I shamelessly crumbled the other day when my wandering, ethereal child reappeared. She had been missing to me for 10 minutes, lost in a sea of faces and out of range of my panicked calls. All I could think was that no matter how far she runs or how high she climbs, she, or the tree, always eventually answers when I call.
I thought my experiences with Emmaline had made me immune to panic. The world is simply not big enough for her plans and co-ordinations. She was born to push boundaries and she'll do it to the point of exhaustion, both mine and hers. I am eternally in her way and, according to her, always saying no. There is really nothing new about that line, except that sometimes she is so convincing... I wonder if she's right. So I try very hard to hear her and expand her boundaries, give her space and trust her, yet at the same time reminding her that she's still only nine.
Her intense drive and determination is foreign to me and often, when she's not pushing my buttons, I admire her. In a heartbeat she can pull together the coolest, and most unique outfit, and strut through her day owning her creation. She's a potion mixer, machine maker, party planner and adventure tourist coordinator all rolled into one. In the land of our backyards she is always trying to run the show, but thankfully the dynamics of that kid ruled world do not always allow it. I wish I knew what they knew.
Though her strong will and leadership traits can be trying, I know they can be gifts too. So many amazing and wonderful things have been created and achieved by those who pushed boundaries and thought outside of the box. But I also know that kids need "boxes" and rules to keep them feeling safe and secure. Each child has unique needs for feeling safe and secure, so no one box can be the same. How do you build a box for such a child? I wish I knew. In spite of all I read, think and do I still sometimes feel like I stumbling in the dark. That's usually when my heart kicks in.
When Emmaline finally reappeared, walking nonchalantly towards me, it was pure grace that love followed my relief and not anger. Besides holding her and crying all I could say was, "I was so scared, I thought you were gone. Do you see the fear in me? That's how much I love you." My threats and consequences have rarely contained her, but I hope my love can.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Quirkiness
On that first night at home with my infant son I couldn't seem to get the cradle close enough. The cradle had been passed on to me, an old and broken thing that had been refurbished by my father-in-law. Little John would never physically know his Grandfather so there was a sentimentality to his newly assigned sleeping space. Yet it just didn't feel right to put him in there, away from me.
I was struggling with my new role and also battling my instincts. I needed to see my baby and be close to him as he slept, but that wasn't how I was told to mother. Babies are safest in their own crib or cradle, everybody knows that... or at least that's what our society says. So why was I having such a hard time obeying the rules? I guess I was misbehaving like my Mother, who in the 1950's and 60's, was ridiculed and ostracized by the hospital nurses when she chose to breastfeed. Somewhere along the line intellect had overtaken instinct and the result was these insane rules, which came from experts and doctors, and determined how and where we birthed, fed and nurtured our babies.
With John I compromised with my civilized mind by putting him in a co-sleeper. Now I could see his precious little face and safely watch his chest rise and fall. Yet each time I awoke in the middle of the night with him nestled into my breast I had a pang of guilt... how powerful was the conditioning. This sacred and secret world of nurturing was considered unacceptable, even irresponsible, in most of the magazines, books and pediatricians' offices. Yet it felt so right to both my husband and I, and this sense of rightness was nurturing to us all.
So I dumped the cradle and ignored the crib and with each child I let the conditioning deteriorate and crumble. What I have discovered beneath that fallen facade sometimes frightens me, because it is so alien to the world around me. I have become one who questions almost constantly, not through a desire to be different, but because of the need to know and own my answers.
Out of my questioning a realization has grown. Something mysterious had been born in me when I birthed my son and daughters. And in the years that followed... as I spent my days swaddled and spaced in breastfeeding and nurturing, as I embraced, savored and sobbed through the joys and pains of pregnancy and labor, as I confronted the utter frustration of dealing with irrational, opinionated little beings who were too much like me to bear... I was becoming born as a Mother. But I was not just a Mother, I had become part of a stream of interconnection which penetrates humanity. If we just stop long enough to block out the noise and inane, constant and mundane communication and busyness, we can begin to hear the whispering wisdom.
Now mind you, during daily mothering whispers are infrequently heard. I don't walk through my life with my children, high on their presence, and constantly entranced by their magic. I often find myself in the super market with my children, grumbling under my breath about the need for a self serve wine bar as opposed to a coffee bar. By 8:30pm I'm wiped out by the whirlwind of chaos and complaints and I find myself yelling and quoting my mother: "Children are not cute after 8:00!!!" Not long after they are finally in bed, I have been known to berate myself for being a lousy mother... on long and lonely days that has led me to tears. Yet through all of this nuttiness I have found moments of insight, humor and joy, and through all the inner pain I have created from perfectionism, I have found compassion. I root into these flashes of equanimity and connection when I sit in stillness.
The world is so fast and it appears that few care about moments of silence, stillness and inner calm and knowing, after all nothing is physically accomplished or gained. Our civilized world so values its competitive edge and constant movement that even those that mother and nurture often jump right back on track and drag their kids in too. I just can't help but stop to wonder why... and lately that's all I seem to do.
Today I no longer fight my inner nature and I try less to filter myself for the world, because my connection to this deep stream of wisdom and oneness is essential to my being. It nurtures me, keeps me sane and it has led me to love my quirkiness. Sometimes I feel lonely and strange, but I can't be any other way, because I abandoned the safety and security of following the rules when I began to listen from within... and a little wine at the end of the night has helped too.
I was struggling with my new role and also battling my instincts. I needed to see my baby and be close to him as he slept, but that wasn't how I was told to mother. Babies are safest in their own crib or cradle, everybody knows that... or at least that's what our society says. So why was I having such a hard time obeying the rules? I guess I was misbehaving like my Mother, who in the 1950's and 60's, was ridiculed and ostracized by the hospital nurses when she chose to breastfeed. Somewhere along the line intellect had overtaken instinct and the result was these insane rules, which came from experts and doctors, and determined how and where we birthed, fed and nurtured our babies.
With John I compromised with my civilized mind by putting him in a co-sleeper. Now I could see his precious little face and safely watch his chest rise and fall. Yet each time I awoke in the middle of the night with him nestled into my breast I had a pang of guilt... how powerful was the conditioning. This sacred and secret world of nurturing was considered unacceptable, even irresponsible, in most of the magazines, books and pediatricians' offices. Yet it felt so right to both my husband and I, and this sense of rightness was nurturing to us all.
So I dumped the cradle and ignored the crib and with each child I let the conditioning deteriorate and crumble. What I have discovered beneath that fallen facade sometimes frightens me, because it is so alien to the world around me. I have become one who questions almost constantly, not through a desire to be different, but because of the need to know and own my answers.
Out of my questioning a realization has grown. Something mysterious had been born in me when I birthed my son and daughters. And in the years that followed... as I spent my days swaddled and spaced in breastfeeding and nurturing, as I embraced, savored and sobbed through the joys and pains of pregnancy and labor, as I confronted the utter frustration of dealing with irrational, opinionated little beings who were too much like me to bear... I was becoming born as a Mother. But I was not just a Mother, I had become part of a stream of interconnection which penetrates humanity. If we just stop long enough to block out the noise and inane, constant and mundane communication and busyness, we can begin to hear the whispering wisdom.
Now mind you, during daily mothering whispers are infrequently heard. I don't walk through my life with my children, high on their presence, and constantly entranced by their magic. I often find myself in the super market with my children, grumbling under my breath about the need for a self serve wine bar as opposed to a coffee bar. By 8:30pm I'm wiped out by the whirlwind of chaos and complaints and I find myself yelling and quoting my mother: "Children are not cute after 8:00!!!" Not long after they are finally in bed, I have been known to berate myself for being a lousy mother... on long and lonely days that has led me to tears. Yet through all of this nuttiness I have found moments of insight, humor and joy, and through all the inner pain I have created from perfectionism, I have found compassion. I root into these flashes of equanimity and connection when I sit in stillness.
The world is so fast and it appears that few care about moments of silence, stillness and inner calm and knowing, after all nothing is physically accomplished or gained. Our civilized world so values its competitive edge and constant movement that even those that mother and nurture often jump right back on track and drag their kids in too. I just can't help but stop to wonder why... and lately that's all I seem to do.
Today I no longer fight my inner nature and I try less to filter myself for the world, because my connection to this deep stream of wisdom and oneness is essential to my being. It nurtures me, keeps me sane and it has led me to love my quirkiness. Sometimes I feel lonely and strange, but I can't be any other way, because I abandoned the safety and security of following the rules when I began to listen from within... and a little wine at the end of the night has helped too.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
September 12th Sunrise
The sound of him shuffling up the stairs was surreal. I didn't know when, and for a few hours, if he was coming home. Such a long and horrific day had passed between us. He stumbled up the stairs much like I had stumbled numbly through my day with our two small children. And yet there he stood. His eyes were blood red, and his body slumped and drained, but he was home.
John wasn't supposed to be home. His orders were to remain in quarters until morning relief. He had uncharacteristically disregarded orders because he needed to be home, if only for an hour. There were no rules for a while after that day, chaos calls for that.
So he sat on the couch after we hugged and cried and told me his story. My "simple kind of man" that night was a poet. He cited all the names of his buddies that died with such reverence and honor. I sat next to him and watched in awe, because to me that day he was almost a ghost.
As always, and September 11th was no exception, John called. The first call came with a flush of relief. I was not a widow. The calls that followed were sometimes just strangers saying, "You're husband is okay, he asked me to call." Angels with cell phones. Later in the day he called, from an undisclosed location, which generously offered free "soft drinks" to all firemen, cops and survivors.
I've often wondered how different John might be had he not come home that night. What horrors might he have held inside? What walls might he have put up? It was all so raw... I needed to see him and he needed to see me... nothing else mattered, nothing else should.
About an hour after John got home we received a call from his officer. He had to report back to the firehouse that night. I was beyond furious. It felt as if we were at the center of a bulls eye and I couldn't bear being alone.
Over the weeks that followed I began to hate the fire department, the city, the country and I just wanted to get out. I didn't need anyone to tell me to prepare a go bag. I had a plan, a bag, our necessary documents and an intense desire to leave Brooklyn for the mainland within days after September 11th. I was a cynical, life long New Yorker, and I sincerely believed we could simply be written off. If anything else should happen, the bridges would be closed and we would be on our own. Two years later I hardly looked back, when we crossed the Hudson River with our three children bound for our new home in the Hudson Valley.
Before John came home that night, while light was still in the sky, I had read to our children before bed. I recall that being of great comfort to me. The mundane was a safe and comfortable place in a shifting and scary world. During the night there was a thunderstorm... it seemed fitting, and somehow cleansing.
To me the sunrise of September 12th was a miracle. The day before everything had fallen apart, the seams had ripped, the veils had torn... and yet the sun, the blessed Sun still rose. That morning I had a visceral understanding of why people worshipped the Sun... and in my heart I felt hope.
John wasn't supposed to be home. His orders were to remain in quarters until morning relief. He had uncharacteristically disregarded orders because he needed to be home, if only for an hour. There were no rules for a while after that day, chaos calls for that.
So he sat on the couch after we hugged and cried and told me his story. My "simple kind of man" that night was a poet. He cited all the names of his buddies that died with such reverence and honor. I sat next to him and watched in awe, because to me that day he was almost a ghost.
As always, and September 11th was no exception, John called. The first call came with a flush of relief. I was not a widow. The calls that followed were sometimes just strangers saying, "You're husband is okay, he asked me to call." Angels with cell phones. Later in the day he called, from an undisclosed location, which generously offered free "soft drinks" to all firemen, cops and survivors.
I've often wondered how different John might be had he not come home that night. What horrors might he have held inside? What walls might he have put up? It was all so raw... I needed to see him and he needed to see me... nothing else mattered, nothing else should.
About an hour after John got home we received a call from his officer. He had to report back to the firehouse that night. I was beyond furious. It felt as if we were at the center of a bulls eye and I couldn't bear being alone.
Over the weeks that followed I began to hate the fire department, the city, the country and I just wanted to get out. I didn't need anyone to tell me to prepare a go bag. I had a plan, a bag, our necessary documents and an intense desire to leave Brooklyn for the mainland within days after September 11th. I was a cynical, life long New Yorker, and I sincerely believed we could simply be written off. If anything else should happen, the bridges would be closed and we would be on our own. Two years later I hardly looked back, when we crossed the Hudson River with our three children bound for our new home in the Hudson Valley.
Before John came home that night, while light was still in the sky, I had read to our children before bed. I recall that being of great comfort to me. The mundane was a safe and comfortable place in a shifting and scary world. During the night there was a thunderstorm... it seemed fitting, and somehow cleansing.
To me the sunrise of September 12th was a miracle. The day before everything had fallen apart, the seams had ripped, the veils had torn... and yet the sun, the blessed Sun still rose. That morning I had a visceral understanding of why people worshipped the Sun... and in my heart I felt hope.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
The One
Comic relief during a driver's commute often comes in the form of bumper stickers. My husband recently shared a good one with me...
"The next time you're feeling down, just remember you were the fastest sperm out of a million!"
I giggled, had a thoughtful moment, and replied, "I'd rather be the egg just waiting and ready to receive." What an analogy for life. All those sperm racing to the goal, charging toward the One who effortlessly awaits the possibility of creation. How yin/yang it all is.
"The next time you're feeling down, just remember you were the fastest sperm out of a million!"
I giggled, had a thoughtful moment, and replied, "I'd rather be the egg just waiting and ready to receive." What an analogy for life. All those sperm racing to the goal, charging toward the One who effortlessly awaits the possibility of creation. How yin/yang it all is.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Soul Shining
One morning my Mother was translucent, her soul shining beyond her skin.
Her eyes shimmered with simple joy and no concerns clouded her mind.
I absorbed her and felt a quiet peace...
She told, me over and over again... I love you, I love you so much.
That moment, that day, is suspended within me.
Sometimes I unwrap it just to feel her...
then she stands beside me, her hand rests on my shoulder,
and something beyond perception flutters and fills my heart.
Her eyes shimmered with simple joy and no concerns clouded her mind.
I absorbed her and felt a quiet peace...
She told, me over and over again... I love you, I love you so much.
That moment, that day, is suspended within me.
Sometimes I unwrap it just to feel her...
then she stands beside me, her hand rests on my shoulder,
and something beyond perception flutters and fills my heart.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
