Deliberating December

The past two months have consumed me. I’ve walked in and out of my days with an absent-mindedness that has seemed to infiltrate numerous areas of my life. I haven’t been able to articulate my experience and no doubt this attempt will fall short of describing it’s depth but foolishly, I try.

I’ve recently made personal discoveries that have been monumental. While all this time I’ve attributed my pre-occupied brain to these discoveries, I still haven’t seemed to . . . settle. I’m forgetful. I’m slow. I'm not focused. I'm overwhelmed. I’m finding the simplest of tasks to be overwhelming and feel more like a spectator in my life whose floating above looking down when really I’m walking around in slow-motion.

I’ve shared before when I set goals it creates a rhythm I can operate in. A sort of metronome for life that seems to produce productivity. Well, that rhythm has lost it’s tick and now the holidays are upon me thus I cautiously approach them. I resent the situation I find myself in year after year. It’s the strategy game of Christmas with it’s commercialized, greed-inducing, and sometimes meaningless-gift-giving requirements. I love to give gifts and to receive them! But I cringe at the thought of lopping more things on top of our Mountain of things in a grandiose celebration of self. Especially when it comes to the impression I'm imparting onto my children and how it effects their evolving concept of holiday. Giving is a cherished encounter I've been fortunate to learn about from friends, where we express honor and appreciation of one another, a sort of acknowledgment of  “I see you”. But instead of seeing a people, we see lists. Some may easily find themselves slaves to a chore without ever taking notice as to why they are giving gifts in the first place. Ridiculous! The reverence of Christmas isn’t readily available to us anywhere but instead, waits quietly for us in our reflections and convictions.

I read once that contemplation and revolution should never be separated (Henri Nouwen). Maybe that’s why my thoughts can gnaw at me until I act on them, I don’t know. I shamefully admit that my frequent criticism of the enormous wasted wealth in the Western world compared to rest of the globe has not prevented me from being swept away with consumerism. Socially irresponsible consumerism, that is. How it astonishes me that one night I read about neighbors in a Nairobi slum sharing coveted shoe polish as an act of kindness (for when shoe polish is sniffed it offsets hunger pains and is often used in bottles shared by children and adults) and the very next day go about my business without any sense of urgency regarding information I gained the evening prior! In the end of my days, how will I account for this? How do you and I manage to live in one world but have knowledge of another’s whose reality is too painful to comprehend?

There is a way.

There are many ways in fact. Small steps. Baby steps to change. Scholars have analyzed this issue- the predicament people encounter when faced with the enormity of world hunger and still conclude with the notion of - small steps. Everyone making – small steps.

It's Christmas - the season of gifts and if you engage in gift giving, below are some links you can glance at that can revolutionize your giving.

Meanwhile, here’s a passage that has recently spoken to me. Dark as it may be, it’s been a poignant charge that's created a liability I can’t seem to escape.  

“The more we love earthly things, reputation, importance, ease, success and pleasures, for ourselves, the less we love God. Our identity gets dissipated among a lot of things that do not have the value we imagine we see in them, and we are lost in them: we know it obscurely by the way all these things disappoint us and sicken us once we get what we have desired. Yet we still bring ourselves to nothing, annihilate our lives by trying to fulfill them on things that are incapable of doing so. When we really come to die, at last, we suddenly know how much we have squandered and thrown away, and we see that we are truly annihilated by our own sick desires: we were nothing, but everything God gave us we have also reduced to nothing, and now we are pure death.

                                                                         (September 3, 1941, Journal of Thomas Merton, 243-44)

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The Importance of Time

The summer is nearing an end around our home and I can’t help but feel speechless about it. Within the past six months it seems I’ve been witness to life changes of those around me. Family has moved in, moved out.....moved away. It's created a solemnness that still stings at times but for the most part has laid itself rest in my unspoken thoughts.  While I usually attack my summer plans with an organized aggressiveness this time it was different. I moved in slow motion through the month of May and cautiously closed a chapter I'd invested in at our oldest daughter’s school. It didn’t sink in until it was over that I had come to know parents, kids and teachers in the course of 4 years. It would be back to the drawing board come August and I had a few months to realize it and so did my daughter. The topic fell silent between her and I. What else was there to say?

This morning was the first day of school. Dropping off my kids on the first day of school has always been an interesting experience for me. It’s flooded with my own memories of the awkward insecurities I had as a young girl, mixed with anticipation for my own children and then grandly topped off with my inevitable social analysis of other families and the general process. By the time the grueling 15-minute ritual had been accomplished this morning, I felt as if I had just finished writing a thesis. Drained and unsure, my husband and I got in the car and fell into the routine of weekday demands. I thought to myself as we drove by and glanced at the windowed doorway that there would never be enough time to slow it down and take it all in. That much I am sure of.

I suppose that’s why yesterday went just as it was meant to. The last day of summer has traditionally been relished in the mountain air with my kids. Snapping the last few pictures near the lake with their summer tans, singing the songs that were the soundtrack of our summer on the radio.  But not yesterday.  Something inside me was still. Quiet. Something caused me to pause and interrupt my instinct to head for the hills. Even now I don’t know what…but I’m grateful for it. I watched my kids grow older in the matter of 5 minutes. They wanted to go outside with their friends and then they gathered in the backyard splashing about the hose while I was in the garden. It was a simple day. A window into their safe childhood summer and I felt privileged to look through it. We were all at peace. Just being, talking about nothing in particular and laughing at each other's outrageous attempts at humor.

We’re inevitably being pushed forward. Every day. Flung into tomorrow’s expectations and required to show up on time. I thought a lot about the question – what will I do with my time? People ask me this as if I’ve just received 40 hours a week of free time. After the general bitterness subsided over the question - I thought about it more. What I will I do with the time I’ve been given? What should any of us do with the spare 15 minutes we might have in an afternoon or the weekend off that we have at our disposable? What will I do in a two-hour respite that can change the world I live in? Not just maintain it - but improve it?  It’s irrelevant what age any of us are since this question applies to us all. And it applies at every hour of the day or night. How do you spend your time? It’s probably a good indicator of self-discipline, values, desire and ambition or lack thereof.  The thought occurred to me that without goals or ambition – how can I continue to become? The fear of falling subject to a lazy complacency provoked me to action. Thus, I created a few goals for myself.

And I began to feel hopeful. 

My lesson hour

I had the privilege accompanying my daughter to her classroom last night. I along with a handful of somewhat willing parents were lead around by our child from one station to next. The teacher adamantly made it clear that the night was the students. There were no instructions except to the student and that was that they can show their parent anything they want to as long as they’ve had a lesson on it. What struck me the most wasn’t the neatly laid trays or the washed linens that the children had hung but rather the intense discipline it took for the adults in the room to constrain themselves. It was almost sadly entertaining.

In a 24 hour period, a child’s day is typically completely dictated by an adult whether a teacher, parents, daycare worker etc. They are told what to do and how and when. They’re told how to behave or what to say. They’re even told how to apologize when they’ve done something “wrong” that they can’t comprehend to begin with.  Little toy soldiers marching about in accordance to adult world standards. It must be exhausting. Sadly, it seemed even more exhausting for the parents to not be in control.

I was silent while my daughter sheepishly looked about the room. Despite the on-going conversations about what she will do and how she will teach me days prior it appeared the adrenaline was quickly lost when adults were hovering over and I waited silently. Finally after much thought, she chose the bead wall to be the venue in which she’d reveal her vast amounts of skills and knowledge. I watched as she fetched a small rug and laid it down decisively. I started to scoot towards it when I was abruptly stopped by her hand straight out in the air as she shook her head saying “No, no no. You can’t sit on it” with an apologetic tone. “Oh” I said “Ok, thanks for letting me know.” She began laying down a strand of beads and placing small arrows with numbers at the bead it correlated with. “One, two, three, four, five” she’d whisper and then lay down the tiny gray “5” arrow. The other arrows were set in a neat row above her bead strand as she began to count again. “one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten”. Then she paused and surveyed the other arrows that were labeled 10, 15 , 20 and 25. She grabbed the 20 arrow and placed it down and began to count again from the very first bead. “One, two, three” and so on. When she arrived at bead 15 she searched for the arrow. Realizing that the previous was incorrect, she fixed it and finished the bead chain.

I found it interesting how extremely difficult it was to constrain myself in pointing out her mistake. Furthermore, as she returned to the first bead every time she started to place the next arrow I wondered how long I was to endure her counting the beads from the beginning instead of simply starting at 5 or 10. I wanted so desperately to impart my witty and easy tip as it would make her little mind expand twice as quickly! If only she had my help! I’m so important you know. After all, isn’t her classroom my personal space of expertise as well? But despite my instinct to guide, train, correct, “teach” her. . . I sat. Waiting. Waiting is so difficult yet we ask it of our children everyday. As well as our friends and family for that matter. It’s simply who we are. We ask for patience and grace yet it all of a sudden becomes a complex dilemma when we are to grant it ourselves. She rolled up her mat and carefully picked up the beads correcting me on how to hold them as not to accidentally hit another student in the head while I was walking (a sure sign that this observation had taken place earlier in the year). I told her that she really seemed to know her numbers and the order that they go. Then I asked her how long it took her to learn all of this stuff. “Well, the blue chain is really, really, REALLY hard” she replied not answering my question. But it wasn’t about me. I couldv’e asked her again how long it took but I realized – she doesn’t care so why should I? BINGO!  She had brought me to a lesson that has been the most difficult for her and she started with the hardest chain to show me as an example. That takes some serious guts. She couldv’e shown me anything but the bead wall let alone picked an easier chain to start with. But it was her night. She was the teacher and given enough silence and patience on my part, had taught me a difficult task with grace and precision.

Meanwhile I observed other parents talking to one another as their child tugged at their shirt. “Ok just wait a minute honey, I’m talking to Mrs. Harris” they told their kids. Unknowingly requesting them to wait in a situation that they shouldn’t ever have to. But of course, if a child tried to tell their parent “no, I want you to see this” then they risk the label of talking back and the punishment that follow. I had the luxury of not knowing many parents and my own husband was out of town so my focus was able to be on my kid. But what if that wasn’t the case? I wonder if I’d make the same observations. I asked the teacher as we were leaving if they ever instructed the kids to begin at bead 5 or bead 10 and then count up from there versus beginning with the first bead everytime. She said that they didn’t need to instruct them because after enough repetition, the children learn this naturally and it’s much more beneficial for them to come upon that discovery by themselves. If a child asks, then they would reply something like “that’s a good question, how about we find out?”.

It’s so difficult to wait. To think that maybe. Just maybe – I’m not the expert in my children’s lives. Or even WORSE! My family or friends. YIKES! I don’t know everything? I don’t have their solutions? That they might have something valuable in from their perspective to show me and if I talked or instructed, I completely destroy that beautiful encounter that could have taken place.

It’s difficult to be silent. It’s hard to wait. Maybe it’s because it requires a smidgen of humility. And humility is in low demand these days. . .

Gone

I feel uneasy. It happens quite a lot. It’s difficult to talk about without sounding sad. I’m not sad. More anxious. Unsatisfied but not ungrateful. Like having a craving that you can’t satisfy or an itch that you can’t quite reach. Deep down inside I wonder if I’ve denied my gypsy tendencies. . . chosen a road that I enjoy but a selfless one that any parent might understand.  Laid down roots that bind me. I don’t like to feel bound. It’s claustrophobic. It’s like choosing what routine you want to dance for years and years. Sounds morbid doesn’t it? I don’t mean it to (look, see – I’m apologizing). It’s just me. I feel like “just a wife and mom” and not so much like myself. Many times I enjoy the cadence of my family's life but one can still want more while enjoying something.

I’ve been distracted. Pre-occupied looking around my life instead of actually living it. As if I’ve been fixated on the view from my window instead of the one I’ve always hoped to see. Meanwhile feeling like an outsider. While standing around talking mommy talk or observing myself in a conversation with a neighbor. I’m a fraud. I think –Who the hell cares about what swimming lesson is better than the other or why you won’t go to a certain theater. Don’t they know there’s more to life? Is something wrong with me that I think the people next to me at Costco are superficial? After all,  I’m in line with them! Am I judging them that their loading up on destructive paper towels and pre-packaged baby carrots that in all reality don’t even resemble a carrot? I couldn't keep track of how many, myself included, loaded up on things they didn't know they needed until they came upon the coveted shelves at Target. It's a sickness.

I’m not sure what’s changed but I feel a shift in perspective. I’m almost indifferent about those things and irritated that they’ve been distracting me for so long. I enjoy my safe little life but I fear it’s become a drug. It’s not something that this mother of three brain of mine thought would ever be appropriate to say but I don’t want any roots. At least not deep ones. Is that strange? All I’ve known of home has now become a collection of dear people and irreplaceable memories.

I just want to GO! Go Somewhere. Go anywhere! Into the world that’s been waiting on me and I on it. To get lost. Eat "strange" food, be uncomfortable, make surprising connections, meet God on the altars of inconvenience. Outside of this blinding western perspective. Apart from the debt-driven machine of suburban life. To quit ringing that darn dinner bell in the kitchen but instead to tell my family “I don’t know what’s for dinner, let’s see where the train drops us at next.”

Am I selfish or just honest? I suppose most of all . . . I feel free. Free and now eager. One day I'll tell someone that I can't meet with them because I'll be gone. GONE. I'll be out of the country. They'll ask where I'll be going and I'll reply with some fuzzy idea but all I know is that I'll be gone. Long gone. One day. . .

The world is a book and for those who do not travel read only one page. ~St. Augustine

Two wheels and a bump.

My family and I have engaged in the delicate dance of teaching a child to ride a bike without training wheels. She'll sway and bump her way down the street with the tips of her toes awkwardly jerking down towards the concrete. She hasn't figured it out yet and is still in the mode I refer to as: Completely Terrified. I was thinking. . . she hasn't fallen yet and it's the fear of the fall that's daunting. What if I fail? The questions can stop us in our tracks. Or worse: What if I actually gave it my all?

Luckily, I have it under my belt and behind me whereas she, a 6 yr. old is still learning. Right?

OK, so picture this: Once upon a time (this afternoon) I decided to ride my bike down to the park. I took in the warm sun on my shoulders and listened with a child-like wonder to the wind whistling fiercely through the wheels. I thought of my daughter and how one day she and I will take rides together much like the one I was enjoying. I'd be a savvy Urban ROCK STAR Mom who rides to the grocery store! YES! That's it. And with a bunch of little green-granola-tree-hugging kids following behind me like little ducklings. Happily and merrily we'll take on suburbia before we venture into real biking that's only done on trails. These memories will give them tales to tell their friends for years to come. I'll be awesome....coolest Mom on the block! Wouldn't you know it right in the middle of my mommy nostalgia moment I rode over some loose gravel, the back wheel spun, pebbles flew up and PLOP CRASH BOOM BAM! Into the center of the road I went! About as graceful as Bambi slipping on ice. I brushed myself off and swiftly drug my bike out of the way careful to not bend more pride than was needed. Hmm. Maybe I'm not as cool as I thought. It had never dawned on me until then - Oh yeah.....Maybe they won't want to ride with me?

I guess I better practice riding my bike with my 6 yr. old because I think she's the Rock Star and hopefully if I get the hang of it she might let me come along.

See-through walls

I took on a project for a dear friend of mine. I offered to paint her kitchen while she was out of town. Although a bit reluctant at first, she eventually conceded thus I donned my faded painting attire and headed out to her place. At the time I didn’t put much thought into her reservations nor why she had them. I knew why and because we’re so close I ensured her they were silly because I was simply happy to offer something . . . invest a little of my time to make her life easier upon her return home. I was able to do it so I thought "why not". But once I entered the house, set the keys down and got the supplies in order I slowly realized that I was in a position that maybe made her a bit vulnerable. I set my iPod on a Mumford & Sons loop and began edging along the door frame.

Besides the obvious access to her home, she would be the recipient of hours of work on my part. We were essentially in unequal positions whereas I the giver, was “gifting” a small sacrifice from my perspective and she the recipient, was receiving something significant from hers. I felt honored and a bit humbled as I was brushing off base boards and filling in random nail holes. I got to see her kitchen in way that was more exposed than a typical guest would experience. There’d be the typical collection of dust in a corner behind the fridge or layers of chipped paint behind a faceplate switch. Small details that no one really cares about except maybe the owner of the walls and yet here I was in a position to see everything the way it is during transition. Raw. Vulnerable and the other end of of my charity.

A simple story about painting someone’s kitchen might seem insignificant. . . until I invested some thought to the numerous ways I unknowingly position myself in the lives of others. I was presented with this very opportunity later that week while I was looking into some activities for my church women’s group. I received a call back from a woman who coordinates a local volunteer group that “seeks to improve the quality of life for women and children living in poverty and despair”. She began to rattle of the list of volunteer activities we could assist in and I was particularly startled by one of them. Twice a month she and the other members of this group visit a local women’s shelter. They provide dinner for the residents and chat while eating with the women and their children. After dinner they conduct what she referred to as a “life skill” lesson coupled with some sort of Biblical devotion and prayer. Having a grasp on domestic violence intervention and empowerment I asked a series of questions and admittedly, didn’t like the answers returned to me.

“How do you feel the residents in the program receive your group when they come?” I asked.

“Oh they usually are glad to see us and they listen a lot. Their children are just some of the cutest little darlings you’ll ever meet. Sometimes they’re a little quiet but really just so sweet”. She replied.

“Yes” I paused. “I guess I’m kind of interested in knowing… well, do the residents have a choice to attend dinner in the common room or do some choose to eat someplace else in the facility?”

A little confused by the question she explained “Well, no. That’s all a part of the program – they have to attend dinner in the common area and be a part of the life skills hour. It happens every week but we get a turn to teach a life skill lesson twice a month”.

Then there I was. Faced with the decision to either take the agreeable, polite exit from this particular volunteering option (the exit which would be socially acceptable) or be somewhat of an advocate and risk looking like a cynical snob. So when in doubt…just keep asking questions.

“So then, if you don’t mind….I was just wondering what sort of training the members of your group might have in the area of domestic abuse or dealing with women who’ve maybe been exploited or in . . . you know . . . controlling relationships where they don’t have a lot of choices?”

Silence.

“Well we aren’t formally trained for any kind of you know, "psychological" stuff if that’s what you mean. But we believe that these ladies are precious children of God and we just want to go in there and love them and bring some hope and light to their world” she stated in her sweet but short elevator speech reply.

“Sure. Of course” I said with a smile while bobbing my head up and down in the most agreeable fashion I could conjure up. I eventually detoured my way off the phone and hung up disheartened knowing that this woman was an average kind, concerned citizen whose engaging in something she believes in. And while I know her intentions are good I immediately become flustered at how counter-productive these volunteer groups have the potential to be.

What I REALLY wanted to say was something along the lines of: It sounds like your group is really passionate about helping others and being used to give your time and abilities to people in need. That is really wonderful! However, I suppose I’m curious how effective it might be to allow folks who don’t have any formal training in the concept of power, privilege and control and the roles that these concepts have in the fragile cycle of healing from oppressive situations. Take a resident at this shelter whose been in a situation where she’s probably been powerless and “handled”.  She’s taken an incomprehensible step towards breaking free from this cycle only to enter a shelter that requires her to subject her children to strangers – volunteers -that want to pat their heads and “teach” her how to live. She nods politely while they share their stories of when they had a rough year in college and how they saved themselves occasionally accepting cliché advice given by well-meaning do-gooders that in the long run won’t apply to their personal situations in the slightest. She eats the meal they provide because she has to or her and her children will be on the street. Then she waves goodbye to the volunteers as they get in their SUV’s and head to the local Starbucks to order a cup of warm fuzzies with a shot of ignorance. All the while no one stops to think that maybe re-inserting an individual into a situation of un-equal power and control with no choice to opt-out might not be the best idea in a program that promotes empowerment. You're observing them in this fish bowl living situation as if their walls should be see-through for our benefit. And so they continue into cyclical vulnerability.

But I didn't say that. Instead, I told her I probably won’t go with that option but I’ll let her know about the others and thanked her for taking the time to share with me.

Maybe it sounds like I’m a bit jaded but maybe it’s inappropriate if I weren’t. It’s interesting to me how our good intentions via donation of time or money to those in socially inferior positions aren’t critically thought about that often. It’s a no brainer to most folks that we should “help” others who need help. We swiftly assume that we have something to give that will improve the quality of life of someone else and neglect how it may be putting them in an increasingly vulnerable and powerless situation. Say for instance . . . “rescuing” victims of human trafficking. Uh oh, now I’ve done it.

We walk right through people’s see-through walls and pay no mind to the invisible boundaries they’d like to make more visible. . . but they can't. I’m not sure we even stop to ask them because if we did the results could be devastating. Requiring us to overhaul our approach completely.

It’s complex and it’s uncomfortable. Talking about it invokes some defensive feelings in anyone who has volunteered or currently volunteers in similar situations (or donates monetarily).  Just last weekend I was in another situation where I had this advantage and it’s tricky to maneuver. It's tricky because it's everywhere and it's our idea of normal.

It’s always easier to be the gift-giver. Especially if you feel your gift is right.

Meanwhile back at my friend’s house, I wrapped up the brushes for the night, closed up the windows and turned off the lights. I had a lot of time to think and maybe that’s why this phone call later that week was so unsettling.

Either way. . . my friend got some painted walls and I got a dose of humility. It was a good week.

L-O-V-E

I've always loved this passage and thought it fitting to share on this day. We all have lovers in our lives whether we may think them as such. A friend that is at times, closer to yourself than you are. A family member or two whose bonds surpass death and memories are sprinkled throughout your days with a bitter sweet melody. Your faith and hopefully even a strong love for yourself.

Happy Valentine's Day. May you know the beauty of love, if even the memory of it. 

Kahil Gibran on Love
From The Prophet

When love beckons to you, follow him,

Though his ways are hard and steep.

And when his wings enfold you yield to him,

Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.

And when he speaks to you believe in him,

Though his voice may shatter your dreams

as the north wind lays waste the garden. 

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.

Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,

So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth. 

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.

He threshes you to make you naked.

He sifts you to free you from your husks.

He grinds you to whiteness.

He kneads you until you are pliant;

And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast. 

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart. 

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,

Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor,

Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.

Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;

For love is sufficient unto love. 

When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, "I am in the heart of God."

And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course. 

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.

But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:

To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.

To know the pain of too much tenderness.

To be wounded by your own understanding of love;

And to bleed willingly and joyfully.

To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;

To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;

To return home at eventide with gratitude;

And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.