And just like that, you are two years old.
Two. Years. Old.
What a full two years it's been, my love.
From the moment you were born, I loved looking into your deep blue eyes and running my fingers through your midnight black hair. Two years later, your eyes have turned to a shade of greenish grey, and your hair has lightened to a milk chocolate brown. Still, you are beautiful beyond words and I catch myself staring at you often, taking you in. Your smile and your spirit stretch to the edges of any room you inhabit, and reach to the corners of my heart.
Your light has been my armor these past two years. Your laugh, the life raft that has pulled me out of some deep moments of grief and into the present.
I want to capture the essence of you in these moments, in these days. These days, filled with beauty and struggle and the ups and downs of toddlerhood.
You are spunky and highly spirited - strong willed, as my mother says. You know what you want, and you let us all know when you're not happy with how things are going. I forget how in-the-moment toddlers are... you swing from ultimate joy to meltdown mode in seconds. And then back to happy again. It's hard to keep up, but we do our best.
You are profoundly kind for a person of your size and experience in this world. You always say "bess you, Mommy" when I sneeze. When Hazel coughs or trips, you instantly attune to her and say "you okay, Hazel?" You bring your sister a drink or a toy at random moments without prompting, and you give the best kisses.
You play hard. You rip books to shreds. I call you my little "tornado," as you move your way through the house, destroying things along the way. I tell myself that the upside to this means you will do things with gusto later in life, tackling fear and launching yourself into new things (just as you fearlessly launch yourself head first down the slide at the playground... deep breaths...).
I will be the cushion for you, my love. Your soft spot to land on.... should you need one, due to all that launching.
I'd like to think that the second time around, we are a bit improved at this parenting gig. But I know we make mistakes. I apologize for the times in the past and the times to come when I lose my patience, or misunderstand, or just don't give as much as I should. I know you will see all of me - all of my humanness. I only hope to be aware enough and brave enough to let you know when I've messed up, and to tell you that I'm so sorry when I let you down.
You, just like your sister, are our teacher. You lead us through the paths you stumble down, skinned knees and all. We follow you, band-aids in hand and steeled hearts and and stand in awe of the tiny person you are becoming.
So tiny, but so huge. You take up space and you light up the world.
Your blossoming relationship with your big sister fills me to the brim with happiness. I know you will love each other forever, even when you hate each other. You are a gift to her, as she is to you. Just don't "borrow" her favorite shoes and then wear them to a muddy outdoor party and then sneak them back into her closet. Trust me. It won't go well.
I am so sad that you only got to know your sweet Papa for four short months before he became ill, and that you won't ever get to know his smile, his wonderful warm hugs, the depth of his love for you. But I know you made him so happy in his final months, weeks, and days, and this will always warm my soul. You are infinitely connected to him. You will learn about him through our stories, our hugs, our pictures, and our own pieces of him that we all carry in our hearts.
Two years, my littlest love. I can't wait to see where you take us in the next two, and the next two, and the next. I wonder what this big world has in store for you. Wherever you go, whenever you launch, whatever happens, we'll be right here.
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Sunday, June 21, 2015
The yellow rose
My mom and sister were in town this week, here to celebrate Charlie's second birthday, and also to help take care of the girls while our nanny is out of the country. Before they left, my other sister Sheri asked them to buy me a yellow rose at the store. She didn't say why. When I texted her to thank her and ask what it was for, she told me that I would find out soon.
Today, she sent me this message:
A few weeks ago, I dreamt of Dad. It was my first dream of him since he's been gone. In it, he looked younger, with black hair and those thick rimmed black glasses. He was smiling the way he does where his cheeks get round and his eyes crinkle. He was opening his arms to me, and enveloped me in one of his snug, warm, tight-but-not-too-tight hugs. That hug was filled with his love for me, and it radiated off him, into me. And he was happy, or satisfied, or complete. At peace. As he hugged me, he whispered, "Whenever you see a yellow rose, think of me, and the love I have for you." Even though I'm crying now, I wasn't sad in the dream. I was content. And I felt Dad's love. And I knew that this dream wasn't just for me, but for you, too. Yellow is associated with the sun, with feelings of warmth and caring. Yellow roses send messages of joy, appreciation, and love.
Although I've never been a fan of yellow roses, they now hold a powerful new meaning for me - they remind me of our Dad, his warmth for others, and his love for us.
I'm thinking of you on this Father's Day, and I'm sending you lots of love.
The rose is from Dad.
Love you,
Me
I finished reading and I sat in awe. Tears slid down my round cheeks. And as I smiled, my eyes began to crinkle.
Today, she sent me this message:
A few weeks ago, I dreamt of Dad. It was my first dream of him since he's been gone. In it, he looked younger, with black hair and those thick rimmed black glasses. He was smiling the way he does where his cheeks get round and his eyes crinkle. He was opening his arms to me, and enveloped me in one of his snug, warm, tight-but-not-too-tight hugs. That hug was filled with his love for me, and it radiated off him, into me. And he was happy, or satisfied, or complete. At peace. As he hugged me, he whispered, "Whenever you see a yellow rose, think of me, and the love I have for you." Even though I'm crying now, I wasn't sad in the dream. I was content. And I felt Dad's love. And I knew that this dream wasn't just for me, but for you, too. Yellow is associated with the sun, with feelings of warmth and caring. Yellow roses send messages of joy, appreciation, and love.
Although I've never been a fan of yellow roses, they now hold a powerful new meaning for me - they remind me of our Dad, his warmth for others, and his love for us.
I'm thinking of you on this Father's Day, and I'm sending you lots of love.
The rose is from Dad.
Love you,
Me
I finished reading and I sat in awe. Tears slid down my round cheeks. And as I smiled, my eyes began to crinkle.
Thursday, December 18, 2014
For Dad
Something that I wrote and shared at my Dad's memorial service, 10/25/2014.
_________________________________________________________________________
Using his words, Dad would be "so tickled" to see all of you here, in celebration of his life today.
As you all know, Dad was a sweet and gentle soul. He was kind and extremely affectionate. He loved music, dancing, singing and watching live performances. He was a passionate man, with a free and loving spirit. Passionate about his family, people, politics, and business. Occasionally, his passion would slip over into anger... liiiiike that time when I broke the fourth TV remote in a row, or that other time when I poured water directly into the back of the television. Oops. In 1983, Dad's passion led him to open his own used car business and he operated it for 25 years. The connotation, when you hear the term "used car salesman", is not typically a good one. I always used to tell people that Dad was a used car salesman, but not the stereotypical kind. He was a used car salesman with a big heart. He loved cars and selling cars, but more than anything, he loved to help people. He always gave people breaks, and had the softest spot for those who were struggling in some way. He often sat with potential or current customers, listening to their stories of financial hardship, job problems, illness, and family strife. He had a heart for those who were hurting. And so, he sold discounted cars to people who needed them, and he very rarely repossessed a car. Our basement, growing up as kids, was a testament to this. It was treasure mine of random items that Dad had collected as "collateral." If someone couldn't make a payment, Dad would keep the collateral in exchange. So we ended up with trombones, other old rusty instruments, jewelry, record players, stereos, old video games, etc. It was always so fun to see, "hey! what's in the basement this week??" In essence, Dad collected other people's stuff, so that they could keep their car when the cash came up short. That's just the kind of man he was. He always cared, always trusted, always wanted people to get ahead, always tried hard to give people the benefit of the doubt.
It was a simple, modest living, but Dad's work was rich. I have learned so much about real, unconditional, nonjudgmental love, by watching him.
Dad made friends easily, and he always made our friends feel like family. He greeted people with a warm smile and a great hug. All were welcome, anytime, any place. Growing up, and even now, our friends didn't call him Mr. Quinones. They called him Papa Q.
Dad had a special way with words. He had sayings that were very specific to him. He said funny things like, "I need to put on my sweat-out suit" instead of "sweat suit" or "It doesn't mean zelch", combining "zero" and "zilch". "You eat with your eyes," was something he said, instead of "your eyes are bigger than your stomach." "To beat the band" was also one of his go-to phrases. He used that one in every situation possible. I'm not even really sure what it means. I think it means a lot of something, or very much? He'd say things like "This Chinese food is terrific, to beat the band!" or "There was traffic, to beat the band." He tended to make up words and phrases, and we loved this about him. It always made us laugh. He was quite the philosopher, too, and gave us many words of wisdom to live by. He always encouraged us to live life to the fullest, and to follow our hearts. One memorable quote from Dad was "Good friends are like cushions of comfort." I had no idea how true that would be. Even after his surgeries when his speech and functioning were compromised, in his better moments, he still had words of wisdom for us. Some of my favorite post-surgery gems were, "Life is life," "You can't worry your life away," "Change your job, change your act, change your heart," "Time is precious," and "Spirit is a universal language."
Dad was a hard worker. He worked hard, long hours to support his family, and to provide for our needs. In the last few years of his life, he expressed remorse that he worked so much and wasn't physically there more often for Mom and for us... that he didn't help out more with raising us, or spend more time with us growing up. It hurt so much to see how this pained him... but more than that, it was amazing to see yet another layer of his character revealed. One that could see and recognize his human imperfections, and be vulnerable in that difficult space, and to say "I'm sorry." I will never forget those beautiful moments. I told him, "It's okay, Dad. You took care of us. You always did the best you knew how to do for us. And we always knew how much you loved us."
It's difficult to find the words to describe how much we will miss him. But his great passion for life, his great love for family, his heart for the less fortunate, and the beauty of light that he spread to all who knew him, will always live in us. He'll be the sparkle in our eyes, when we see each other. The strength in our arms, when we reach out to hug a friend or to lift someone up from the ground. He'll be the tenor in our voice when we sing and laugh, and the pep in our step when we dance.
We love you, Dad... to beat the band. And we take comfort in the knowledge that you are finally home.
_________________________________________________________________________
Using his words, Dad would be "so tickled" to see all of you here, in celebration of his life today.
As you all know, Dad was a sweet and gentle soul. He was kind and extremely affectionate. He loved music, dancing, singing and watching live performances. He was a passionate man, with a free and loving spirit. Passionate about his family, people, politics, and business. Occasionally, his passion would slip over into anger... liiiiike that time when I broke the fourth TV remote in a row, or that other time when I poured water directly into the back of the television. Oops. In 1983, Dad's passion led him to open his own used car business and he operated it for 25 years. The connotation, when you hear the term "used car salesman", is not typically a good one. I always used to tell people that Dad was a used car salesman, but not the stereotypical kind. He was a used car salesman with a big heart. He loved cars and selling cars, but more than anything, he loved to help people. He always gave people breaks, and had the softest spot for those who were struggling in some way. He often sat with potential or current customers, listening to their stories of financial hardship, job problems, illness, and family strife. He had a heart for those who were hurting. And so, he sold discounted cars to people who needed them, and he very rarely repossessed a car. Our basement, growing up as kids, was a testament to this. It was treasure mine of random items that Dad had collected as "collateral." If someone couldn't make a payment, Dad would keep the collateral in exchange. So we ended up with trombones, other old rusty instruments, jewelry, record players, stereos, old video games, etc. It was always so fun to see, "hey! what's in the basement this week??" In essence, Dad collected other people's stuff, so that they could keep their car when the cash came up short. That's just the kind of man he was. He always cared, always trusted, always wanted people to get ahead, always tried hard to give people the benefit of the doubt.
It was a simple, modest living, but Dad's work was rich. I have learned so much about real, unconditional, nonjudgmental love, by watching him.
Dad made friends easily, and he always made our friends feel like family. He greeted people with a warm smile and a great hug. All were welcome, anytime, any place. Growing up, and even now, our friends didn't call him Mr. Quinones. They called him Papa Q.
Dad had a special way with words. He had sayings that were very specific to him. He said funny things like, "I need to put on my sweat-out suit" instead of "sweat suit" or "It doesn't mean zelch", combining "zero" and "zilch". "You eat with your eyes," was something he said, instead of "your eyes are bigger than your stomach." "To beat the band" was also one of his go-to phrases. He used that one in every situation possible. I'm not even really sure what it means. I think it means a lot of something, or very much? He'd say things like "This Chinese food is terrific, to beat the band!" or "There was traffic, to beat the band." He tended to make up words and phrases, and we loved this about him. It always made us laugh. He was quite the philosopher, too, and gave us many words of wisdom to live by. He always encouraged us to live life to the fullest, and to follow our hearts. One memorable quote from Dad was "Good friends are like cushions of comfort." I had no idea how true that would be. Even after his surgeries when his speech and functioning were compromised, in his better moments, he still had words of wisdom for us. Some of my favorite post-surgery gems were, "Life is life," "You can't worry your life away," "Change your job, change your act, change your heart," "Time is precious," and "Spirit is a universal language."
Dad was a hard worker. He worked hard, long hours to support his family, and to provide for our needs. In the last few years of his life, he expressed remorse that he worked so much and wasn't physically there more often for Mom and for us... that he didn't help out more with raising us, or spend more time with us growing up. It hurt so much to see how this pained him... but more than that, it was amazing to see yet another layer of his character revealed. One that could see and recognize his human imperfections, and be vulnerable in that difficult space, and to say "I'm sorry." I will never forget those beautiful moments. I told him, "It's okay, Dad. You took care of us. You always did the best you knew how to do for us. And we always knew how much you loved us."
It's difficult to find the words to describe how much we will miss him. But his great passion for life, his great love for family, his heart for the less fortunate, and the beauty of light that he spread to all who knew him, will always live in us. He'll be the sparkle in our eyes, when we see each other. The strength in our arms, when we reach out to hug a friend or to lift someone up from the ground. He'll be the tenor in our voice when we sing and laugh, and the pep in our step when we dance.
We love you, Dad... to beat the band. And we take comfort in the knowledge that you are finally home.
Saturday, October 18, 2014
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
A thousand tiny little pieces
Taking pictures with Dad, Hazel wanted to take one "by herself" with Papa. So, I took a few.
This was yesterday.
"I love you, Papa," she said as we stood by his bed to say goodbye. "I love you too, baby," he managed to whisper, almost soundless, under his breath. "He said I love you too baby!" she exclaimed, with great joy. It was a pretty large feat for him, who has spoken so few words the last several months. I could see the adoration in his weary eyes. My heart swelled, and then broke into a thousand tiny little pieces.
I am simultaneously angry and grateful. Angry, that they can't share more time together in this life. Angry that someone so small, should have to suffer such great loss. I love hearing the ring to his name when she speaks it from her sweet lips. Their laughter. How she would light up when she learned he was coming for a visit.
But I'm also so grateful. So grateful that they got to know each other at all. Grateful for the great gift of their relationship.
I hope she will remember him always. I hope she can recall the love he holds for her in his huge heart. I hope she will tell her little sister all about their Papa, and how he cared for them so. I hope she will sense his presence in the stars as they light up the sky, the warm sun as it shines on her face, and in the gentle, sweet fragrance of the wind.
This was yesterday.
"I love you, Papa," she said as we stood by his bed to say goodbye. "I love you too, baby," he managed to whisper, almost soundless, under his breath. "He said I love you too baby!" she exclaimed, with great joy. It was a pretty large feat for him, who has spoken so few words the last several months. I could see the adoration in his weary eyes. My heart swelled, and then broke into a thousand tiny little pieces.
I am simultaneously angry and grateful. Angry, that they can't share more time together in this life. Angry that someone so small, should have to suffer such great loss. I love hearing the ring to his name when she speaks it from her sweet lips. Their laughter. How she would light up when she learned he was coming for a visit.
But I'm also so grateful. So grateful that they got to know each other at all. Grateful for the great gift of their relationship.
I hope she will remember him always. I hope she can recall the love he holds for her in his huge heart. I hope she will tell her little sister all about their Papa, and how he cared for them so. I hope she will sense his presence in the stars as they light up the sky, the warm sun as it shines on her face, and in the gentle, sweet fragrance of the wind.
Friday, May 30, 2014
Five-Minute Friday: Nothing
This is my first time participating in Five Minute Fridays with Lisa-Jo Baker. The task is to write for 5 minutes on a topic that she chooses, and post the unedited material. Well... I wrote for 10 minutes. I'll get better. :) This week's topic is to write about the word NOTHING.
Nothing is the place where I sometimes live to get through my day. It is a numbness that lives in the world of do, do, do. Nothingness is what I feel, when I fix the breakfast, change the diapers, get everyone dressed, fold the clothes. I feel nothing when I turn on the tv, brew the coffee, or clean up the dishes. Nothing is a place to survive, from all the intense feelings that sometimes simmer just beneath the surface. All of the vulnerability, the exposure, that comes with the world of parenthood... having tiny pieces of your heart walking/crawling around, falling down, getting bruised, pushing all of your buttons - pushing you to the limits of yourself.
Nothing is the place where I sometimes live to get through my day. It is a numbness that lives in the world of do, do, do. Nothingness is what I feel, when I fix the breakfast, change the diapers, get everyone dressed, fold the clothes. I feel nothing when I turn on the tv, brew the coffee, or clean up the dishes. Nothing is a place to survive, from all the intense feelings that sometimes simmer just beneath the surface. All of the vulnerability, the exposure, that comes with the world of parenthood... having tiny pieces of your heart walking/crawling around, falling down, getting bruised, pushing all of your buttons - pushing you to the limits of yourself.
Nothing is what I feel when I spend time on facebook or reading articles. Nothing is what I feel when I leaf through magazines, or watch the Food Network. Nothing is what I feel when I drink that glass of wine or fill my schedule to the brim.
It's when I see you - when I REALLY see or hear or feel you - that nothing becomes something.
I am rescued from the nothing when I exhale and take you all in. The messy hair, the dirty fingernails. The excessive toddler demands. The beautiful curl of your lips. I feel, so much. When I take a moment to revel in your sweet, fleeting babyhood, as I hold you in my arms. As I hug you tightly... and breathe in the sweet scent of baby shampoo in your soft hair. The sound of your laugh is something... it's everything. When we sit all together as a family and play music, singing, dancing, expressing.... I feel something. I feel so happy. I feel so blessed. So grateful.
Nothing is where I survive... but when I allow myself the time and space of something - of everything - is when I'm truly alive.
Sunday, April 27, 2014
Letting go - Part 5: Coming Home
It was a moment I'll never forget. Canon in D had stopped playing, and we stood nervously, ritualistically at the altar after our procession. Our parents stood proudly behind us, as our friend Jason (an ordained minister) asked who would be giving us away this day. After our parents' words, "We do," rang happily through the sanctuary, the crowd of loved ones behind us unexpectedly erupted in laughter. "What in the WORLD just happened??" raced through my mind. As we turned to uncover the mystery, we found that our fathers had high-fived each other before returning to their seats. It was perfect. It was a perfect, joy-filled moment, that smashed our anxieties into smithereens and enabled us to continue our wedding ceremony with a lightness in our hearts.
A few hours later, "Unforgettable" by Nat King Cole pumped through the sound system as we swayed back and forth. I clung to him, as if I was still a child, tears streaming down my face. He hummed sweetly in my ear. No words were spoken... such warm comfort I felt in his arms as we danced. I was fully aware of how public, how vulnerable the whole thing was. I just couldn't help my tears. I wanted to honor this moment by allowing my feelings to spill out from inside me. It was too important to hold in. Something so symbolic... so deep-seated, is this ritual of the father-daughter dance. I grieved for him. The man in my life. I grieved for my family, as I was "leaving them to become one flesh with my husband." We held tightly to each other, as we were letting go. Letting go/grieving and celebrating at the same time, the love that I had found.... the love that would grow our family, and bring us all such happiness.
I had my last conversation with my father, as he was fully-functioning, on October 9th, 2013. The day before his brain surgery (surgeries). He cried, as he told me that his heart was at peace. That he felt that God had spoken to him, telling him not to be afraid. Not to worry - that God would bring him home. It was another gift to my anxious heart, his peace that night. I knew I had to let him go... into the hands of the surgeon and the medical teams and into the uncertainty of the future.
I play these cherished moments over and over again in my mind this week. This week, one of the hardest of my life. This week, where my mother and my sisters and I are searching our souls, kneeling before God, holding each other up, and making the most difficult decisions we've ever had to make.
Things have not turned out the way we hoped. A journey of excruciating ups and downs, filled with fear, trauma, confusion, anger, sadness, hope, weariness, helplessness, guilt, and more. Complex and twisty and uncertain and inconsistent. The ground has shifted and rocked and quaked beneath our feet, and we have had to figure out how to stay standing. It's more than we ever thought we'd have to handle. My warrior mother, most of all.
After Dad had 3 brain surgeries and an emergency spinal surgery all in a week; after multiple unforeseen complications and sustaining permanent damage to his brain and spine, which has left him partially paralyzed from the waist down, unable to speak much, and at times largely unresponsive; after his body has been so weakened from spending 6.5 months in a medical bed; after suffering from a series of mini-strokes; after infection after inevitable infection and multiple rounds of anti-biotics; after becoming resistant to several anti-biotics; after his kidneys have begun to fail; after a very difficult meeting with his team of doctors at UVA, who feel that Dad is in his final weeks...
It is time to let him go, once again.
He has been a valiant fighter, and he has won some small victories along the way. But he's been through enough. As we honor his wishes, and honor him, the best way we know how... we are letting go of aggressive medicine and our hopes for his physical healing. Hospice care will ease his suffering and give him the best quality of life for the rest of his days.
He hasn't been home in 6.5 months. He hasn't seen those walls... those walls, that wood, those bricks... so familiar. He hasn't smelled those smells, sat in his favorite chair, or seen the fruits of his labors - in which he holds great pride. He hasn't seen the fabric of his love manifested, or been reminded of all the cherished memories in this place. Where there is more laughter than beeping machines, and more color than the white of walls and jackets. This safe place. His home.
It's time to bring him home.
It's time to let him go, and bring him home. To bring him home, to reconnect with all that is a part of him and his beautiful life. Before God brings him forever home.
We feel relief that his struggle will end. We are at peace, although we grieve deeply. We have grieved for some time. We will continue to grieve.
And I know in my heart, that although his body and his brain will not heal here on earth, that he will be whole again.
And we will dance.
A few hours later, "Unforgettable" by Nat King Cole pumped through the sound system as we swayed back and forth. I clung to him, as if I was still a child, tears streaming down my face. He hummed sweetly in my ear. No words were spoken... such warm comfort I felt in his arms as we danced. I was fully aware of how public, how vulnerable the whole thing was. I just couldn't help my tears. I wanted to honor this moment by allowing my feelings to spill out from inside me. It was too important to hold in. Something so symbolic... so deep-seated, is this ritual of the father-daughter dance. I grieved for him. The man in my life. I grieved for my family, as I was "leaving them to become one flesh with my husband." We held tightly to each other, as we were letting go. Letting go/grieving and celebrating at the same time, the love that I had found.... the love that would grow our family, and bring us all such happiness.
I had my last conversation with my father, as he was fully-functioning, on October 9th, 2013. The day before his brain surgery (surgeries). He cried, as he told me that his heart was at peace. That he felt that God had spoken to him, telling him not to be afraid. Not to worry - that God would bring him home. It was another gift to my anxious heart, his peace that night. I knew I had to let him go... into the hands of the surgeon and the medical teams and into the uncertainty of the future.
I play these cherished moments over and over again in my mind this week. This week, one of the hardest of my life. This week, where my mother and my sisters and I are searching our souls, kneeling before God, holding each other up, and making the most difficult decisions we've ever had to make.
Things have not turned out the way we hoped. A journey of excruciating ups and downs, filled with fear, trauma, confusion, anger, sadness, hope, weariness, helplessness, guilt, and more. Complex and twisty and uncertain and inconsistent. The ground has shifted and rocked and quaked beneath our feet, and we have had to figure out how to stay standing. It's more than we ever thought we'd have to handle. My warrior mother, most of all.
After Dad had 3 brain surgeries and an emergency spinal surgery all in a week; after multiple unforeseen complications and sustaining permanent damage to his brain and spine, which has left him partially paralyzed from the waist down, unable to speak much, and at times largely unresponsive; after his body has been so weakened from spending 6.5 months in a medical bed; after suffering from a series of mini-strokes; after infection after inevitable infection and multiple rounds of anti-biotics; after becoming resistant to several anti-biotics; after his kidneys have begun to fail; after a very difficult meeting with his team of doctors at UVA, who feel that Dad is in his final weeks...
It is time to let him go, once again.
He has been a valiant fighter, and he has won some small victories along the way. But he's been through enough. As we honor his wishes, and honor him, the best way we know how... we are letting go of aggressive medicine and our hopes for his physical healing. Hospice care will ease his suffering and give him the best quality of life for the rest of his days.
He hasn't been home in 6.5 months. He hasn't seen those walls... those walls, that wood, those bricks... so familiar. He hasn't smelled those smells, sat in his favorite chair, or seen the fruits of his labors - in which he holds great pride. He hasn't seen the fabric of his love manifested, or been reminded of all the cherished memories in this place. Where there is more laughter than beeping machines, and more color than the white of walls and jackets. This safe place. His home.
It's time to bring him home.
It's time to let him go, and bring him home. To bring him home, to reconnect with all that is a part of him and his beautiful life. Before God brings him forever home.
We feel relief that his struggle will end. We are at peace, although we grieve deeply. We have grieved for some time. We will continue to grieve.
And I know in my heart, that although his body and his brain will not heal here on earth, that he will be whole again.
And we will dance.
"Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break." ~William Shakespeare
Sunday, February 2, 2014
How do you truly honor a life?
Saying goodbye has always been so difficult for me. I really struggle with it, and most of the time I avoid the painful feelings that saying goodbye can evoke. Like my nephew, when he was a toddler... he never wanted to say goodbye. We would come into town for the weekend and have the best time. And when we were getting ready to leave, his mood completely changed. He would get all grumpy, hide his face, leave the room, and not speak a word. I get it, little dude. I SO get it.
My Auntie Jan - one of my mom's sisters - is currently in hospice care, losing her 10 year fight with ovarian cancer. Doctors are projecting that she has very little time left. Days, maybe weeks. I am so sad. And so stuck in trying to figure out how to properly deal with this loss. How to truly honor her life. How to say goodbye.
A while back, I read a random person's status update on Facebook - it was a friend of a friend type thing, and my friend had re-shared this person's post. It has really stuck with me... I think it might be one of the most important things I'll ever read in my life. It was a man who had just lost his father, and was explaining what he had learned in his father's final days. I will never forget what he learned and what he shared. And if I could remember his name, I would credit him here. He said that he struggled with what to say to his father in these last hard moments. He figured out that it was most important to say these four things:
1) I'm sorry.
2) I forgive you.
3) Thank you.
4) I love you.
To really honor his relationship with his father, he needed to say these four things. Wow. So simple, but it hit me like a ton of bricks. I don't have much trouble saying the second two things. But the first two things are very hard for me. And I can see why they would be so important to say, especially to someone with whom you have/had a close relationship.
In the end, nothing else really matters. These things matter.
I feel like I have taken the easy way out of goodbyes too many times in my life thus far. I avoid break-ups. I don't make it to the goodbye party. My childhood best friend's mother passed away a few years ago from breast cancer, and I couldn't make it home for the funeral. I was secretly relieved. I chickened out. And I'm still so disappointed in myself for not properly honoring this woman's life. This woman, who is so present in my childhood memories, and was like a second mother to me during that time. It just felt so huge to me, and I was overwhelmed with the idea of laying her to rest in my heart.
And that brings me to today. How I'm feeling about saying goodbye to my spunky, funny, loving, courageous Auntie Jan. Someone so dear to my family and my mom, and so present in all my family memories. Someone so important in the scope of my extended family life and so close to the beating heart of my collective kin. Someone who has loved me well, although we live far away and don't see each other often. It feels so huge, so hard.
I don't want to open myself up to the pain. I don't want to feel the weight of this loss. I want to hide my face and leave the room.
However, I really don't want to keep chickening out of goodbyes, either. This is so important. It is a basic tenant of the human life. You say hello, you say goodbye. You enter this world, you leave it. Why is it so difficult when people leave?
My husband and I talked the other night about why losing someone is so hard. I asked, "Why is loss always so sad? Why can't we celebrate someone's life when they are at the end of it? Why can't we be happy about the life they lived? Why does it hurt so much?" My wise husband brought up the idea that we tend to emotionally attach to people - to each other - and therefore it's hard and sad to let them go. Rather than trying to see our time with each other as a gift and stay a bit more un-attached. It wouldn't mean that we don't love... it would mean that we love without selfish attachment. It's a very zen Buddhist concept. One that I aspire to attain in my own life, as I think and write a lot about being able to let go of things. But I am not quite there yet with people. Not at all yet there.
I want to do the right thing. I want to be brave and to let the pain in, to wash through me, so that I can honor my Aunt the best way that I know how... to acknowledge her in my heart. To acknowledge what she has meant to me in my life. To celebrate hers.
So that I can peacefully, and presently, let her go.
I'm trying.
I'm so sorry for everything you've endured. I'm sorry we didn't have more time together, and that I didn't visit more often. I forgive you, although there is nothing you've done that really needs my forgiveness. Thank you for your heart, your humor, for loving us all - for everything you are. I love you always, dear Auntie Jan.
My Auntie Jan - one of my mom's sisters - is currently in hospice care, losing her 10 year fight with ovarian cancer. Doctors are projecting that she has very little time left. Days, maybe weeks. I am so sad. And so stuck in trying to figure out how to properly deal with this loss. How to truly honor her life. How to say goodbye.
A while back, I read a random person's status update on Facebook - it was a friend of a friend type thing, and my friend had re-shared this person's post. It has really stuck with me... I think it might be one of the most important things I'll ever read in my life. It was a man who had just lost his father, and was explaining what he had learned in his father's final days. I will never forget what he learned and what he shared. And if I could remember his name, I would credit him here. He said that he struggled with what to say to his father in these last hard moments. He figured out that it was most important to say these four things:
1) I'm sorry.
2) I forgive you.
3) Thank you.
4) I love you.
To really honor his relationship with his father, he needed to say these four things. Wow. So simple, but it hit me like a ton of bricks. I don't have much trouble saying the second two things. But the first two things are very hard for me. And I can see why they would be so important to say, especially to someone with whom you have/had a close relationship.
In the end, nothing else really matters. These things matter.
I feel like I have taken the easy way out of goodbyes too many times in my life thus far. I avoid break-ups. I don't make it to the goodbye party. My childhood best friend's mother passed away a few years ago from breast cancer, and I couldn't make it home for the funeral. I was secretly relieved. I chickened out. And I'm still so disappointed in myself for not properly honoring this woman's life. This woman, who is so present in my childhood memories, and was like a second mother to me during that time. It just felt so huge to me, and I was overwhelmed with the idea of laying her to rest in my heart.
And that brings me to today. How I'm feeling about saying goodbye to my spunky, funny, loving, courageous Auntie Jan. Someone so dear to my family and my mom, and so present in all my family memories. Someone so important in the scope of my extended family life and so close to the beating heart of my collective kin. Someone who has loved me well, although we live far away and don't see each other often. It feels so huge, so hard.
I don't want to open myself up to the pain. I don't want to feel the weight of this loss. I want to hide my face and leave the room.
However, I really don't want to keep chickening out of goodbyes, either. This is so important. It is a basic tenant of the human life. You say hello, you say goodbye. You enter this world, you leave it. Why is it so difficult when people leave?
My husband and I talked the other night about why losing someone is so hard. I asked, "Why is loss always so sad? Why can't we celebrate someone's life when they are at the end of it? Why can't we be happy about the life they lived? Why does it hurt so much?" My wise husband brought up the idea that we tend to emotionally attach to people - to each other - and therefore it's hard and sad to let them go. Rather than trying to see our time with each other as a gift and stay a bit more un-attached. It wouldn't mean that we don't love... it would mean that we love without selfish attachment. It's a very zen Buddhist concept. One that I aspire to attain in my own life, as I think and write a lot about being able to let go of things. But I am not quite there yet with people. Not at all yet there.
I want to do the right thing. I want to be brave and to let the pain in, to wash through me, so that I can honor my Aunt the best way that I know how... to acknowledge her in my heart. To acknowledge what she has meant to me in my life. To celebrate hers.
So that I can peacefully, and presently, let her go.
I'm trying.
I'm so sorry for everything you've endured. I'm sorry we didn't have more time together, and that I didn't visit more often. I forgive you, although there is nothing you've done that really needs my forgiveness. Thank you for your heart, your humor, for loving us all - for everything you are. I love you always, dear Auntie Jan.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
Making Room for Tears
"We need never be ashamed of our tears." ~ Charles Dickens
For years and years and probably always and forever, well-meaning parents have been telling their children, directly or non-directly (verbally or non-verbally), not to cry. To be strong in the face of disappointment, adversity, seemingly trivial encounters, etc. Sometimes trying to hug the tears away, and sometimes trying to force quit the flood of emotions erupting from their child. It is pure instinct. We don't want our children to be upset. We want them to be happy little people who go with the flow. It would be so great if they would always do what we say, always feel good, and never show any overt signs of intense anger or pain or sadness. Raising little robots would be so much easier, wouldn't it?
Even as adults, when someone feels pain and expresses it, it often automatically triggers anxiety and uncomfortable feelings in a person who is witness. And although we may want to, we can't really tell an adult to "stop crying, please." But when it's our children, we often DO tell them to stop crying. To toughen up. "Chin up," we say. "There is nothing to cry about." We say these things, perhaps to ease our own discomfort. Instead of doing some internal work to reduce our own anxiety reactions, and to make room for their tears. To let them know that their expressions of frustration and feelings are okay. I believe that most of us don't even consider the ramifications that this has on our children and our society at large.
We are such a repressed people. And people make terrible robots. When we learn not to feel or to suppress what we feel, bad things can happen. People with no feelings (or suppressed feelings) hurt other people, and hurt themselves.
We do all kinds of things to keep our feelings hidden... we run like mad from them. So that we don't have to feel or to be vulnerable. So we can numb out the pain. We drink, we drug, we work too much. We have affairs, we obsess about our bodies, we control everything we can. Because we learned, somewhere, that it wasn't okay to have feelings. Or we think that because they sometimes feel bad, we should keep them inside. But here's the kicker - as humans, we DO have them. Some people are wired to feel more. Some people are wired to feel less. But everyone has them. Whether we admit it or not.
We do all kinds of things to keep our feelings hidden... we run like mad from them. So that we don't have to feel or to be vulnerable. So we can numb out the pain. We drink, we drug, we work too much. We have affairs, we obsess about our bodies, we control everything we can. Because we learned, somewhere, that it wasn't okay to have feelings. Or we think that because they sometimes feel bad, we should keep them inside. But here's the kicker - as humans, we DO have them. Some people are wired to feel more. Some people are wired to feel less. But everyone has them. Whether we admit it or not.
I learn so much from being a mother. Raising a toddler - developmentally the most transparent group of people ever - has brought me face to face with this reality that as adults, we don't want to feel. This reality, that I have already been uncovering for myself for the past several years. My almost three year old sometimes seamlessly turns into my life lesson guru. And recently, she has been unknowingly teaching me a very important lesson about her tears. And about my discomfort with them. So often, mid-tantrum, I feel my anxiety levels creep higher and higher and higher. I ask her, "What do you need? What is wrong?" And our favorite new attempt to nip the typical toddler no-apparent-reason-tears in the bud, "WHY ARE YOU CRYING?" This used to stop her for a few moments, while she thought and searched for an answer... and then went back to crying. But her most recent answer to this question, which she has given several times, floors me.
"Because I NEED to crrrrrryyyyyyyy."
Silence.
Oh, Lord, yes. She needs to cry. The child NEEDS to cry and to express her feelings and this is the only way she knows how. She doesn't need a reason. Who am I to stop her from doing this? Because of my own shortcomings and discomfort with her pain? It shuts me down. Every. Single. Time. I take a deep breath and try to get comfortable with the sounds of her cries. And almost always, when I relax and make space and let her express her emotions in this way, she calms down. She gets it out and returns to a more even state. But when I keep trying to get her to stop, or to rationalize with her that she has nothing to cry about, she continues and cries even louder. Hmmmm.
What we can learn from children, if we just listen to what they are saying.
It can be uncomfortable... it can be awful.... but we will not be washed away by our feelings - our own or someone else's. They come and they go. But when we suppress them - that can leave a permanent mark. It is important and so necessary to express what is inside of us. For all of us.
Children, teenagers, adults, alike.
Here's a recent personal example. On Christmas eve, we were home in Lynchburg with my family. We had been there since Dec. 19th, and we were leaving that day to head back to NOVA. My Dad, after 4 more weeks at UVA medical center (due to getting pneumonia, sepsis, and suffering a series of mini-strokes) had just been discharged from the hospital the day before and had arrived in Lynchburg. He was back at the same skilled nursing facility, just in time for Christmas. I had these visions and hopes of our whole family being together with Dad at the nursing home, on Christmas Eve. Singing him Christmas carols, etc. It was really all I wanted for Christmas. But my children had just contracted the black plague of colds, the day we got into town. And since my Dad's immune system had been compromised and any infection could be potentially life-threatening, I knew that I couldn't take the kids over to see Dad. I knew.
But instead of being honest about how sad that made me feel... about how devastated I was that my family wouldn't all be together, for the first Christmas in maybe my whole life... about this grief I feel about what has happened to my Dad the last few months.... I pushed those feelings aside. I was cranky all morning, spewing meanness onto everyone. I don't even think that I consciously realized what was going on.
And then, when I finally allowed those feelings to enter my consciousness and rise to the surface... and I allowed that wall that I had constructed to come down....
I cried.
I cried, hugged my mom and my sisters and my husband, and I told them that I was sad.
And amazingly, I didn't explode. My tears didn't wash we away. They served a very real purpose. They gave me release.
I felt better. I was able to make peace with the fact that my daughters would not be with Papa this Christmas. It didn't completely dissolve my sadness, but it lessened it. Because I had allowed myself to grieve it by expressing what I really felt.
All this to say, that I think it's possible that this pattern of shutting down our feelings all starts at the very beginning. We need to fight the urge as parents to stop our children's tears. To stop them from expressing intense or negative emotions, and instead, help them to find a healthy way to express what is happening on the inside. For if they feel nurtured in their pain, or even that there is time and space to let it out (no matter the cause of it), they may grow up to be healthier adults. And to take it a (few) steps further, we may just be able to change our society as a whole. One child at a time, into one that is more tolerant of emotional expression. One that is honest and wholehearted and has a chance to heal.
One that makes room for tears, instead of repressing and numbing and hurting in silence.
In all truth, it is one of my greatest hopes and dreams for myself, for those I love, and for all humans everywhere. Some people hope for world peace... I just want people to feel. And I believe that those two things could have a very close correlation.
Acknowledge what we honestly feel, express it, and only THEN, can we work on letting it go.
Peace could be waiting patiently for us, on the other side of our tears.
"To weep is to make less the depth of grief." ~ William Shakespeare
Thursday, December 5, 2013
A Day in (my) Life: Searching for the Ground
Last night, Charlie was up 3 times. She woke at 11:30pm, 3:30am, and 5:45am. At 5:45am, she wouldn't do her typical nurse for 10 minutes and go back to bed. She had several discomforts - gas, congestion, and maybe teething gums. We were up for a bit. I went back to bed around 6:30am, and was awakened by Mike leaving for work at 8:15am with a goodbye kiss. At 8:30am, Hazel was calling for me.
I stumbled into her room, where we played with puzzles, my mind still half asleep. I was remembering the dream I was deeply embedded in when I heard her calling. Hoping she wouldn't notice that I couldn't yet form complete sentences and how clumsy and slowly my hands were moving. After a while we went downstairs to get some breakfast. Hazel played and I fixed breakfast and put the much needed coffee on. Even though I make it half-caffeinated because I'm still nursing, it is an important part of my tired morning routine. I'll take whatever small amount of caffeine I can get pumping into my weary bod.
After breakfast, Hazel watched a show while I did some online Christmas shopping and checked my email. I browsed job listings for part-time social work jobs. My mind raced about how nice it has been (mostly) to be home with both kids for these past 6 months. One of the hardest jobs I've ever done, no doubt in my mind. But as much as it stretches me... I love being with the girls. And I thought about how nice it has been to be more available to travel at a moment's notice to be with my family, since Dad's first surgery on October 10th. Since he hasn't been well, and we have been clinging to each other to get through these weeks/days/moments of difficulty and to process the unknowns of the future.
I thought about dance, and how therapeutic it is for me. And how it plays no role in my life at the current moment. And how I miss it so very much. And I rack my brain about how I can get it back.
As I looked at jobs online, my thoughts drifted to our finances. And how we are just not making it on one income. We knew we wouldn't. We planned for this time. And talked about how it would be worth it for me to be home for this temporary period, and then I would look for work eventually. I've been browsing part-time listings for months. And as each month gets financially tighter, we realize it's go time. Every time I think about it my heart does flip flops in my chest. I have such mixed emotions about proceeding back into the working-outside-of-the-home world. I feel both a weighty heaviness and also some nervous excitement. So much complexity wrapped up in this "little" decision.
The struggle for the elusive balance continues.
And then Charlie wakes around 9:30am... so I get her up, change her diaper, feed her, and bring her downstairs. We play on the floor next to Hazel while she watches her show. Charlie's laughter fills my heart until it almost bursts... it shuts down my thoughts, so that my mind is no where else but with her and her happiness. It is a real light in my life... a gift, that brings me out of my swirling thoughts and into the beauty of the present.
It is around then that Hazel's foot knocks over the stool where her bowl of snacks and my beloved coffee sits. Both tumble to the floor, soaking the blanket that Charlie is playing on, the carpet, and me. In slow motion, peanuts and raisins fly through the air, landing everywhere. Momentarily, I lose it. I grumble at Hazel, asking her if she understands what she has just done and tell her to be more careful. Then, after the frustration subsides, I feel bad for not displaying more patience. I start to clean it all up and as I look at the spilled coffee and strewn snacks, I see how disgustingly dirty our floor is. It is REALLY dirty. Like living with two kids and a cat dirty. Like I need to vacuum 4 times a week but I only vacuum once a week - maybe - dirty.
And I think, wow... sometimes I'm just not good at this. I'm not good at staying home with the kids and having endless patience and taking care of the house. I'm so tired and so foggy and so scattered... so sad about my Dad and so worried about our finances and so nervous about going back to work. And I just feel so... lost. And dizzy. And guilty. And inadequate.
The opposite of grounded.
Juggling identities and responsibilities and feelings and oh, the constant stream of these pressing thoughts. What am I doing, where am I going, and how am I going to get there? A lot going on in the old noggin these days.
And then it hits me. The biggest thing I'm not doing well is this: Grace. What gives with all this meanness to myself? All the high expectations?
My family gives me grace, my friends give me grace. My God, my church, and my community give me grace. Why can't I give it to myself? I can extend it to others, but when life gets tough or confusing or sad or tedious or overwhelming and I just can't cope, I turn the blame inward. With no where else to throw my frustrations, I let myself take the bullet. I begin to self-destruct.
Grace.
Life is going to be hard sometimes. And in the hardest moments, God whispers the message that I so need to hear, so very gently in my ear....
Give yourself grace. Give yourself buckets of grace.
I imagine Him saying these words, "It's okay. You're okay. Take some space. Breathe. You are enough. You are good. I love your dirty floors and your messy heart. You will find your way through the darkness. You will find the ground. I will lead you. Be still and cast your arrows away from your gentle exterior, and into my arms. My arms are tough. I will catch them."
And so, a new day dawns and I begin again. Weary, I pray for grace. And I start by reaching my feet toward the ground.
I stumbled into her room, where we played with puzzles, my mind still half asleep. I was remembering the dream I was deeply embedded in when I heard her calling. Hoping she wouldn't notice that I couldn't yet form complete sentences and how clumsy and slowly my hands were moving. After a while we went downstairs to get some breakfast. Hazel played and I fixed breakfast and put the much needed coffee on. Even though I make it half-caffeinated because I'm still nursing, it is an important part of my tired morning routine. I'll take whatever small amount of caffeine I can get pumping into my weary bod.
After breakfast, Hazel watched a show while I did some online Christmas shopping and checked my email. I browsed job listings for part-time social work jobs. My mind raced about how nice it has been (mostly) to be home with both kids for these past 6 months. One of the hardest jobs I've ever done, no doubt in my mind. But as much as it stretches me... I love being with the girls. And I thought about how nice it has been to be more available to travel at a moment's notice to be with my family, since Dad's first surgery on October 10th. Since he hasn't been well, and we have been clinging to each other to get through these weeks/days/moments of difficulty and to process the unknowns of the future.
I thought about dance, and how therapeutic it is for me. And how it plays no role in my life at the current moment. And how I miss it so very much. And I rack my brain about how I can get it back.
As I looked at jobs online, my thoughts drifted to our finances. And how we are just not making it on one income. We knew we wouldn't. We planned for this time. And talked about how it would be worth it for me to be home for this temporary period, and then I would look for work eventually. I've been browsing part-time listings for months. And as each month gets financially tighter, we realize it's go time. Every time I think about it my heart does flip flops in my chest. I have such mixed emotions about proceeding back into the working-outside-of-the-home world. I feel both a weighty heaviness and also some nervous excitement. So much complexity wrapped up in this "little" decision.
The struggle for the elusive balance continues.
And then Charlie wakes around 9:30am... so I get her up, change her diaper, feed her, and bring her downstairs. We play on the floor next to Hazel while she watches her show. Charlie's laughter fills my heart until it almost bursts... it shuts down my thoughts, so that my mind is no where else but with her and her happiness. It is a real light in my life... a gift, that brings me out of my swirling thoughts and into the beauty of the present.
It is around then that Hazel's foot knocks over the stool where her bowl of snacks and my beloved coffee sits. Both tumble to the floor, soaking the blanket that Charlie is playing on, the carpet, and me. In slow motion, peanuts and raisins fly through the air, landing everywhere. Momentarily, I lose it. I grumble at Hazel, asking her if she understands what she has just done and tell her to be more careful. Then, after the frustration subsides, I feel bad for not displaying more patience. I start to clean it all up and as I look at the spilled coffee and strewn snacks, I see how disgustingly dirty our floor is. It is REALLY dirty. Like living with two kids and a cat dirty. Like I need to vacuum 4 times a week but I only vacuum once a week - maybe - dirty.
And I think, wow... sometimes I'm just not good at this. I'm not good at staying home with the kids and having endless patience and taking care of the house. I'm so tired and so foggy and so scattered... so sad about my Dad and so worried about our finances and so nervous about going back to work. And I just feel so... lost. And dizzy. And guilty. And inadequate.
The opposite of grounded.
Juggling identities and responsibilities and feelings and oh, the constant stream of these pressing thoughts. What am I doing, where am I going, and how am I going to get there? A lot going on in the old noggin these days.
And then it hits me. The biggest thing I'm not doing well is this: Grace. What gives with all this meanness to myself? All the high expectations?
My family gives me grace, my friends give me grace. My God, my church, and my community give me grace. Why can't I give it to myself? I can extend it to others, but when life gets tough or confusing or sad or tedious or overwhelming and I just can't cope, I turn the blame inward. With no where else to throw my frustrations, I let myself take the bullet. I begin to self-destruct.
Grace.
Life is going to be hard sometimes. And in the hardest moments, God whispers the message that I so need to hear, so very gently in my ear....
Give yourself grace. Give yourself buckets of grace.
I imagine Him saying these words, "It's okay. You're okay. Take some space. Breathe. You are enough. You are good. I love your dirty floors and your messy heart. You will find your way through the darkness. You will find the ground. I will lead you. Be still and cast your arrows away from your gentle exterior, and into my arms. My arms are tough. I will catch them."
And so, a new day dawns and I begin again. Weary, I pray for grace. And I start by reaching my feet toward the ground.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Flecks and Nuggets: The Dance of Grief and Hope
I read these words yesterday. They're from Anne Lamott's book, Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith. I apparently really needed to hear them.
"The depth of the feeling continued to surprise and threaten me, but each time it hit again and I bore it, like a nicotine craving, I would discover that it hadn't washed me away. After a while, it was like an inside shower, washing off some of the rust and calcification in my pipes. It was like giving a dry garden a good watering. Don't get me wrong: grief sucks; it really does. Unfortunately, though, avoiding it robs us of life, of the now, of a sense of living spirit. Mostly I have tried to avoid it by staying very busy, working too hard, trying to achieve as much as possible. You can often avoid the pain by trying to fix other people; shopping helps in a pinch, as does romantic obsession. Martyrdom can't be beat. While too much exercise works for many people, it doesn't for me, but I have found that a stack of magazines can be numbing and even mood altering. But the bad news is that whatever you use to keep the pain at bay robs you of the flecks and nuggets of gold that feeling grief will give you. A fixation can keep you nicely defined and give you the illusion that your life has not fallen apart. But since your life may have indeed fallen apart, the illusion won't hold up forever, and if you are lucky and brave, you will be willing to bear disillusion. You begin to cry and writhe and yell and then to keep on crying; and then, finally, grief ends up giving you the two best things: softness and illumination."
Today, I am holding on and falling apart. I've been avoiding writing for the past several weeks. I knew that if I wrote, I would write about this. And I'm just so ridiculously good at avoiding. If there was a medal for top avoider in the whole world, I would probably win it. But today, I can't. I can't win OR avoid.
Today, I'm in it. I'm fearful and sad and confused. There is a pit in my stomach, that comes and goes. It has been growing there the past several weeks. I don't feel it constantly... it sneaks up on me and hits me like a wave of salt water, stinging my open wounds, grinding in my gut... and then retreats. I've been trying to figure out what it is. And after reading Anne Lamott yesterday I think I've figured IT out.
It's grief.
I've been holding on to hope for the past several weeks. Since we found out that Dad would have another brain surgery on Sept. 27th. Since the (first) surgery on October 10th. Since all these other things have gone so wrong. And as the days go by, I continue to hope, but this other thing has been visiting. Grief. It comes suddenly and then washes away, as I continue my daily routines. As I continue living.
How strange, to continue living. How difficult, to do this dance between grief and hope.
This morning at 5am, Charlie woke as usual and I got up to feed her. As I was nursing her, half awake, my thoughts drifted to the dream that I was just having when I awakened to her cries. I was dreaming about many different people, who intersected different seasons of my life, all in the same place. We were celebrating something. And as I drifted into the sequence of the dream, I remember my Dad being there. Standing with my family, around a table. Laughing, talking. As I remembered this part of the dream, there it was... that pit in my stomach again. That ache. In the dim light of the nursery, with my babe in my arms at my breast, I let it hang around for a bit. The grief. Then the sting slowly faded enough to move and I put Charlie back to bed.
When I went back to sleep, I dreamt of Dad again. But this time, we were somewhere else. It appeared to be some type of resort. Some type of place where people go to heal. But quite unlike the skilled nursing facility where he is currently, in real life. We traveled for miles to see him, up winding roads and through lush green mountains. When we finally arrived, my whole family was there. Dad's house was beautiful... ornate and decadent, with jeweled tiles and lofty, serene hues of blue. We entered the house and all of the family poured inside, loud and boisterous. Several of us plopped down in the living area, playing games and enjoying each other. But I didn't know where Dad was. I continued searching and journeyed outside, onto a huge, beautiful deck that overlooked the mountainside. I turned a corner, and there was Dad... in a wheelchair looking out, with Mom by his side. I approached, and before I reached them I woke again. This time, to the sleepy morning sounds of a toddler's voice.
The more I think it through, it's as if the first dream represents my grief. Thinking of Dad, the way he used to be. Fully functioning. Even with that brain tumor. He was himself. And the second dream... represents my hope. Or as Lamott puts it, a softness and illumination that comes after the grief. This hope, that Dad will still be with us, and we will still have a beautiful life with him... even if we don't yet know how it looks. Or if it looks different than we have always imagined.
When we got home from preschool, I nursed Charlie with the pit fully present in my gut. I looked into her eyes and tears blurred my vision. Again, I let the ache stick around until Charlie finished eating and smiled her sweet smile at me. She smiled relentlessly, and almost involuntarily, I smiled back. She started to giggle and coo, and I couldn't resist smiling and cooing, too. Pretty soon I found myself feeling moments of joy, amidst the painful sting, and I thanked God. For the blessing of my children and for these moments.
For these moments when I am present, in the pain and the joy and the realness of life.
These flecks and nuggets of gold that feeling the grief will give you.
These moments, when I can figure out how to move back and forth and forward simultaneously, in this dance of grief and hope.
"The depth of the feeling continued to surprise and threaten me, but each time it hit again and I bore it, like a nicotine craving, I would discover that it hadn't washed me away. After a while, it was like an inside shower, washing off some of the rust and calcification in my pipes. It was like giving a dry garden a good watering. Don't get me wrong: grief sucks; it really does. Unfortunately, though, avoiding it robs us of life, of the now, of a sense of living spirit. Mostly I have tried to avoid it by staying very busy, working too hard, trying to achieve as much as possible. You can often avoid the pain by trying to fix other people; shopping helps in a pinch, as does romantic obsession. Martyrdom can't be beat. While too much exercise works for many people, it doesn't for me, but I have found that a stack of magazines can be numbing and even mood altering. But the bad news is that whatever you use to keep the pain at bay robs you of the flecks and nuggets of gold that feeling grief will give you. A fixation can keep you nicely defined and give you the illusion that your life has not fallen apart. But since your life may have indeed fallen apart, the illusion won't hold up forever, and if you are lucky and brave, you will be willing to bear disillusion. You begin to cry and writhe and yell and then to keep on crying; and then, finally, grief ends up giving you the two best things: softness and illumination."
Today, I am holding on and falling apart. I've been avoiding writing for the past several weeks. I knew that if I wrote, I would write about this. And I'm just so ridiculously good at avoiding. If there was a medal for top avoider in the whole world, I would probably win it. But today, I can't. I can't win OR avoid.
Today, I'm in it. I'm fearful and sad and confused. There is a pit in my stomach, that comes and goes. It has been growing there the past several weeks. I don't feel it constantly... it sneaks up on me and hits me like a wave of salt water, stinging my open wounds, grinding in my gut... and then retreats. I've been trying to figure out what it is. And after reading Anne Lamott yesterday I think I've figured IT out.
It's grief.
I've been holding on to hope for the past several weeks. Since we found out that Dad would have another brain surgery on Sept. 27th. Since the (first) surgery on October 10th. Since all these other things have gone so wrong. And as the days go by, I continue to hope, but this other thing has been visiting. Grief. It comes suddenly and then washes away, as I continue my daily routines. As I continue living.
How strange, to continue living. How difficult, to do this dance between grief and hope.
This morning, I drove to pick Hazel up from preschool. I talked with my mom on the phone, hearing the latest updates on Dad's condition. He is less responsive now than he was in the week following his four major surgeries. (Yes, four. That's 3 brain surgeries and a bonus emergency spinal surgery to attempt to correct lower body paralysis that came from a complication). Maybe it's due to the effects of the bacterial meningitis he contracted... maybe it's due to the side effects of the sedating anti-biotic he is on for the meningitis... maybe it's because he had three brain surgeries and he needs more time to heal from the trauma of that. But no one can tell us. The doctors can't tell us. The surgeons can't tell us. The physical therapists and speech therapists can't tell us. No one knows. All we know is that he has "significant neurological impairment." Those three words, that keep pinging around in my head and my heart, leaving bruises along the way.
The science of the brain is still so unfounded. Still such a mystery.
I pulled into the preschool, swallowed mom's tears, and shoved that pit in my stomach down hard. I strapped on my baby and my armor and I went inside. I smiled at the other parents in Hazel's class, as I passed and said hello.
I have gotten quite used to avoiding the grief and stomping it out and shoving it down over the past many weeks. It's been over a month since my father walked (walked!) into the hospital at UVA for surgery to remove his growing brain tumor. Now he has a feeding tube, rarely speaks, cannot stand, only sometimes gives us signs of recognition, and sleeps most of the time.
He is still physically with us, but we feel the loss of him. And we continue to pray for his return to us.
How can we grieve, while simultaneously fighting for our hope?
This morning at 5am, Charlie woke as usual and I got up to feed her. As I was nursing her, half awake, my thoughts drifted to the dream that I was just having when I awakened to her cries. I was dreaming about many different people, who intersected different seasons of my life, all in the same place. We were celebrating something. And as I drifted into the sequence of the dream, I remember my Dad being there. Standing with my family, around a table. Laughing, talking. As I remembered this part of the dream, there it was... that pit in my stomach again. That ache. In the dim light of the nursery, with my babe in my arms at my breast, I let it hang around for a bit. The grief. Then the sting slowly faded enough to move and I put Charlie back to bed.
When I went back to sleep, I dreamt of Dad again. But this time, we were somewhere else. It appeared to be some type of resort. Some type of place where people go to heal. But quite unlike the skilled nursing facility where he is currently, in real life. We traveled for miles to see him, up winding roads and through lush green mountains. When we finally arrived, my whole family was there. Dad's house was beautiful... ornate and decadent, with jeweled tiles and lofty, serene hues of blue. We entered the house and all of the family poured inside, loud and boisterous. Several of us plopped down in the living area, playing games and enjoying each other. But I didn't know where Dad was. I continued searching and journeyed outside, onto a huge, beautiful deck that overlooked the mountainside. I turned a corner, and there was Dad... in a wheelchair looking out, with Mom by his side. I approached, and before I reached them I woke again. This time, to the sleepy morning sounds of a toddler's voice.
The more I think it through, it's as if the first dream represents my grief. Thinking of Dad, the way he used to be. Fully functioning. Even with that brain tumor. He was himself. And the second dream... represents my hope. Or as Lamott puts it, a softness and illumination that comes after the grief. This hope, that Dad will still be with us, and we will still have a beautiful life with him... even if we don't yet know how it looks. Or if it looks different than we have always imagined.
When we got home from preschool, I nursed Charlie with the pit fully present in my gut. I looked into her eyes and tears blurred my vision. Again, I let the ache stick around until Charlie finished eating and smiled her sweet smile at me. She smiled relentlessly, and almost involuntarily, I smiled back. She started to giggle and coo, and I couldn't resist smiling and cooing, too. Pretty soon I found myself feeling moments of joy, amidst the painful sting, and I thanked God. For the blessing of my children and for these moments.
For these moments when I am present, in the pain and the joy and the realness of life.
These flecks and nuggets of gold that feeling the grief will give you.
These moments, when I can figure out how to move back and forth and forward simultaneously, in this dance of grief and hope.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Letting go - Part 4
This is another post in my series on parenting/letting go. It is in two sections. Section I, I wrote after spending some quality time with my family in the beginning of September. It was not complete/finished. And after some recent developments, I wrote Section II today.
Section I
As I write this post, I'm covered in spit up, bubbles, tears, and some unidentifiable food item from lunch. Pretty much like any other day. But it's not really any other day.
In my heart, it's a very different day.
Earlier today, Grandma and Papa (my parents) left to go back home after spending a week together. 5 days in Lynchburg with my whole family, and two days back here in DC with my parents. I was so grateful to have the time with my family, and the extra hands this whole past week. What a gift.
As Grandma and Papa were leaving, Hazel started to get fussy and became difficult to manage. I wasn't sure what was wrong, but wondered if she just didn't want them to go. She got used to them being around, and to having the extra attention. This shift into sharing her parents with her new sibling has been hard on her. Hazel cried when they left, and said to Grandma several times, "I want to go with you." It fills my heart that she has such a connection to them. But it hurt at the same time. She was so sad to see them go. And frankly, so was I.
When I put Hazel down for her quiet time today, she didn't want me to leave the room. And Charlie didn't want to be put down either. So I rocked a crying baby in one arm, and a crying toddler in the other. My arm muscles burned and my heart ached, as I knew I'd eventually have to put one of them down. To let one of them go, so I could tend to the other.
My father has a brain tumor. A benign meningioma, which he was first diagnosed with in 2008. He had invasive brain surgery in May of 2008, and most of the tumor was removed. I wrote some about it here. We got word this past December after a routine MRI that the remaining part of the tumor is growing again. And it's too large to do anything but another invasive surgery. My parents decided to wait until this month to do another MRI to check the status of the tumor and plan for when the surgery should take place. Yesterday was the MRI and since December, the tumor has grown upward and sideways, dangerously close to the brain stem. My mom told me that she has been praying for a definitive answer... that after this MRI, things would be clear about what direction we needed to go in. About whether another surgery would be a risk we absolutely needed to take.
Clarity was found. Thank God for that.
Surgery is scheduled for October 10th at UVA.
My Dad is 73 years old. I know that the tumor and impending surgery is on everyone's mind in my family. But we don't talk about it much.
Since December, I've been slipping back into my normal coping strategies to deal with this whole tumor regrowth. I've been avoiding. I've been pushing it aside. I've also been (conveniently) distracted by my pregnancy and having another baby. Now that surgery is imminent, I am really trying to be more present with my feelings about it all. It's not easy. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared.
After his first surgery in 2008, the road was hard, but eventually he recovered incredibly well. He recovered probably 95% of his functioning. So there is no reason to believe that he won't also do just as well this time. The seeds of doubt threaten to creep into my thoughts... but the fact that we've been through this before and he has done so well, comforts me. Also - my father is an angel, and his positive attitude and peaceful resolve about this surgery gives me hope. It calms my heart. He is a peaceful warrior, displaying major courage in the midst of having to go through this all again.
Each time we are together, it's there, in the back of my mind. And each time he leaves, it feels harder and harder to let him go.
I can't help but think about the similarities, generation after generation... how children, of all ages, need their parents. My children need me, and I need my mom and dad. And it's always been that way. We go through these phases in life of separating and coming back together. I don't need them the same way I did when I was a child, but I still need them. And there have been many moments in the past several months that remind me how hard it is sometimes, to do the separating. It's hard to let go.
Hard for my children to let go of me. Hard for me to let go of them. Hard for me to let go of my parents. Hard for my children to let go of their grandparents. And I can reasonably assume, that it's hard for my parents to let go of their children and grandchildren, too.
Our human hearts can be so fragile, so vulnerable. Oh, how we need each other.
It's times like these that bring all things back into perspective. It's times like these that I remember to cherish every moment with those I love. It's times like these that bring me closer to God in a big way.
This time, I am coming face to face with my vulnerabilities. This time, I am choosing not to run from that which I am afraid. And thus, in the presence of my honest, scared, shaking heart, I find my strength.
I find it in my faith. I find it in my family. I find it in myself.
In clarity, we will proceed. Together, because we need each other. And no matter what, all will be well.
Section I
As I write this post, I'm covered in spit up, bubbles, tears, and some unidentifiable food item from lunch. Pretty much like any other day. But it's not really any other day.
In my heart, it's a very different day.
Earlier today, Grandma and Papa (my parents) left to go back home after spending a week together. 5 days in Lynchburg with my whole family, and two days back here in DC with my parents. I was so grateful to have the time with my family, and the extra hands this whole past week. What a gift.
As Grandma and Papa were leaving, Hazel started to get fussy and became difficult to manage. I wasn't sure what was wrong, but wondered if she just didn't want them to go. She got used to them being around, and to having the extra attention. This shift into sharing her parents with her new sibling has been hard on her. Hazel cried when they left, and said to Grandma several times, "I want to go with you." It fills my heart that she has such a connection to them. But it hurt at the same time. She was so sad to see them go. And frankly, so was I.
When I put Hazel down for her quiet time today, she didn't want me to leave the room. And Charlie didn't want to be put down either. So I rocked a crying baby in one arm, and a crying toddler in the other. My arm muscles burned and my heart ached, as I knew I'd eventually have to put one of them down. To let one of them go, so I could tend to the other.
How wonderfully amazing and how wonderfully terrifying, to be needed so desperately.
Children need their parents. And I was sad to see my parents go today. For many reasons.
Section II
Children need their parents. And I was sad to see my parents go today. For many reasons.
Section II
My father has a brain tumor. A benign meningioma, which he was first diagnosed with in 2008. He had invasive brain surgery in May of 2008, and most of the tumor was removed. I wrote some about it here. We got word this past December after a routine MRI that the remaining part of the tumor is growing again. And it's too large to do anything but another invasive surgery. My parents decided to wait until this month to do another MRI to check the status of the tumor and plan for when the surgery should take place. Yesterday was the MRI and since December, the tumor has grown upward and sideways, dangerously close to the brain stem. My mom told me that she has been praying for a definitive answer... that after this MRI, things would be clear about what direction we needed to go in. About whether another surgery would be a risk we absolutely needed to take.
Clarity was found. Thank God for that.
Surgery is scheduled for October 10th at UVA.
My Dad is 73 years old. I know that the tumor and impending surgery is on everyone's mind in my family. But we don't talk about it much.
Since December, I've been slipping back into my normal coping strategies to deal with this whole tumor regrowth. I've been avoiding. I've been pushing it aside. I've also been (conveniently) distracted by my pregnancy and having another baby. Now that surgery is imminent, I am really trying to be more present with my feelings about it all. It's not easy. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared.
After his first surgery in 2008, the road was hard, but eventually he recovered incredibly well. He recovered probably 95% of his functioning. So there is no reason to believe that he won't also do just as well this time. The seeds of doubt threaten to creep into my thoughts... but the fact that we've been through this before and he has done so well, comforts me. Also - my father is an angel, and his positive attitude and peaceful resolve about this surgery gives me hope. It calms my heart. He is a peaceful warrior, displaying major courage in the midst of having to go through this all again.
Each time we are together, it's there, in the back of my mind. And each time he leaves, it feels harder and harder to let him go.
I can't help but think about the similarities, generation after generation... how children, of all ages, need their parents. My children need me, and I need my mom and dad. And it's always been that way. We go through these phases in life of separating and coming back together. I don't need them the same way I did when I was a child, but I still need them. And there have been many moments in the past several months that remind me how hard it is sometimes, to do the separating. It's hard to let go.
Hard for my children to let go of me. Hard for me to let go of them. Hard for me to let go of my parents. Hard for my children to let go of their grandparents. And I can reasonably assume, that it's hard for my parents to let go of their children and grandchildren, too.
Our human hearts can be so fragile, so vulnerable. Oh, how we need each other.
It's times like these that bring all things back into perspective. It's times like these that I remember to cherish every moment with those I love. It's times like these that bring me closer to God in a big way.
This time, I am coming face to face with my vulnerabilities. This time, I am choosing not to run from that which I am afraid. And thus, in the presence of my honest, scared, shaking heart, I find my strength.
I find it in my faith. I find it in my family. I find it in myself.
In clarity, we will proceed. Together, because we need each other. And no matter what, all will be well.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Lay it down
There are so many struggles in the lives and hearts of people I love today. So many things on my mind. About parenting, about loss, about responsibility. About friendship, about work, about identity, and who I want to be in this life. Life continues to get more complex, more deep, more involved with each new day that I experience. Sometimes, I feel so overwhelmed in my thoughts, that I'm not sure what to do with them. And in my life these days, there isn't a lot of time to figure out what to do with them. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I pray. Sometimes I talk. Sometimes I dance. Sometimes I cry. Most of the time, I distract myself with something else, which is the least successful strategy. But each day, I'm learning as I go. Learning more about about how to cope. How I cope. And how others cope. I'm a person of faith. I believe in God. And I believe, as they say, that He won't give us more than we can handle. More weight, more burden, more heartache.
That being said, some people are carrying huge friggin' loads. And it sure can't be good for their backs.
Today this thought came to me. If we want some relief from those burdens... if we want help to make it through... no matter what we believe... we've got to lay them down first.
Before we drown under the sea of confusion, get crushed under the weight of sorrow, or get burned by the heat of exhaustion... we have to lay it all down. Before God, before a therapist, before your best friend, on your yoga mat. Before your mom, before your neighbor, before your husband, on a hike in the gracious company of the natural world.
As long as you are safe in the process, it doesn't matter much where you put it. But don't hold on. You have to lay it down.
When you're lost in life, and don't know what to do next. When you're not sure who you are or where you're going: Lay it down.
When you're suffering under an immobilizing, black cloud of guilt or shame for choices you've made in the past: Lay it down.
When your beloved family member or friend is sick, facing surgery/treatment, or fading away: Lay it down.
When you're devastated by loss and can't get your heart to stop reeling from the pain: Lay it down.
When you're missing your best friend so much that you are sick from the separation - tell him/her. Lay it down.
When the fear of making a million mistakes in parenting strangles you, and you don't know if you'll ever breathe deeply again: Lay it down.
When depression creeps in and holds you underwater while the waves keep crashing overhead: Lay it down.
When major disappointment strikes, and you don't know if you'll be able to recover: Lay it down.
When you've been abused or treated as anything less than you are: Lay it down.
When you look in the mirror, and don't like what you see there... When you feel like you're not worthy of happiness or good things or that you have nothing to contribute to this world - this is a lie. Lay it down.
Anything that you NEED to pick up again at some point, will still be there. Give yourself a break... don't hold on. Be gentle with your heart. Set aside your fears and your pride. Ask for help.
Lay it down, and let someone/something else carry it for a while.
That being said, some people are carrying huge friggin' loads. And it sure can't be good for their backs.
Today this thought came to me. If we want some relief from those burdens... if we want help to make it through... no matter what we believe... we've got to lay them down first.
Before we drown under the sea of confusion, get crushed under the weight of sorrow, or get burned by the heat of exhaustion... we have to lay it all down. Before God, before a therapist, before your best friend, on your yoga mat. Before your mom, before your neighbor, before your husband, on a hike in the gracious company of the natural world.
As long as you are safe in the process, it doesn't matter much where you put it. But don't hold on. You have to lay it down.
When you're lost in life, and don't know what to do next. When you're not sure who you are or where you're going: Lay it down.
When you're suffering under an immobilizing, black cloud of guilt or shame for choices you've made in the past: Lay it down.
When your beloved family member or friend is sick, facing surgery/treatment, or fading away: Lay it down.
When you're devastated by loss and can't get your heart to stop reeling from the pain: Lay it down.
When you're missing your best friend so much that you are sick from the separation - tell him/her. Lay it down.
When the fear of making a million mistakes in parenting strangles you, and you don't know if you'll ever breathe deeply again: Lay it down.
When depression creeps in and holds you underwater while the waves keep crashing overhead: Lay it down.
When major disappointment strikes, and you don't know if you'll be able to recover: Lay it down.
When you've been abused or treated as anything less than you are: Lay it down.
When you look in the mirror, and don't like what you see there... When you feel like you're not worthy of happiness or good things or that you have nothing to contribute to this world - this is a lie. Lay it down.
Anything that you NEED to pick up again at some point, will still be there. Give yourself a break... don't hold on. Be gentle with your heart. Set aside your fears and your pride. Ask for help.
Lay it down, and let someone/something else carry it for a while.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Welcome, Charlie
Dear Charlie,
You have been here with us for six weeks now, here on the outside. Outside the walls of the cozy container in which you grew. Inside this container is where you were when we came to know about you - in my body, which had already begun making room for you. We then prepared our hearts, our lives, and our home, so that there would be room and we could contain you in those places, too. Our smallish 3 bedroom townhouse has been reconfigured. We have sorted and cleaned and purged things we no longer needed, in preparation for your arrival. So we too, have been reconfigured and transformed by the idea of you, and now by your actual presence. Now that you are here on the outside.
I thought it would be more challenging to make the space that you would require... but it's not hard to make space for something you love so much.
You've only just arrived, but it somehow feels like you've been here all along.
We are all still adjusting, in many ways, to the newness of you. To how small you are, and how we have to learn all over again how to care for one so fragile. To your round-the-clock schedule, because you still need us so close. To the tiny cries and sweet sounds that you make; they dance on the strings of our hearts and communicate so much. To caring for you in addition to your big sister, and how to balance the intensity of it all. But you are adjusting to us, as well. Figuring out who we are, and why the three of us keep appearing in your blurry, farsighted, newborn view. To our sounds, our smells, and the feel of our touch. Figuring out that in our care, your needs are being met. We are here for you. You are safe, you are fed, you are nurtured, you are loved. (I cannot stop kissing your squishy little cheeks and your perfect mouth, your sweet belly, your adorable toes. With me - a Quinones - as your mom, you will not suffer lack of physical affection. I apologize in advance for your teenage years).
Your big sister, Hazel, is still working on all her feelings about your arrival. She probably will for some time. She has these moments of kindness and sweetness towards you, which make my heart do flips in my chest. But sometimes she gets upset... especially when we have to take care of your immediate need before her not-so-immediate need. Like stopping a game that we are playing in order to feed you. She is still too young to comprehend the changes. Change is hard, especially when it means that she will have to share our time and attention. Things are different for her now.
The first time Hazel met you, your Dad wanted it to be a special introduction, with only the four of us present. So Hazel came into the hospital room, at first a bit scared and unsure of the environment. We consoled her, and told her that everything was okay. We told her that her baby sister was no longer in Mommy's tummy - that she had arrived. Then she sat tentatively on the bed with us, looked at you with a mixture of emotions, and said, "Hi, baby Charlie," as she patted your head. She handed you a stuffed green frog - her welcome gift for you. This made your Dad cry. Then your Mom cried, too. Then Hazel cried, because she didn't really know what was going on, and why everyone was acting so weird. She'll understand one day, as we retell the story in the future. I hope we can capture the beauty, depth, sweetness, and vulnerability of that moment when you met your big sister for the first time.
I am so grateful that you are here. I am so grateful for your good health. All ten fingers and toes, and a gorgeous head of full, black hair. And I am overwhelmed by your beauty - it is endless. Words cannot describe what I feel, when I look into your deep blue eyes. Sometimes I feel like you are communicating with your expression... your eyes seem to say "I need you." I need you, too, baby girl. You have made me a mother once again. I don't know if there is any experience in life that is more beautiful, more humbling, more intensely unique.
All things considered, we are still adjusting to our new lives, with you here on the outside. But we are thrilled to have become a family of four, because of you. We know that we are insanely lucky to have you here with us... and are so very, very blessed by you already.
Thank you, baby Charlotte. And welcome to our world.
You have been here with us for six weeks now, here on the outside. Outside the walls of the cozy container in which you grew. Inside this container is where you were when we came to know about you - in my body, which had already begun making room for you. We then prepared our hearts, our lives, and our home, so that there would be room and we could contain you in those places, too. Our smallish 3 bedroom townhouse has been reconfigured. We have sorted and cleaned and purged things we no longer needed, in preparation for your arrival. So we too, have been reconfigured and transformed by the idea of you, and now by your actual presence. Now that you are here on the outside.
I thought it would be more challenging to make the space that you would require... but it's not hard to make space for something you love so much.
You've only just arrived, but it somehow feels like you've been here all along.
We are all still adjusting, in many ways, to the newness of you. To how small you are, and how we have to learn all over again how to care for one so fragile. To your round-the-clock schedule, because you still need us so close. To the tiny cries and sweet sounds that you make; they dance on the strings of our hearts and communicate so much. To caring for you in addition to your big sister, and how to balance the intensity of it all. But you are adjusting to us, as well. Figuring out who we are, and why the three of us keep appearing in your blurry, farsighted, newborn view. To our sounds, our smells, and the feel of our touch. Figuring out that in our care, your needs are being met. We are here for you. You are safe, you are fed, you are nurtured, you are loved. (I cannot stop kissing your squishy little cheeks and your perfect mouth, your sweet belly, your adorable toes. With me - a Quinones - as your mom, you will not suffer lack of physical affection. I apologize in advance for your teenage years).
Your big sister, Hazel, is still working on all her feelings about your arrival. She probably will for some time. She has these moments of kindness and sweetness towards you, which make my heart do flips in my chest. But sometimes she gets upset... especially when we have to take care of your immediate need before her not-so-immediate need. Like stopping a game that we are playing in order to feed you. She is still too young to comprehend the changes. Change is hard, especially when it means that she will have to share our time and attention. Things are different for her now.
The first time Hazel met you, your Dad wanted it to be a special introduction, with only the four of us present. So Hazel came into the hospital room, at first a bit scared and unsure of the environment. We consoled her, and told her that everything was okay. We told her that her baby sister was no longer in Mommy's tummy - that she had arrived. Then she sat tentatively on the bed with us, looked at you with a mixture of emotions, and said, "Hi, baby Charlie," as she patted your head. She handed you a stuffed green frog - her welcome gift for you. This made your Dad cry. Then your Mom cried, too. Then Hazel cried, because she didn't really know what was going on, and why everyone was acting so weird. She'll understand one day, as we retell the story in the future. I hope we can capture the beauty, depth, sweetness, and vulnerability of that moment when you met your big sister for the first time.
I am so grateful that you are here. I am so grateful for your good health. All ten fingers and toes, and a gorgeous head of full, black hair. And I am overwhelmed by your beauty - it is endless. Words cannot describe what I feel, when I look into your deep blue eyes. Sometimes I feel like you are communicating with your expression... your eyes seem to say "I need you." I need you, too, baby girl. You have made me a mother once again. I don't know if there is any experience in life that is more beautiful, more humbling, more intensely unique.
All things considered, we are still adjusting to our new lives, with you here on the outside. But we are thrilled to have become a family of four, because of you. We know that we are insanely lucky to have you here with us... and are so very, very blessed by you already.
Thank you, baby Charlotte. And welcome to our world.
Friday, May 24, 2013
Letting go - Part 3 (A moment of surrender)
After 35 years of getting to know myself, I would consider myself someone with a type B personality. Fairly laid back, go with the flow... not someone who pushes time or schedules or (subsequently) arrives on time to most places. There is something about becoming a parent that has turned me into more of a time-keeper. There is this inherent focus on schedules, as we move into the role of caring for babies and children. The importance of routine. And there is something else, too, which I think can be categorized as this need to be in control as a parent, to accomplish the demands and responsibilities that this role requires. You always hear how consistent discipline and structure are good for kids... which for the most part, I think is true. And as parents, we become the discipline-rs and the structure keepers. It is our JOB, to create a sturdy frame within which children can grow and develop and flourish.
And it can be challenging, because children rarely want to keep a schedule or a routine. They've got THINGS to do, and their OWN time frame that they want to do them in.
Hazel and I took a walk around the neighborhood recently, on a warm sunny day. If you've ever taken a walk with a two-year old, you know how not relaxing/stress-inducing this can be. Mostly it involves lots of stopping to inspect rocks and tree branches and bugs, and constantly intervening when said two-year old tries to run into the street or pick the neighbor's flowers or run up to knock on other people's doors or hang out on their front stoop. We were already behind schedule on this particular day, as we typically are. But Hazel really wanted to go outside, so we went for a quick stroll (ha) so she could enjoy the nice weather and we could avoid a tantrum.
As the "quick stroll" turned into a long-winded full blown nature adventure, I found myself getting more and more frustrated. Rushing her along more and more. "We still have to fix and eat lunch, and then change her diaper, and then read books, and then put her down for a late nap, which will mess things up at bedtime...." These were the thoughts running through my head. I felt like I was pushing and pushing, and it was quite ineffective. Like trying to squish a giant ball of slime into a tiny box. The more I pushed, the more Hazel wanted to wander along. And eventually, she just sat in the grass and started picking dandelions, one of her new favorite things to do.
We've been in this situation many many times before. And sometimes, after I've given her the 5 minute/3 minute/1 minute warnings and she still refuses to come willingly, I pick her up and carry her inside. Sometimes screaming and crying... sometimes not. Being super pregnant, my feet hurt and my back ached. I was physically tired from all the standing and walking and redirecting, and I was mentally tired from trying to coax and push and rush Hazel to get back home. And I really didn't feel like picking her up and carrying a screaming 28-pound girl all that way back.
So I dropped the fight, mostly from sheer exhaustion, and I plopped myself down in that grass with her. And what I felt in that moment was remarkable.
I felt immediate relief. I felt almost weightless, like a huge burden had been lifted. I felt a swelling of peace. Hazel beamed, and said "Mommy sit down!" She picked dandelions and then handed them to me so I could blow away all the quills into the warm, spring breeze. I noticed, for the first time, how full and green the grass looked and how comforting the rays of sun felt on my arm. I watched Hazel, and I really saw her. I saw the delight and the contentment on her face. I saw how her hair moved, across her sweet sturdy shoulders as she reached for another flower to pick. We didn't say much... and that was okay. I had instantly moved from the spinning, pushing thoughts in my head, to a sensory awareness of all that surrounded me. We sat there for some time. I'm not sure how long. And it didn't really matter.
I was more relaxed than I had been in a long time. Because I decided, in that moment, to let go.
I've been thinking a lot, in the last several years of my life, how important it is to let go from time to time. We live in a society that thrives on busy - thrives on the constant push of life. We love, and sometimes even NEED, to be in control - to accomplish and achieve and organize and produce. To check off our to do lists, and multitask and juggle. But in spite of all this striving... in spite of all that we achieve in a day, do we really feel at peace?
I think real peace comes in these moments of surrender.
These moments, when we move out of our minds and into our bodies. Into our senses. Into what is happening around us, as it is happening. When we let go of our attachment to how we think things ought to be, or to an outcome we think we have to achieve. When we surrender our own will, to the will of the present. There is so much beauty to be felt and to be seen in it... so much that we often miss, when we grasp the reigns too tightly and fight to manage it all.
All things considered, I know this isn't always easy. But it was a memorable day for me, as my two-year old guided me and taught me about the art and the importance of surrender. Of letting go of our schedule and our routine and all that I thought we needed... to experience something so much greater.
I hope to always carry this moment with me as a reminder, to let go when something greater calls.
And it can be challenging, because children rarely want to keep a schedule or a routine. They've got THINGS to do, and their OWN time frame that they want to do them in.
Hazel and I took a walk around the neighborhood recently, on a warm sunny day. If you've ever taken a walk with a two-year old, you know how not relaxing/stress-inducing this can be. Mostly it involves lots of stopping to inspect rocks and tree branches and bugs, and constantly intervening when said two-year old tries to run into the street or pick the neighbor's flowers or run up to knock on other people's doors or hang out on their front stoop. We were already behind schedule on this particular day, as we typically are. But Hazel really wanted to go outside, so we went for a quick stroll (ha) so she could enjoy the nice weather and we could avoid a tantrum.
As the "quick stroll" turned into a long-winded full blown nature adventure, I found myself getting more and more frustrated. Rushing her along more and more. "We still have to fix and eat lunch, and then change her diaper, and then read books, and then put her down for a late nap, which will mess things up at bedtime...." These were the thoughts running through my head. I felt like I was pushing and pushing, and it was quite ineffective. Like trying to squish a giant ball of slime into a tiny box. The more I pushed, the more Hazel wanted to wander along. And eventually, she just sat in the grass and started picking dandelions, one of her new favorite things to do.
We've been in this situation many many times before. And sometimes, after I've given her the 5 minute/3 minute/1 minute warnings and she still refuses to come willingly, I pick her up and carry her inside. Sometimes screaming and crying... sometimes not. Being super pregnant, my feet hurt and my back ached. I was physically tired from all the standing and walking and redirecting, and I was mentally tired from trying to coax and push and rush Hazel to get back home. And I really didn't feel like picking her up and carrying a screaming 28-pound girl all that way back.
So I dropped the fight, mostly from sheer exhaustion, and I plopped myself down in that grass with her. And what I felt in that moment was remarkable.
I felt immediate relief. I felt almost weightless, like a huge burden had been lifted. I felt a swelling of peace. Hazel beamed, and said "Mommy sit down!" She picked dandelions and then handed them to me so I could blow away all the quills into the warm, spring breeze. I noticed, for the first time, how full and green the grass looked and how comforting the rays of sun felt on my arm. I watched Hazel, and I really saw her. I saw the delight and the contentment on her face. I saw how her hair moved, across her sweet sturdy shoulders as she reached for another flower to pick. We didn't say much... and that was okay. I had instantly moved from the spinning, pushing thoughts in my head, to a sensory awareness of all that surrounded me. We sat there for some time. I'm not sure how long. And it didn't really matter.
I was more relaxed than I had been in a long time. Because I decided, in that moment, to let go.
I've been thinking a lot, in the last several years of my life, how important it is to let go from time to time. We live in a society that thrives on busy - thrives on the constant push of life. We love, and sometimes even NEED, to be in control - to accomplish and achieve and organize and produce. To check off our to do lists, and multitask and juggle. But in spite of all this striving... in spite of all that we achieve in a day, do we really feel at peace?
I think real peace comes in these moments of surrender.
These moments, when we move out of our minds and into our bodies. Into our senses. Into what is happening around us, as it is happening. When we let go of our attachment to how we think things ought to be, or to an outcome we think we have to achieve. When we surrender our own will, to the will of the present. There is so much beauty to be felt and to be seen in it... so much that we often miss, when we grasp the reigns too tightly and fight to manage it all.
All things considered, I know this isn't always easy. But it was a memorable day for me, as my two-year old guided me and taught me about the art and the importance of surrender. Of letting go of our schedule and our routine and all that I thought we needed... to experience something so much greater.
I hope to always carry this moment with me as a reminder, to let go when something greater calls.
"The greatness of a man's power is the measure of his surrender." ~William Booth
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Why Pinterest and I aren't friends
So we strive for perfection in the areas in which we can control, and that isn't necessarily what provides contentment and joy for ourselves, and more importantly, for our children.
~Sarah Jessica Parker
I woke up on Sunday, March 17th this year, and logged onto Facebook. It was a sea of green. The overwhelming majority of posts I were seeing had to do with St. Patrick's Day (which I had totally forgotten about. Oops.). St. Patty's Day clothes and decorations and parties and holiday-inspired foods for kids... links to Pinterest all over. I was pretty sure that I had failed miserably at being a mom-type person because I forgot that the holiday even existed. I literally said to my husband, "Are we bad parents because we didn't make green eggs and shamrock-shaped pancakes and hide a pot of gold for Hazel today?"
Valentine's Day is pretty much the same for me. So much hype. So much consumerism. I just don't get into it. And there is a real pressure that I feel from society today, that I should really be getting into it. Everyone is doing it! You are not a good mom or wife or sister or daughter or friend, if you don't do it all. If you don't buy cards for everyone and decorate everything and make your own holiday-themed treats. Blahhhh. Bah hum bug. Somewhere in my mind, I seem to associate the plethora of holidays and the celebrations of said holidays with Pinterest, as they seem to reinforce each other or feed off of each other or give each other reasons to exist.
I've been an avid Pinterest avoider, basically since it came on the scene. I've never really been good at crafty-type things, or decorating, or cute, stylish home improvements. I took an art therapy course in grad school. I felt like I was having a major crisis, because I realized that I can't draw, and I am basically horrible at creating visual art. "Why didn't they do a better job of teaching us to draw in elementary school!! I can't communicate/express anything through this medium!!" These were the thoughts running through my head. It was very frustrating and NON-therapeutic for me. I digress.
The only thing that I think I could get into with Pinterest are the recipes. I DO like food. I like making food. And I like getting access to new ideas on making food and good recipes for food-making/creating. I do not really care to make food that looks like cars, or trains, or animals, or people. I like food that tastes good, and looks like food.
Don't get me wrong - I have no problem with people out there who love Pinterest, or are inclined in this way. Or who love to make cute, fun, crafty-type things. I secretly admire people with these talents and skills, because I don't possess them at all. But there is SOMEthing about the whole Pinterest thing (or maybe what it represents) that really bugs me. And after thinking it through, I think it might have something to do with these two ideas:
1) Real life is not cute, or tidy, or neatly color coordinated. Life is so often messy, imperfect, and doesn't fit into pretty gold boxes. Life hangs out over the side of that pretty box, and paint gets smeared/smudged, and the icing on that delightful bunny cake melts. The cute bunny tail ends up looking more like poop. Whether we like it or not. (Pinterest fail boards? There are many). Something about Pinterest feels like pretending. It takes me back to the ideas/image-conscious culture of the 1950s, where women had to be all, do all, look amazing at all times, and never complain. ICKY. This may be a stretch, but something in my brain draws this link... from that era (which we have come so far from), to a whole different culture today in a technology-centric world, and a website where everything is perfect and amazing and shows you how to organize your life in neat color-coded boxes. Where you can get ideas to throw the BEST, most perfect birthday party for your child, with the cutest party favors and matching decor ideas and matching food. It's nice, but it's just not real life to me.
2) There is too much pressure to do too much, that doesn't really MEAN enough.
This idea is not directly linked to Pinterest itself, but is related. For me, I want to focus on being emotionally present and available for my children. I want to make sure that their basic needs of food, shelter, affection and love are provided for, to the best of my ability. I want to teach them and guide them, discipline them, and also learn how to let them go... as they grow away from me into independence, little by little every day. These things fill my mind and my heart to the brim. And most of the time, I am overwhelmed by these tasks. These joys and weights of being a parent. And I just don't think we need the expectation to do more - like throwing the perfect birthday party or holiday party or creating the best Easter basket - in order to feel like good parents. It's all just too much. And what does it really mean? Sometimes we can get caught up in/distracted by the hoopla... and it's possible that we neglect other things in the process. Things that I think are more important in the grand scheme of it all.
I'm all about reveling in the imperfect, in this phase of my life. About embracing my messes and flaws and learning to accept myself for who I am. About trying to release this unnecessary pressure to be more than I am. Some days, I strive to keep my head above water... to keep myself and my family well and functioning. Some days are hard. Some days are beautiful. Some days are relaxed. Some days are mind-numbingly tedious. And most days are a mixture of it all. But this is the life that I seek - to live in the nitty gritty, authentic moment. To take it all in... to feel truly alive and awakened to all that is real.
Not to seek perfection in anything, but to seek acceptance and love in everything.
All things considered, this is why Pinterest and I aren't friends. For now. I realize that I haven't really given her a chance. Maybe someday I will change my tune. But this is my take for the time being.
The fact of storytelling hints at fundamental human unease, hints at human imperfection. Where there is perfection, there is no story to tell. ~Ben Okri
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Vulnerability: finding our communities of healing
The topic of vulnerability has been on my mind and heart in recent weeks and months, as it seems to be popping up everywhere around me lately. (A message, God?) My friend from college, Trinity, who writes a wonderful, heart-wrenchingly open, inspiring blog, has been recently discussing how to start a vulnerability revolution. We've all been dealt very different lots in life, but all of us are broken in some way. We are human beings, imperfect by nature. And most of us work so hard to hide our imperfections and our struggles, rather than letting our brokenness be revealed.
Which is kind of a catastrophe for all of us. Because real beauty can be found in brokenness.
In a church we have been visiting for the past several months, the pastor spoke a few weeks back on vulnerability. He said to love at all, is to be vulnerable; to be broken. The pastor said that for most of us, one of our greatest fears is the fear of being vulnerable...
He said, if only we had the courage to show up and let ourselves be seen, that maybe we would develop communities of healing instead of communities that fight in fear.
Communities of healing. To really heal, we must first have the courage to allow ourselves to be broken.
Brene Brown, in her TED talk on the Power of Vulnerability, also talks about the importance of letting ourselves be seen. (If you have never seen this, I beg you to watch. She has done some life-changing research in this area, and presents some of it here).
As the topic surrounds me, I have been inspired to cultivate my own thoughts more deeply and meditate on this concept of vulnerability, reflecting on my own experiences.... and I think I've come to four theoretical points that are applicable, at least for me.
Somewhere along the line during my childhood/adolescence/growing up, I developed the perception that there was little time, space for, or validity to, my feelings. I started to focus instead on the feelings of others, and deemed them more important than my own. I remember occasionally having these ridiculous outbursts of emotion, when I couldn't contain my feelings any longer in a particular situation. I lacked a healthy way of expressing them, and didn't have much guidance in navigating the great sea of feelings that were washing over me. I still struggle sometimes with the notion that my feelings are not as valid or worthy or important as those of others. Or that I can contain/manage them on my own. Or that if I open myself a little, the flood gates will come crashing down and that no one will want to deal with that. These things often keep me from sharing my more difficult emotions, and as a result, from experiencing real vulnerability and intimacy/connection. All things that I should probably address in therapy. Which means, I should probably start going to therapy.
2) Being vulnerable is hard. And so is figuring out just how vulnerable we're supposed to be.
Most of us run like wild hyenas at the thought of being vulnerable with someone else. The thought of being exposed. Of not being in control. Of ourselves and our emotions. It can be terrifying. Many of us fill our lives with all kinds of things that distract us or help us to avoid our feelings: working too much; drinking too much; prescription pills and other drugs; eating too much or eating too little; extremely busy schedules with activities/events/so many things to do, etc. But we all have problems and pain... and we need to allow ourselves, somehow, to be present with this instead of denying or running or distracting or pushing the pain away. That being said, I'm not sure that living in a CONSTANT state of vulnerability is supposed to be maintained. I believe that there are times to be wide open and to feel what we feel, and there are times to power through and to keep moving (with acceptance, not denial). Both of these things take courage - in different ways. Finding the right balance is hard. I think that remaining in a state of constant vulnerability could be debilitating for some people. And remaining in a state of constant stoicism is not healthy, either. It is necessary to admit our feelings, to acknowledge them... to accept them, in order to resolve them. And it is necessary to move on from them. To move forward, somehow, out of our pain. Different people will accomplish this in different ways, and in different times. And some of us need to go back and deal with unresolved pain, or it can unconsciously affect how we live our lives.
4) Not everyone or every place is meant to be a safe space.
We have to know and understand which people and which situations are going to be supportive and healthy for us to open ourselves to. Otherwise, if we let our guard down and someone (whether intentional or unintentional) doesn't handle it well, it can be very damaging. We may close off and have a very hard time opening up again. For some of us, ever. So it is important to know ourselves, and to know which people and places are "safe spaces" for our hearts. For being vulnerable/practicing vulnerability. For some, it's a therapist. For some, it's a pastor/priest/rabbi/religious person. For some, it's a close friend or family member or partner. For some people, it's not a person, but a place or a community - like church, or yoga, or AA, or performing on a stage, or writing. And for some, it's a spiritual/religious figure - like God - that they feel comfortable letting themselves be completely vulnerable with. For me, two safe spaces that immediately come to mind are my husband (who I allow to see some, but not all), and when I'm alone, on my knees before God.
For these four reasons and probably others, I often struggle with allowing myself to be truly vulnerable. I had a conversation with one of my best friends recently, who told me that sometimes she is not sure how to love me, or care for me well. It took a lot of courage for her to share these feelings, and it really had an impact on me. I'm so grateful for her. We had a wonderful conversation about vulnerability and how we both struggle with it. And how sometimes it's the hardest thing in the world to say, "Hey, I'm not really okay. I'm hurting." Or "I'm struggling. And I need help." Even to our best friends. Such simple words, yet so complex to get around our own brains and pride and fears to get them out.
I am realizing that writing is helping me to be more openly expressive with my feelings. It is giving me the space and liberty to explore different parts of my life and topics that are important to me. I am finding it to be a helpful medium, to practice being more candid, more real, and more free discussing some of the things that I wrestle with or that lay on my heart. And, it is still terrifying.
I have felt more vulnerable in the past year of writing in this blog, than I have in a long time. This blog is helping me to pursue vulnerability; to learn about the crooked path that leads me to myself, and to work through some things in the process.
Why do that in a public forum, rather than a personal journal? You might ask.
All things considered, this post is both a meditation on the topic of vulnerability, and an exercise in vulnerability for me (as most of them are). One year later, I am so grateful for this writing/blogging journey. This chipping down and stripping away, little by little, of the things that I have built up around myself in order to avoid being vulnerable. And I want to say thank you to those who take the time to read these words. Thank you for supporting me with your presence, and participating in my community.
Which is kind of a catastrophe for all of us. Because real beauty can be found in brokenness.
In a church we have been visiting for the past several months, the pastor spoke a few weeks back on vulnerability. He said to love at all, is to be vulnerable; to be broken. The pastor said that for most of us, one of our greatest fears is the fear of being vulnerable...
He said, if only we had the courage to show up and let ourselves be seen, that maybe we would develop communities of healing instead of communities that fight in fear.
Communities of healing. To really heal, we must first have the courage to allow ourselves to be broken.
Brene Brown, in her TED talk on the Power of Vulnerability, also talks about the importance of letting ourselves be seen. (If you have never seen this, I beg you to watch. She has done some life-changing research in this area, and presents some of it here).
As the topic surrounds me, I have been inspired to cultivate my own thoughts more deeply and meditate on this concept of vulnerability, reflecting on my own experiences.... and I think I've come to four theoretical points that are applicable, at least for me.
1) You have to believe that your feelings are valid and worthy of sharing.
Brene Brown says that "people who have a strong sense of love and belonging, BELIEVE that they are worthy of love and belonging." And, "The one thing that keeps us out of connection is our fear that we are not worthy of connection."
2) Being vulnerable is hard. And so is figuring out just how vulnerable we're supposed to be.
Most of us run like wild hyenas at the thought of being vulnerable with someone else. The thought of being exposed. Of not being in control. Of ourselves and our emotions. It can be terrifying. Many of us fill our lives with all kinds of things that distract us or help us to avoid our feelings: working too much; drinking too much; prescription pills and other drugs; eating too much or eating too little; extremely busy schedules with activities/events/so many things to do, etc. But we all have problems and pain... and we need to allow ourselves, somehow, to be present with this instead of denying or running or distracting or pushing the pain away. That being said, I'm not sure that living in a CONSTANT state of vulnerability is supposed to be maintained. I believe that there are times to be wide open and to feel what we feel, and there are times to power through and to keep moving (with acceptance, not denial). Both of these things take courage - in different ways. Finding the right balance is hard. I think that remaining in a state of constant vulnerability could be debilitating for some people. And remaining in a state of constant stoicism is not healthy, either. It is necessary to admit our feelings, to acknowledge them... to accept them, in order to resolve them. And it is necessary to move on from them. To move forward, somehow, out of our pain. Different people will accomplish this in different ways, and in different times. And some of us need to go back and deal with unresolved pain, or it can unconsciously affect how we live our lives.
3) There is a real fear of overburdening others (who have their own sets of problems and pain).
My best friends and I call this phase of life that we are in the "dirty thirties." Huge shifts in identity taking place (which always involves loss), and many difficult situations that we couldn't have imagined when we were in our (much more carefree) twenties. The stress of raising young children, the huge weight of expanding responsibilities, the devastation of unexpected traumas, painful losses through divorce and death and infertility, facing the mortality of our parents as they age and suffer illness, medical problems, financial concerns, career struggles, etc. Tough stuff... and everyone is going through something. Or multiple things. So I worry a lot about sharing my heart with those who are already hurting, as I don't want to give them more burden. More weight. This is another thing that keeps me from being vulnerable with people who I care about.
4) Not everyone or every place is meant to be a safe space.
We have to know and understand which people and which situations are going to be supportive and healthy for us to open ourselves to. Otherwise, if we let our guard down and someone (whether intentional or unintentional) doesn't handle it well, it can be very damaging. We may close off and have a very hard time opening up again. For some of us, ever. So it is important to know ourselves, and to know which people and places are "safe spaces" for our hearts. For being vulnerable/practicing vulnerability. For some, it's a therapist. For some, it's a pastor/priest/rabbi/religious person. For some, it's a close friend or family member or partner. For some people, it's not a person, but a place or a community - like church, or yoga, or AA, or performing on a stage, or writing. And for some, it's a spiritual/religious figure - like God - that they feel comfortable letting themselves be completely vulnerable with. For me, two safe spaces that immediately come to mind are my husband (who I allow to see some, but not all), and when I'm alone, on my knees before God.
For these four reasons and probably others, I often struggle with allowing myself to be truly vulnerable. I had a conversation with one of my best friends recently, who told me that sometimes she is not sure how to love me, or care for me well. It took a lot of courage for her to share these feelings, and it really had an impact on me. I'm so grateful for her. We had a wonderful conversation about vulnerability and how we both struggle with it. And how sometimes it's the hardest thing in the world to say, "Hey, I'm not really okay. I'm hurting." Or "I'm struggling. And I need help." Even to our best friends. Such simple words, yet so complex to get around our own brains and pride and fears to get them out.
I am realizing that writing is helping me to be more openly expressive with my feelings. It is giving me the space and liberty to explore different parts of my life and topics that are important to me. I am finding it to be a helpful medium, to practice being more candid, more real, and more free discussing some of the things that I wrestle with or that lay on my heart. And, it is still terrifying.
I have felt more vulnerable in the past year of writing in this blog, than I have in a long time. This blog is helping me to pursue vulnerability; to learn about the crooked path that leads me to myself, and to work through some things in the process.
Why do that in a public forum, rather than a personal journal? You might ask.
Because... I am trying to have the courage to show up, and to let myself be seen. And because I am hoping, that in doing so, I might connect with others in some way and contribute to a community of healing.
A community of brokenness, and of beautifully broken people.
A community of honesty.
A community of hope.
A community of brokenness, and of beautifully broken people.
A community of honesty.
A community of hope.
All things considered, this post is both a meditation on the topic of vulnerability, and an exercise in vulnerability for me (as most of them are). One year later, I am so grateful for this writing/blogging journey. This chipping down and stripping away, little by little, of the things that I have built up around myself in order to avoid being vulnerable. And I want to say thank you to those who take the time to read these words. Thank you for supporting me with your presence, and participating in my community.
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