ain't seen nothing like me yet.
I could make you happy, make your dreams come true.
Nothing that I wouldn't do.
Go to the ends of the Earth for you,
To make you feel my love
To make you feel my love
And the whole world is on your case,
I could offer you a warm embrace
To make you feel my love.
When the evening shadows and the stars appear,
And there is no one there to dry your tears,
I could hold you for a million years
To make you feel my love.
I know you haven't made your mind up yet,
But I will never do you wrong.
I've known it from the moment that we met,
No doubt in my mind where you belong.
I'd go hungry; I'd go black and blue,
And I'd go crawling down the avenue.
No, there's nothing that I wouldn't do
To make you feel my love.
The storms are raging on the rolling sea
And on the highway of regret.
The winds of change are blowing wild and free,
You ain't seen nothing like me yet.
I could make you happy, make your dreams come true.
Nothing that I wouldn't do.
Go to the ends of the Earth for you,
To make you feel my love
To make you feel my love
Suddenly with that little teething toddler smiling up at me, the days of isolation faded into the background. The health issues, the anxiety, the loneliness became but a memory as my little girl laughed and twirled with me. I don't think we'll ever know what our lives could have been if we had made different choices, or if we'll ever truly know what our lives are supposed to look like. But there are moments, glimpses really, that make it all clear. Everything is perfect RIGHT NOW. There is no perfect life, perfect relationship, perfect choice, but there are perfect moments. And man, did I savor that one. I soaked her up. And then we turned on Rihanna.
Sunday, February 1, 2015
I Am Enough
I was in church this morning with a bunch of strangers. I did not bring my family and my friend who's my connection to the church wasn't there. Though I don't know her personally yet, the gal who spoke before the offering felt like a kindred spirit. She discussed a recent freak out moment she had when she went into her sewing room and saw all the beautiful fabric she had in there. I could hear the voice of unworthiness behind the tears she recounted to us, the feeling of needing to excuse or justify or apologize for such an expense. I know that voice well. It's the voice that tells me I can go longer without journaling, that I don't NEED to write. It sets guilt at my feet when I leave my family on Monday nights to go to my drawing class. It's what justified budgeting more spending money for my husband than for myself for years. I can do fine with less, so I give myself less. In everything.
Somehow I see my needs or wants as something to hit the snooze button on if something "more important" or at least more immediate presents itself. I can wait, I tell myself. Is this just my caretaking thing or does this speak into my experience as a woman? There's no doubt in my mind that we teach women to caretake both in our culture and in the church. We tell women to be less. Less emotional. Less vain. Less sexy (insert long rant about shaming women who wear leggings here!) Less catty. Less jealous. Less frivolous. Less talkative. Less expressive. Less needy. We want women to be quiet. Meek. Skinny. Small. I imagine men have their own struggles and certainly not everything is defined by gender. But do men really struggle with asking permission to be a person? Someone with real, vibrant needs that takes up space and has things to offer? I don't imagine that they do.
Perhaps my editing tendency comes from being a big person by nature. I'm loud, sensitive, emotional and extremely relational. I talk a lot, interrupting people I truly care about. Ironically, I interrupt because what they say resonates with me and I can't help but chime in. In spite of my close friends knowing this about me, I have a real fear of being "too much." That maybe I should just shut up. The more I go through counseling, the more I see how much I have edited myself. I thought I needed to be a lesser version of myself to fit into all the boxes I set up in my life. That my marriage couldn't work if I allowed my wandering spirit to roam. That my conservative church wasn't interested in what I had to say because I'm a woman. That my family couldn't function if I slowed down. How would shit get done if I didn't wear myself out? If I accepted my dirty floor? If I carved out room for myself to be big and small and everything in between, would I lose what matters most to me in the end?
I've found myself unpacking a lot of boxes. Theological ones, personal ones, relational ones. I am not nearly done. I'm grateful because some of that is starting to take shape. I'm attending a church that I don't dare speak of yet (it's too sacred and personal, but I'll get there soon). I'm filled with wonder time and time again when my dear husband steps back to make more room for me every time I let a little more out of the box. I keep thinking he won't want to see or hear something and you know what? He does. Every. Single. Time. He blows my mind.
Turns out, my hang ups are mine. Yes as I change, my long-standing relationships require some adjustment. But I've just got to stop asking permission to live my life. I am a woman. And the female experience is big. I am big. My life is big. And I have to believe that that's intentional. That my gifts and my self, repressed bits and not, are enough, good, valid and needed. That somewhere in the world is someone who benefits from me being me. And even if there isn't, I benefit from being me. And that's enough for now.
Somehow I see my needs or wants as something to hit the snooze button on if something "more important" or at least more immediate presents itself. I can wait, I tell myself. Is this just my caretaking thing or does this speak into my experience as a woman? There's no doubt in my mind that we teach women to caretake both in our culture and in the church. We tell women to be less. Less emotional. Less vain. Less sexy (insert long rant about shaming women who wear leggings here!) Less catty. Less jealous. Less frivolous. Less talkative. Less expressive. Less needy. We want women to be quiet. Meek. Skinny. Small. I imagine men have their own struggles and certainly not everything is defined by gender. But do men really struggle with asking permission to be a person? Someone with real, vibrant needs that takes up space and has things to offer? I don't imagine that they do.
Perhaps my editing tendency comes from being a big person by nature. I'm loud, sensitive, emotional and extremely relational. I talk a lot, interrupting people I truly care about. Ironically, I interrupt because what they say resonates with me and I can't help but chime in. In spite of my close friends knowing this about me, I have a real fear of being "too much." That maybe I should just shut up. The more I go through counseling, the more I see how much I have edited myself. I thought I needed to be a lesser version of myself to fit into all the boxes I set up in my life. That my marriage couldn't work if I allowed my wandering spirit to roam. That my conservative church wasn't interested in what I had to say because I'm a woman. That my family couldn't function if I slowed down. How would shit get done if I didn't wear myself out? If I accepted my dirty floor? If I carved out room for myself to be big and small and everything in between, would I lose what matters most to me in the end?
I've found myself unpacking a lot of boxes. Theological ones, personal ones, relational ones. I am not nearly done. I'm grateful because some of that is starting to take shape. I'm attending a church that I don't dare speak of yet (it's too sacred and personal, but I'll get there soon). I'm filled with wonder time and time again when my dear husband steps back to make more room for me every time I let a little more out of the box. I keep thinking he won't want to see or hear something and you know what? He does. Every. Single. Time. He blows my mind.
Turns out, my hang ups are mine. Yes as I change, my long-standing relationships require some adjustment. But I've just got to stop asking permission to live my life. I am a woman. And the female experience is big. I am big. My life is big. And I have to believe that that's intentional. That my gifts and my self, repressed bits and not, are enough, good, valid and needed. That somewhere in the world is someone who benefits from me being me. And even if there isn't, I benefit from being me. And that's enough for now.
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