I've heard that one of the hardest parts of parenthood/parenting is learning to let go. Children need us the absolute most during their time in the womb - they are the most dependent on us, for everything, in this phase of life. At birth, they first gain the ability to breathe independently.... then moment by moment they begin the rapid process of growing and acclimating to this world, taking steps away from their parents as they develop the skills they need for an independent life.
My daughter Hazel, is about to turn 15 months old. My sweet girl. More and more, I see these signs of independence as she attempts to do things on her own, whether she can actually do them or not. With each new accomplishment, I am so proud of her. AND, I can already tell that perhaps one of my most important jobs as a parent is to navigate this letting go process.... to go from doing absolutely everything for her at the start, and allowing her day by day to do more on her own as she gains competence, knowledge, and ability. Perhaps my most notable "real world" moment of this letting go lesson to date, was sometime last week. (I am aware that I will have a million trillion more lessons in this, probably continuously, for the rest of my life).
Hazel began walking with regularity about 2 months ago. Her confidence has increased, and she moves quickly and fearlessly in our home. However, when we began to go outside and walk on the pavement (or the grass or another unfamiliar surface), Hazel did not move. Not one step. It was like her tiny feet were frozen blocks of ice in her newly purchased hot pink shoes. Kneeling down at her level, I would encourage her, telling her it was okay to move. To take that step. That I would be here if she wobbled, or tripped, or fell down. She would look at me with a smirk, but her feet and legs remained firmly planted. Until I reached out and took her hand. Then she would feel free to walk and roam and squeal with abandon, taking in the sights and smells of the great outdoors.
Although I hated to see her paralyzed by her fear, there was a secret temporary comfort I took in knowing that she wouldn't move unless I held her hand in mine. That she wouldn't be in danger. However, she has been getting more comfortable being outside each day. Last week she decided that she was no longer afraid of the concrete beneath her feet, and she took off.
For a moment, I panicked... I followed behind her so closely, fighting the urge to stop her altogether. "What if she falls?!" I thought. "What if she gets scraped up, or bleeds, or worse?" My mind raced as I tried to center myself. And then, the other side of my brain spoke up and said, "Stefanie - you just have to let her run. Let her go. What happens will happen. You won't always be there to protect her. This is how she will learn. This is an important part of her growth process, and you need to step out of the way."
Hazel, of course, was fine. (She would have been fine even if she HAD fallen and gotten banged up - which she didn't. This time). I, however, was introduced to the panic I am positive I will feel many times over as my little girl grows and runs and explores and falls and hurts. I will likely fight this internal battle over and over, as thoughts of my sweet little one in pain - physical or emotional - just rips my heart from my chest, tears it in half, and stomps all over it.
And I'm reminded of a story that my friend, colleague, and dance company director told me about his now almost five-year old daughter. He told me that he used to put his arm out in front of her, just in case, as she walked down the stairs in their home. One day they, as usual, walked down the stairs and he - out of habit and that fierce internal nature to protect - put his arm out. And she said to him something to the effect of, "No, Daddy. No. No be careful. I fall down, I get boo boo. I be okay."
Phew. What a wise, brave soul. In such a tiny body.
Because no parent, no person, no hero can protect the ones we love from the pain we will feel in this life. To live is to grow, to grow is to hurt, to hurt is to heal, and to heal is how we carry on. And what an important lesson for a child to learn. What an important skill for my precious child to develop - to fall down, to hurt, to learn to stand up again. To learn how to cope with all the ups and downs life will bring. To carry on.
So... I will work on this letting go thing. I will work on standing out of the way. I will hurt when she hurts, and I will pick her up when she falls. And she will be okay. And I will be, too.
All things considered, it won't be easy. But necessary - indeed.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Monday, April 16, 2012
Worlds Collide
I have an undergraduate degree in dance, and a masters degree in clinical social work. I currently do both professionally. I've gone through phases of keeping these worlds separate, or bringing them together and allowing the wires to cross if a sensible opportunity might present itself. Although they SEEM worlds apart, practicing social work could easily be compared to dancing. Moving here there and everywhere, both in my body and mind: doing home visits, going to meetings, handling crises, keeping all of the important information in my head and on paper, receiving difficult emotions and supporting people through trauma - present and past. Often like dance, it is a negotiation of time, space, and emotional content/response.
I see dance as my release - the physical manifestation and processing of the mental/emotional content that I deal with as a social worker. All day, I take in other people's information... their problems, their feelings, their fears and hopes. And I am honored to do the work that I do, and to share in these people's lives. It is extremely gratifying and humbling. And I learn from my clients all the time. Sometimes I am in such disbelief about all the terrible things they have experienced in their lives, and yet how they have the courage to carry on. At times, it does get extremely hard... and dance provides me a space in which to express my own feelings or emotions or responses to my work (and my life in general) that have been stored up, blocked, or put on a shelf so that I can continue on.
Lately, my social work/dance worlds have been colliding in surprising ways.
One of the dance companies that I am a long-time company member with, is in residence at a local hospital - more specifically with a center that treats cancer patients. Members of the company lead patients in the waiting rooms through a series of stretches and movements while they wait to see doctors; they teach classes for the staff - gentle movement classes that focus on easing stress and stretching their overworked and tired muscles; and doing occasional performances in the main lobby for staff, patients, visitors, etc to see.
In the past few months, I've known two people to get treated at this particular center for their advanced stage illnesses. One was the executive director of the nonprofit where I work as a social worker. The other, was the mother of my co-worker. Unfortunately, heart-breakingly...only a few months after their devastating diagnoses, they both passed on, way too soon.
Only weeks later, I found myself at the cancer center for a scheduled dance performance, thinking of those who have been loved and lost.
And as we performed excerpts of our newest work, titled "Worship/Home," the sun shown through the windows, behind us and over us as we danced. It transformed our performance space (the lobby, pretty much) into a lovely nook with an ethereal glow. There was something magical about this particular day, this time, this place, and this dance, and how it all came together. We reached a point in our performance, where we go into the audience and ask someone questions about their favorite room in their home. I had noticed a woman in the audience, wearing pink scrubs and holding her lunch in her lap. I couldn't really tell, but it seemed as though she was tearing up as she had been watching. I approached her and the person beside her to ask if someone would be willing to let me ask a few questions. Enthusiastically, she said, "sure! I would!" Unexpected, but great! I thought. I asked her if she had a favorite room in her home. "My bedroom," she said. And I asked her what about that room made it special to her, or what she felt when she was there. She looked at me with a crooked smile, and said "It's peaceful. And I think there. And sometimes..." her voice broke, and tears welled up as she said, "...sometimes, I'm sad." I tried, hard, not to crumble along side of her. I could just feel her pain, seeping out from behind the the crooked smile and weary eyes. Grateful for her beautifully open, flowing heart and awed by her amazing courage, I managed to look into her eyes and say to her, "Thank you so much for sharing that with me. I'm going to do a dance for you now, inspired by what you have told me about how you feel when you are in your favorite room."
Choked up, I stepped back, closed my eyes, and slowly... carefully...gently... danced for her.
What a powerful, humbling, human moment. I'll never forget it.
These two dynamic worlds that I often live in continue to surprise me with their intersections, collisions, and organic comparisons. Social work is some of the most gritty, human, work there is. It is raw. It is exuberant, when people overcome their adversities and succeed or heal. It is natural that life will ebb and flow; the traumatic and the joyful, the contentment and the struggle, the peace and the sadness. Dance is an amazing vessel to hold and release our experiences, thoughts, and feelings from the inside out. A negotiation of time, space, and emotional content/response.
All things considered, dance and social work aren't so different after all.
I see dance as my release - the physical manifestation and processing of the mental/emotional content that I deal with as a social worker. All day, I take in other people's information... their problems, their feelings, their fears and hopes. And I am honored to do the work that I do, and to share in these people's lives. It is extremely gratifying and humbling. And I learn from my clients all the time. Sometimes I am in such disbelief about all the terrible things they have experienced in their lives, and yet how they have the courage to carry on. At times, it does get extremely hard... and dance provides me a space in which to express my own feelings or emotions or responses to my work (and my life in general) that have been stored up, blocked, or put on a shelf so that I can continue on.
Lately, my social work/dance worlds have been colliding in surprising ways.
One of the dance companies that I am a long-time company member with, is in residence at a local hospital - more specifically with a center that treats cancer patients. Members of the company lead patients in the waiting rooms through a series of stretches and movements while they wait to see doctors; they teach classes for the staff - gentle movement classes that focus on easing stress and stretching their overworked and tired muscles; and doing occasional performances in the main lobby for staff, patients, visitors, etc to see.
In the past few months, I've known two people to get treated at this particular center for their advanced stage illnesses. One was the executive director of the nonprofit where I work as a social worker. The other, was the mother of my co-worker. Unfortunately, heart-breakingly...only a few months after their devastating diagnoses, they both passed on, way too soon.
Only weeks later, I found myself at the cancer center for a scheduled dance performance, thinking of those who have been loved and lost.
And as we performed excerpts of our newest work, titled "Worship/Home," the sun shown through the windows, behind us and over us as we danced. It transformed our performance space (the lobby, pretty much) into a lovely nook with an ethereal glow. There was something magical about this particular day, this time, this place, and this dance, and how it all came together. We reached a point in our performance, where we go into the audience and ask someone questions about their favorite room in their home. I had noticed a woman in the audience, wearing pink scrubs and holding her lunch in her lap. I couldn't really tell, but it seemed as though she was tearing up as she had been watching. I approached her and the person beside her to ask if someone would be willing to let me ask a few questions. Enthusiastically, she said, "sure! I would!" Unexpected, but great! I thought. I asked her if she had a favorite room in her home. "My bedroom," she said. And I asked her what about that room made it special to her, or what she felt when she was there. She looked at me with a crooked smile, and said "It's peaceful. And I think there. And sometimes..." her voice broke, and tears welled up as she said, "...sometimes, I'm sad." I tried, hard, not to crumble along side of her. I could just feel her pain, seeping out from behind the the crooked smile and weary eyes. Grateful for her beautifully open, flowing heart and awed by her amazing courage, I managed to look into her eyes and say to her, "Thank you so much for sharing that with me. I'm going to do a dance for you now, inspired by what you have told me about how you feel when you are in your favorite room."
Choked up, I stepped back, closed my eyes, and slowly... carefully...gently... danced for her.
What a powerful, humbling, human moment. I'll never forget it.
These two dynamic worlds that I often live in continue to surprise me with their intersections, collisions, and organic comparisons. Social work is some of the most gritty, human, work there is. It is raw. It is exuberant, when people overcome their adversities and succeed or heal. It is natural that life will ebb and flow; the traumatic and the joyful, the contentment and the struggle, the peace and the sadness. Dance is an amazing vessel to hold and release our experiences, thoughts, and feelings from the inside out. A negotiation of time, space, and emotional content/response.
All things considered, dance and social work aren't so different after all.
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