Thanks to modern day social media (and of course, general media), we have all been exposed/bombarded in the last several months with political jargon, thoughts, rhetoric, and opinions. I try to stay out out of the drama of it all, but it's difficult to do these days. So much passion. So much misinformation. So many people who don't even come close to knowing all the facts, but sure do argue like they do. And there have been a few comments made by folks in recent Facebook battles that I have seen (and maybe even participated in) that I just cannot shake. I cannot be silent about it. I have mulled it over in my head over and over again. And I thought I would take a few moments to share some thoughts on it all.
I'm talking about comments from people who state that "able-bodied people should get off their a** and get a job." Or "I'm tired of lazy people getting free handouts." Etc etc etc.
In light of an intense political climate, the gloves (and the decency?) have come off. In case it wasn't clear, these people are referencing those individuals/families who live in poverty and utilize government supports/subsidies for differing lengths of time, so that their families can eat or have a roof over their heads.
It is one thing to oppose government subsidies, or big government, or social programs. It is quite another thing to make sweeping, degrading, offensive, and hurtful comments about vulnerable populations. Those people, whose lives you likely know nothing about.
I am a clinical social worker, and I work with homeless families. I get to know the people in our transitional housing program on a personal level. We do thorough assessments, and we help them to address the issues that lead to homelessness. We try to help them find a way out. And I'd like to share a little bit about what I have seen and what I have learned about them and the lives that they lead.
First of all, poverty is crippling. For those of you who are uninformed on the devastating, lasting effects of poverty on families and societies, read up: A Framework for Understanding Poverty. The cyclical nature of poverty is daunting. Each time I get to know a new head of household in my housing program, I (unfortunately) am no longer shocked about the atrocities that they have experienced in their own childhoods, growing up in impoverished homes and neighborhoods... about the injustices that their own parents experienced and so on. (Well I am still shocked, but the connection is no longer surprising).
Poverty has a lasting impact on health and development. Children who are undernourished have trouble focusing and learning in school. They may suffer developmental delays, cognitive impairments, or intellectual disabilities. Children in poverty statistically are exposed to higher levels of stress, which also has negative impacts on their development. Frequent moves and changes in stability affect the overall health and wellness of children in poverty. They miss school more often. When they are in school, they might act out their stress through negative behaviors, sometimes getting them removed from the classroom or even expelled. They get less exposure to education. They feel inadequate. Many of them drop out of school. They continue to suffer.
These children grow up to become the adults that I work with in my housing program.
Some of these people have grown up in homes where they have watched their parent (s) be beaten by a boyfriend or spouse. They have watched their parents strung out on drugs and/or alcohol, and suffered awful amounts of neglect. They themselves, have been physically, sexually, or mentally abused, by parents or other family members. They have watched their own mothers live in prostitution, so that she could afford rent and have a place for her children to sleep. They have watched people/family members/friends get shot or stabbed in gang or drug-related violence. They themselves, have been mistreated by a boyfriend or husband, and became homeless as a result of fleeing domestic violence for their own safety and the safety of their children.
People who grow up in poverty and who live in poverty, are exposed to various kinds/types/levels of trauma.
The effects of trauma are disabling - in mental health, intellectually, cognitively, etc. These disabilities all impact the kinds of work people can do, or are capable of doing. Someone who appears "able-bodied" may be suffering in a multitude of other ways.
Many of the adults that I work with in these families, have full-time jobs. Some of them have more than one job. Making minimum wage (somewhere between $7.25 - $10 per hour). They work harder than most people I know on this earth. And they still cannot afford to support their families, pay market-rate rent, or put enough food on tables.
Some of them work immensely hard to get a job, but to no avail because of previous criminal histories. A huge barrier to becoming self-sufficient. Because of broken childhoods manifested in attention-seeking behaviors.
Some of the adults I work with struggle to further their education - which is the key to getting better jobs, increasing their incomes, and getting out of poverty - because of a mental health disability. Or an intellectual disability. Or because their self-esteem is so bottom-of-the-barrel low, that they just don't believe that they can or that they are worth it.
These are the people who I know, who I work with, who I support, in accessing public benefits so that their children don't go hungry. They work, every day, to survive.
And let me explain a misconception about "welfare checks." TANF, or Temporary Assistance for Needy Families, is a temporary financial support to families who make way below the federal poverty limits. These families do not get "free handouts." They are required to participate in something called the VIEW program, are assigned a case manager, and are required to have a 35 per-hour week schedule. They must either be attending school, job training program classes, volunteering, job-searching/applying for jobs, or working part-time to meet the 35 hour per-week requirement. All for $323 - $380 per month, depending on family size. If they don't meet the requirements, they won't get the check.
This is in Northern VA, where the average fair market-rate rent for a two-bedroom apartment is $1,400.
I have witnessed some people who are able to break the cycle, and pull themselves out, piece by piece, ever so slowly. So many barriers, and so much to overcome. But some do it. And I never cease to be amazed by these people and all that they accomplish.
All of my clients inspire me. In different ways. And almost all of them - if it were so simple- would choose to be self-sufficient. To experience the satisfaction (that middle/upper class people often take for granted) of providing for themselves. The luxury of having a different, less traumatic life.
All things considered, I don't expect anyone to change their political views, or how they feel about the government's role in society. However, I do expect people to show more compassion, more decency, and more sensitivity when talking or thinking about those who are underprivileged in our nation.
Because not until you've sat with them face to face... until you've heard their stories, felt their heartbreak, seen the pain behind their eyes and witnessed their struggle, will you understand anything about their lives or why they need to access public support.
And I thank God the support is there for those who need it. Every day.
There will always be poor people in the land. Therefore I command you to
be openhanded toward your brothers and toward the poor and needy in
your land ~ Deuteronomy 15:11
...You are to help your brothers until the LORD gives them rest, as he has done for you...
Joshua 1: 14-15
Monday, November 5, 2012
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Letting Go - Part 2
Just a heads up - I am jumping far forward into the parenting process in this post. It seems a bit silly to write about this now when Hazel isn't even 2 years old, however, I can't seem to get this subject out of my mind. And I realize that it will be a long time before I really have to deal with what I'm about to discuss. And that I could be totally naive and premature in the things I'm about to say. And that I have no idea how hard this will be to live and to put into practice. But I can't shake the notion of how important this is.
I happen to think, like many other parents, that my daughter is very smart. It is amazing to watch her learn, and to pick up new things all the time. Her language skills are rapidly developing, and she can do more and more with her body, mind, and social interactions every day. So, I said to my husband the other day, "Hazel is so smart! I think she's going to grow up to be a doctor who does amazing research, and she's going to cure cancer." To which my wise husband lightly replied, "What a huge expectation to put on her shoulders, babe."
I laughed, but then paused. I didn't even realize - although it was a joke - the serious implications that my mindless, caught up in the proud parent moment, well-meaning statement carried.
We've all seen the crazy stage moms - the women who are perhaps living out their own failed attempts at stardom/being noticed/feeling important, living vicariously through their children. (See shows such as Toddlers and Tiaras, Dance Moms, etc. ICK. ICK ICK.) We may know of a guy who decided to take over his father's family business instead of going to college... because that's what his father did, and expects him to do as well whether he wants to or not. We may have heard about the family in whom both parents went to Harvard, and have a strong expectation that their child will attend Harvard as well, or some other Ivy League school. Because it's just what people in their family do.
The last thing in the world that I want to do here is to judge how other people raise their children. I cringe at the thought. Because I know parenting is HARD. And we are all doing the best we can, and the best we know how. But I just feel it in my gut that this is important. And that it can happen to best of us. To the most loving, most well-meaning parents out there.
That we consciously or unconsciously put our OWN hopes, dreams, or expectations onto our children and who they will become. What career they will choose. Who they will marry, and if they will marry. Where they will live. What will be important to them. And I think this is something that we need to have an immense awareness of, and fight against with all our might. The human tendency for this - to dream our children's dreams, and want for them a life that WE think is going to be good, comfortable, rich, rewarding, or successful. Because it is quite possible that they will disagree. And because it can be damaging to our children, their self-esteem, to ourselves, and to our relationships with each other.
I feel, that we have to let go of our hopes and dreams of what we think our children's lives are going to look like - what we envision for them. We have to get to know who our children ARE as they grow and develop, not who we want them to be. Yes, we teach them when they are young and help to shape how they understand the world... but eventually they will develop their own feelings and thoughts and opinions about it all. And we have to support them in their own paths - on their own journeys to discover themselves and what THEY love in this life. Parenthood urges us and calls us to be in our most self-less form... to love purely, without condition.
Now, I'm not saying that we shouldn't have hopes for our children. Or dream of their futures. We absolutely should. We should dream with an open mind and open heart. We should dream of health, peace, and fulfillment. That they discover who they truly are, and what makes them authentically happy.
When I think of Hazel's future, I am so excited for her possibilities. And I try to stay open-minded because if my dreams get too specific - then it's more likely that I'll find myself in a future state of disappointment and heartbreak for the loss of what I had envisioned. Which could be awful for us both.
What if she chooses a career that will cause her to struggle? What if she, in pursuit of her dreams, moves to another town, state, or continent? What if she falls in love with and marries someone we dislike, or doesn't like us? What if she doesn't call or visit as much as I hoped she would? What if she commits a crime? Or gets divorced? Or doesn't want children of her own? Or is gay? Or a Republican? Or a gay Republican? (Thank you, Mike Bass). What if she doesn't maintain our family traditions and values? Or what if she converts to a different faith, creed, or religion?
So what if she does? Or doesn't?
She will be who she is....and I will love her all the same. It is her life to live, after all.
All things considered, I know absolutely nothing about how this will all look in the future. And I know nothing about what it's like/how it feels to parent a teenager or adult (or a child above 20 months old) who is seeking autonomy and independence . I know nothing about how badly my heart could be broken, despite my attempts to remain open-minded and supportive. Or how hard it will be to accept all of the choices my daughter makes in her life. Or how the norms of tomorrow will differ from society today. But what I do know, is that the stakes are too high to not (at least) develop an awareness, of potential unconscious expectations. I know what I feel in my heart today; I know the kind of parent I want to strive to be.
Kahlil Gibran, master of words, says it much more gracefully than I ever could:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
and though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love, but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward, nor tarries with yesterday.
I happen to think, like many other parents, that my daughter is very smart. It is amazing to watch her learn, and to pick up new things all the time. Her language skills are rapidly developing, and she can do more and more with her body, mind, and social interactions every day. So, I said to my husband the other day, "Hazel is so smart! I think she's going to grow up to be a doctor who does amazing research, and she's going to cure cancer." To which my wise husband lightly replied, "What a huge expectation to put on her shoulders, babe."
I laughed, but then paused. I didn't even realize - although it was a joke - the serious implications that my mindless, caught up in the proud parent moment, well-meaning statement carried.
We've all seen the crazy stage moms - the women who are perhaps living out their own failed attempts at stardom/being noticed/feeling important, living vicariously through their children. (See shows such as Toddlers and Tiaras, Dance Moms, etc. ICK. ICK ICK.) We may know of a guy who decided to take over his father's family business instead of going to college... because that's what his father did, and expects him to do as well whether he wants to or not. We may have heard about the family in whom both parents went to Harvard, and have a strong expectation that their child will attend Harvard as well, or some other Ivy League school. Because it's just what people in their family do.
The last thing in the world that I want to do here is to judge how other people raise their children. I cringe at the thought. Because I know parenting is HARD. And we are all doing the best we can, and the best we know how. But I just feel it in my gut that this is important. And that it can happen to best of us. To the most loving, most well-meaning parents out there.
That we consciously or unconsciously put our OWN hopes, dreams, or expectations onto our children and who they will become. What career they will choose. Who they will marry, and if they will marry. Where they will live. What will be important to them. And I think this is something that we need to have an immense awareness of, and fight against with all our might. The human tendency for this - to dream our children's dreams, and want for them a life that WE think is going to be good, comfortable, rich, rewarding, or successful. Because it is quite possible that they will disagree. And because it can be damaging to our children, their self-esteem, to ourselves, and to our relationships with each other.
I feel, that we have to let go of our hopes and dreams of what we think our children's lives are going to look like - what we envision for them. We have to get to know who our children ARE as they grow and develop, not who we want them to be. Yes, we teach them when they are young and help to shape how they understand the world... but eventually they will develop their own feelings and thoughts and opinions about it all. And we have to support them in their own paths - on their own journeys to discover themselves and what THEY love in this life. Parenthood urges us and calls us to be in our most self-less form... to love purely, without condition.
Now, I'm not saying that we shouldn't have hopes for our children. Or dream of their futures. We absolutely should. We should dream with an open mind and open heart. We should dream of health, peace, and fulfillment. That they discover who they truly are, and what makes them authentically happy.
When I think of Hazel's future, I am so excited for her possibilities. And I try to stay open-minded because if my dreams get too specific - then it's more likely that I'll find myself in a future state of disappointment and heartbreak for the loss of what I had envisioned. Which could be awful for us both.
What if she chooses a career that will cause her to struggle? What if she, in pursuit of her dreams, moves to another town, state, or continent? What if she falls in love with and marries someone we dislike, or doesn't like us? What if she doesn't call or visit as much as I hoped she would? What if she commits a crime? Or gets divorced? Or doesn't want children of her own? Or is gay? Or a Republican? Or a gay Republican? (Thank you, Mike Bass). What if she doesn't maintain our family traditions and values? Or what if she converts to a different faith, creed, or religion?
So what if she does? Or doesn't?
She will be who she is....and I will love her all the same. It is her life to live, after all.
All things considered, I know absolutely nothing about how this will all look in the future. And I know nothing about what it's like/how it feels to parent a teenager or adult (or a child above 20 months old) who is seeking autonomy and independence . I know nothing about how badly my heart could be broken, despite my attempts to remain open-minded and supportive. Or how hard it will be to accept all of the choices my daughter makes in her life. Or how the norms of tomorrow will differ from society today. But what I do know, is that the stakes are too high to not (at least) develop an awareness, of potential unconscious expectations. I know what I feel in my heart today; I know the kind of parent I want to strive to be.
Kahlil Gibran, master of words, says it much more gracefully than I ever could:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
and though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love, but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward, nor tarries with yesterday.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Saying my peaceful goodbyes to the ocean
I have never been good at goodbyes. I'm fairly good at evading them whenever I can.
It's hard to say goodbye to vacation. It's hard to say goodbye to summer, too. And it's especially hard to say goodbye to a vacation that comes at the end of summer, because then you have to say goodbye to both at the same time.
It was strange, the amount of sadness and bit of anxiety that came over me the last few days of our well-timed family vacation in Sandbridge, VA. It had been so very nice, to be away from the world for a while. Away from the emotional stress of work, the trudge of day to day life, the weight of responsibilities, the current harsh political climate, and away from some hard complexities going on in my life and the lives of those around me. The rest, the sun, the sand, and the ocean were so good for my soul.
On our last day of vacation, Mike and I had signed up to make dinner for the family. Between grocery shopping, prepping food for dinner, putting Hazel down for a nap, and then preparing dinner, I had a nice 2 hour window of time in the afternoon to enjoy the beach one last time. I kept making jokes to family members that I wanted to "say my peaceful goodbyes to the ocean." With Hazel napping inside and lovely grandparents who were willing to keep an eye on her, I made my way to the beach where I enjoyed some quiet time. I soaked up my last few rays, enjoyed my book, and dozed off to the sounds of the waves crashing repeatedly on the shore.
Then, as silly as it might sound, I felt an urge... a pull, to actually communicate with the ocean. That vast body of water, so beautiful, so alive... making me feel so small, yet so cared for in its presence. Making my problems feel so far away. Giving me perspective on the hugeness of this life, and giving me a sense of peace that no matter what, it will always carry on. So... I walked along the shore, praying silently. Feeling the smoothness of the sand beneath my feet. Smelling the salt in the air. Thanking the ocean, for what it had given me that week. For its wisdom and grace. For the restoration I felt in its company. I thanked it for its healing properties, and for what it gives to us all who are fortunate enough to visit. I expressed my gratitude for being able to afford the time and money it took to be there.
And I returned to my spot on the beach, collected my things, and started inside to make dinner for the family. And strangely, I felt at peace. A shift had occurred, and I was in a better place about letting go of our vacation and saying goodbye to summer. And perhaps some other things, too.
As I walked back to the house, it struck me how important it is to "say our peaceful goodbyes" in this life. To say goodbye to seasons that we pass through, and to thank each one for what it has given us. For how it has enriched our lives, or made us better. Or what we have learned from being there. No matter the duration of time, or how painful the goodbye is...
Because most of the time, we don't want our vacations to be over. Or to see our babies grow up. Or to realize our parents get older. Or to get older ourselves. Or to let go of loved ones, loved places, or loved careers, when it comes time to move on without them.
But how necessary it is, to accept the passing of time and the end of each era in our lives.
In the grand scheme of things, obviously, saying goodbye to a vacation is not a big deal - especially if you know that there are more to come in the future. Other, more final things, are MUCH more difficult to approach.
All things considered, I've never been good at goodbyes. But I am beginning to see how important they are, whether they are said out loud or only in our minds and hearts. The essential thing is that they are said at all. So that we may eventually find peace in the process of letting go... of each season we pass through. And in each new chapter that we face on the other side.
It's hard to say goodbye to vacation. It's hard to say goodbye to summer, too. And it's especially hard to say goodbye to a vacation that comes at the end of summer, because then you have to say goodbye to both at the same time.
It was strange, the amount of sadness and bit of anxiety that came over me the last few days of our well-timed family vacation in Sandbridge, VA. It had been so very nice, to be away from the world for a while. Away from the emotional stress of work, the trudge of day to day life, the weight of responsibilities, the current harsh political climate, and away from some hard complexities going on in my life and the lives of those around me. The rest, the sun, the sand, and the ocean were so good for my soul.
On our last day of vacation, Mike and I had signed up to make dinner for the family. Between grocery shopping, prepping food for dinner, putting Hazel down for a nap, and then preparing dinner, I had a nice 2 hour window of time in the afternoon to enjoy the beach one last time. I kept making jokes to family members that I wanted to "say my peaceful goodbyes to the ocean." With Hazel napping inside and lovely grandparents who were willing to keep an eye on her, I made my way to the beach where I enjoyed some quiet time. I soaked up my last few rays, enjoyed my book, and dozed off to the sounds of the waves crashing repeatedly on the shore.
Then, as silly as it might sound, I felt an urge... a pull, to actually communicate with the ocean. That vast body of water, so beautiful, so alive... making me feel so small, yet so cared for in its presence. Making my problems feel so far away. Giving me perspective on the hugeness of this life, and giving me a sense of peace that no matter what, it will always carry on. So... I walked along the shore, praying silently. Feeling the smoothness of the sand beneath my feet. Smelling the salt in the air. Thanking the ocean, for what it had given me that week. For its wisdom and grace. For the restoration I felt in its company. I thanked it for its healing properties, and for what it gives to us all who are fortunate enough to visit. I expressed my gratitude for being able to afford the time and money it took to be there.
And I returned to my spot on the beach, collected my things, and started inside to make dinner for the family. And strangely, I felt at peace. A shift had occurred, and I was in a better place about letting go of our vacation and saying goodbye to summer. And perhaps some other things, too.
As I walked back to the house, it struck me how important it is to "say our peaceful goodbyes" in this life. To say goodbye to seasons that we pass through, and to thank each one for what it has given us. For how it has enriched our lives, or made us better. Or what we have learned from being there. No matter the duration of time, or how painful the goodbye is...
Because most of the time, we don't want our vacations to be over. Or to see our babies grow up. Or to realize our parents get older. Or to get older ourselves. Or to let go of loved ones, loved places, or loved careers, when it comes time to move on without them.
But how necessary it is, to accept the passing of time and the end of each era in our lives.
In the grand scheme of things, obviously, saying goodbye to a vacation is not a big deal - especially if you know that there are more to come in the future. Other, more final things, are MUCH more difficult to approach.
All things considered, I've never been good at goodbyes. But I am beginning to see how important they are, whether they are said out loud or only in our minds and hearts. The essential thing is that they are said at all. So that we may eventually find peace in the process of letting go... of each season we pass through. And in each new chapter that we face on the other side.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Fearing the blank canvas
Lately, I've been working with a very bright, insightful, 19 year-old client. She recently earned her GED, which was a huge accomplishment for her based on the circumstances, past and present. And now, after such an accomplishment, her progress has slowed and she is extremely hesitant to enroll in another education program, no matter how many options I present. No matter how much encouragement I give. Something is blocking her. And in a recent visit with her she said, "You know, I think it's not that I'm afraid to fail. I think I'm afraid of what will happen if I actually succeed."
Wow. "What WILL happen?" I asked her. She had no answer to this question. At least, not yet.
Is she afraid that if she succeeds in school and is able to succeed in a career, that she will gain some sort of superior status in her family, who has always lived in poverty? Is she afraid of the guilt that will bring, or some other uncomfortable feelings? Or - is it just the sheer terror of not knowing what that type of future will look like, because she has no frame of reference for it?
Her statement has taken me on a swirling path through my thoughts about human behavior, and the tendency to cling to that which is familiar. No matter how damaging, limiting, unhealthy, or negative this place of familiarity is. The fear of the unknown is so daunting... it often seems to trump the benefits of a much needed change for the better, and traps us in places that are not always good for us.
Many of us have stayed in bad relationships, bad jobs, or other bad situations, because the comfort of familiarity overpowered (in our minds) all we would gain from letting go or walking away from that relationship, that job, or that situation. Some of us have even been treated unfairly, put down, or had other means of diminished self-esteem in whatever situation we were in. But we stayed there, because it was all we knew. It was most familiar. And many of us have parked ourselves in content or lukewarm places, because facing a blank canvas of possibility is too overwhelming to wrap our brains around.
In some cases, this thought process and resulting behaviors are extremely self-destructive. Think of addicts, or those who remain in abusive relationships. Some people say, "Well why can't they just leave? Why can't they walk away?" There is a multitude of extremely complex answers to these questions. But one theory is that they believe - somewhere deep down - that it is better to live in pain, tethered to the source, because at least it is something they know. They take comfort in the familiarity of it all, and the comfort (in their minds) is more powerful than the alternative.
I can't speak for anyone else, but I am trying to be aware of my own patterns that might be self-destructive. And I am not okay with lukewarm. I want to be better. Despite the unknowns. I want to release control of the unhealthy familiar, in order to achieve living life to its outer edges. In order to feel fully alive and to discover the depths of capacity within myself. And I want others to believe and know in their hearts the depths of their capacity, too. That they deserve more. That they ARE more. And that their fear cowers in comparison to the power of what is in their heart and soul. To the strength that lies - sometimes dormant - within.
So how to we do it? How do we push forward through our fears, letting go of the familiar, to pursue a better life that we cannot yet see? A better sense of self? Of balance? With more happiness, more peace, and more capacity to live and love?
For many, inspiration often comes from faith. Faith is, after all, believing in something that we cannot see. And so I look to my own faith tradition, and others, for answers:
The Bible (Judeo - Christian philosophy) says:
So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. Isaiah 41: 10
Buddist philosophy states:
Let go of the things that no longer serve you.
Islamic philosophy encourages:
Make the most of your life before your death.
In other, simpler words: be brave, let go, and do the best you possibly can.
All things considered, this is a life-long process. This is not easy. Things do ebb and flow. Sometimes we change and we grow, and sometimes we stay the same. And every new day is a blank canvas. We always have this new day, over and over again. This gift. This opportunity to be brave, to let go, and to do the best we can for ourselves. And by extension, for others too.
Wow. "What WILL happen?" I asked her. She had no answer to this question. At least, not yet.
Is she afraid that if she succeeds in school and is able to succeed in a career, that she will gain some sort of superior status in her family, who has always lived in poverty? Is she afraid of the guilt that will bring, or some other uncomfortable feelings? Or - is it just the sheer terror of not knowing what that type of future will look like, because she has no frame of reference for it?
Her statement has taken me on a swirling path through my thoughts about human behavior, and the tendency to cling to that which is familiar. No matter how damaging, limiting, unhealthy, or negative this place of familiarity is. The fear of the unknown is so daunting... it often seems to trump the benefits of a much needed change for the better, and traps us in places that are not always good for us.
Many of us have stayed in bad relationships, bad jobs, or other bad situations, because the comfort of familiarity overpowered (in our minds) all we would gain from letting go or walking away from that relationship, that job, or that situation. Some of us have even been treated unfairly, put down, or had other means of diminished self-esteem in whatever situation we were in. But we stayed there, because it was all we knew. It was most familiar. And many of us have parked ourselves in content or lukewarm places, because facing a blank canvas of possibility is too overwhelming to wrap our brains around.
In some cases, this thought process and resulting behaviors are extremely self-destructive. Think of addicts, or those who remain in abusive relationships. Some people say, "Well why can't they just leave? Why can't they walk away?" There is a multitude of extremely complex answers to these questions. But one theory is that they believe - somewhere deep down - that it is better to live in pain, tethered to the source, because at least it is something they know. They take comfort in the familiarity of it all, and the comfort (in their minds) is more powerful than the alternative.
I can't speak for anyone else, but I am trying to be aware of my own patterns that might be self-destructive. And I am not okay with lukewarm. I want to be better. Despite the unknowns. I want to release control of the unhealthy familiar, in order to achieve living life to its outer edges. In order to feel fully alive and to discover the depths of capacity within myself. And I want others to believe and know in their hearts the depths of their capacity, too. That they deserve more. That they ARE more. And that their fear cowers in comparison to the power of what is in their heart and soul. To the strength that lies - sometimes dormant - within.
So how to we do it? How do we push forward through our fears, letting go of the familiar, to pursue a better life that we cannot yet see? A better sense of self? Of balance? With more happiness, more peace, and more capacity to live and love?
For many, inspiration often comes from faith. Faith is, after all, believing in something that we cannot see. And so I look to my own faith tradition, and others, for answers:
The Bible (Judeo - Christian philosophy) says:
So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. Isaiah 41: 10
Buddist philosophy states:
Let go of the things that no longer serve you.
Islamic philosophy encourages:
Make the most of your life before your death.
In other, simpler words: be brave, let go, and do the best you possibly can.
All things considered, this is a life-long process. This is not easy. Things do ebb and flow. Sometimes we change and we grow, and sometimes we stay the same. And every new day is a blank canvas. We always have this new day, over and over again. This gift. This opportunity to be brave, to let go, and to do the best we can for ourselves. And by extension, for others too.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
If we can't make sense of it, can we make space for it?
Although I've had many ups and downs in the different seasons of my life thus far, it feels like the last four years have been especially intense. Chocked full of painful experiences, sad news, huge life changes and stress - not always my own, although I'm affected by all of it in some way. I often find myself thinking about pain, and how people cope with it. About how they make it through times that are especially difficult or painful, whether the pain is emotional, mental, or physical. Do they push into the pain, or push it away? Do they fight it, or can they let it be and accept its place inside them? Do they use meditation, prayer, therapy, yoga, or other methods of healing? I don't know if it's directly or indirectly related, that the start of this intense period happened to coincide with my professional launch into the world of social work - into the lives, hearts, and minds of those who have suffered severe traumas and/or experience the pain of poverty, etc on a daily basis. Perhaps. Perhaps it coincided with a "coming of age", as I turned 30... gaining more responsibility, and beginning to see the world in a different way. But 2008 stands out in my mind as a year that was also, personally, extremely difficult for me in many ways. And I'm trying to figure how, and even if, I've really coped at all or processed the challenges that year presented.
In the spring of 2008, I was finishing up my last semester of grad school, and also finishing an academic year of a clinical internship at the National Institutes of Heath. That year, I worked with the NHLBI (National Heart, Lung, and Blood Institute), with patients who were critically ill with blood-related cancers or diseases. These patients came to NIH to receive stem-cell transplants... most of them, hoping for that last chance to be healed. That last chance to live healthy again. As a social work intern, I provided education, counseling, and resource referrals to these patients. I visited them often, and for some, I was sadly their only visitor. I worked (or did my best) to support patients, both emotionally and logistically, on many levels. To help them understand the system and the procedures that they would be undergoing, and for many of them, to help them express their feelings about their illnesses. To hear them (and for some, their family members) talk, cry, avoid, accept, etc, the massive amount of fear and pain that they carried inside their bodies and their minds.
I had the best supervisor I've ever had, anywhere, to this date, at NIH. She is a lovely woman, born to teach and to guide others; a very skilled social worker with a huge heart and an abundance of grace. We developed a working relationship that felt mutually satisfying, and full of respect. She supported me through that tough year at NIH, and I will be forever grateful to her for it. She helped me process many feelings and emotions around the work we were doing, and I learned so much about myself as a social worker (and as a human being) that year, largely due to her support and insight. During the last few months of my internship, my supervisor became seriously ill herself. I found myself supporting her, or trying to at least, as it was a scary situation. She had to be out of work the last 3 weeks of my internship, and she trusted me enough to fill in for her with her patients, as well as my own. I was the only social worker on the floor for three weeks. It was a huge honor, and the least I could do for her during her time of need after all she had done for me.
Approximately one month before my grad school graduation, I got two difficult phone calls. One, from my mother, to tell me that my father had been diagnosed with a golf-ball sized brain tumor, and was undergoing more tests to find out more information. The other was from my sister - telling me that she had been diagnosed with stage one cervical cancer.
I cannot even remember the following month clearly... on the grad school front, it was a flurry of papers, exams, final projects, and presentations. And on the home front, it was a flurry of doctor's appointments, consults, exams, procedures, and preparations for more procedures. It's a blur in my mind, how it all went, and how I coped with the stress of it all. Most likely, I just kept on moving. I avoided the stress, denied the fears, and didn't process much of anything except for the things that I had to get done.
My father attended my graduate school graduation at Virginia Commonwealth University on May 16th, 2008, approximately one week before his scheduled surgery to remove his brain tumor at the University of Virginia.
Both my father and my sister underwent surgeries (and both, thank God, are doing well today). My father's surgery was extremely risky, and it was a long road to recovery. I was so relieved that I was finished with grad school, so that I was free to be there for Dad's surgery, and to make multiple trips down to Lynchburg to see him in the weeks/months following his surgery. My sister had a procedure done, after which, she was proclaimed to be cancer-free.
Fortunate as were are to have them healthy today, it was an awfully scary time for my family. And I'm not sure that I've (even now) processed all the feelings that I had or that I suppressed during that time. And when the worst of it all was over (the surgeries, the trips, etc), I stopped moving. My sister and Dad were both out of the woods. School was finished. And I finally began to feel...and what I felt was depressed. And so I continued to run from the pain, pushing it away, afraid to acknowledge its presence in my heart.
During the summer/fall months in 2008, more pain made itself present. I struggled through 6 months of unemployment after graduating from school, sending out what felt like a million resumes and hearing next to nothing in return. The looming grad school loans made the pressure of finding a job even more intense.
I had a good friend suffer a mental health crisis, who my husband and I picked up on the side of the road and took in to help her stabilize; other friends, whose pain was emerging and marriages/significant relationships were crumbling; friends who lost family members or had family members who were being diagnosed with terminal illness; and more.
As I look back on that year, I realize that I did not know how to separate my own pain from the pain so many others were feeling in their lives. My heart was hurting and gaping open for those I knew and those I loved, and I was overwhelmed with the weight of it all. It was like I dove head first into other people's situations, taking on their pain and trying to help them alleviate it in some way... and I'm not even sure where my own pain began and theirs ended.
I'm realizing that I was choosing to see and feel and deal with other people's pain, but not my own. Perhaps it was easier for me to sit in their pain with them, rather than facing the impact that my own hurts were going to have on me.
It is a place that I am familiar with, however unhealthy it may be.
I did do one thing in the fall of 2008. I created a short dance piece about processing pain. A solo that was performed on the Kennedy Center Millennium Stage, called, "Breathe it Out." And in the piece, I used text...and a sentence that was prominent from the piece is "If we can't make sense of it, can we make space for it?"
I guess that THAT is one of the ways that I try to deal with/cope with pain - I try to make space for it. Space in my heart and mind and body. And usually, I'm quite successful in coping with my own physical pain. I have a high threshold for it, and have found ways to breathe through physical pain and to let it go. I'm not afraid of it. But the part I need to work on, is making space for my own emotional pain. I can find all the space in the world for other people's... but it's my own that I find hard to accept. To sit with. To acknowledge. To express. I let it get clouded in with everyone else's hoping that it will just fade away in the mix.
All things considered, I realize that I still have a lot of work to do. Awareness is the first step. And it will be important for me to do this work because as life goes on, it will inevitably bring more pain and more discomfort my way. More things that I will need to make space for in my heart, mind, and body. And I will be doing myself a disservice to run, or to deny/ignore its presence, as it will just find another way to resurface.
And so I continue on this path, as we all do, to know and accept ourselves fully in our truest form. To acknowledge all the beauty, all the pain and all the broken parts that make us wholly who we are.
All that makes us vulnerable. All that makes us real. All that makes us human.
In the spring of 2008, I was finishing up my last semester of grad school, and also finishing an academic year of a clinical internship at the National Institutes of Heath. That year, I worked with the NHLBI (National Heart, Lung, and Blood Institute), with patients who were critically ill with blood-related cancers or diseases. These patients came to NIH to receive stem-cell transplants... most of them, hoping for that last chance to be healed. That last chance to live healthy again. As a social work intern, I provided education, counseling, and resource referrals to these patients. I visited them often, and for some, I was sadly their only visitor. I worked (or did my best) to support patients, both emotionally and logistically, on many levels. To help them understand the system and the procedures that they would be undergoing, and for many of them, to help them express their feelings about their illnesses. To hear them (and for some, their family members) talk, cry, avoid, accept, etc, the massive amount of fear and pain that they carried inside their bodies and their minds.
I had the best supervisor I've ever had, anywhere, to this date, at NIH. She is a lovely woman, born to teach and to guide others; a very skilled social worker with a huge heart and an abundance of grace. We developed a working relationship that felt mutually satisfying, and full of respect. She supported me through that tough year at NIH, and I will be forever grateful to her for it. She helped me process many feelings and emotions around the work we were doing, and I learned so much about myself as a social worker (and as a human being) that year, largely due to her support and insight. During the last few months of my internship, my supervisor became seriously ill herself. I found myself supporting her, or trying to at least, as it was a scary situation. She had to be out of work the last 3 weeks of my internship, and she trusted me enough to fill in for her with her patients, as well as my own. I was the only social worker on the floor for three weeks. It was a huge honor, and the least I could do for her during her time of need after all she had done for me.
Approximately one month before my grad school graduation, I got two difficult phone calls. One, from my mother, to tell me that my father had been diagnosed with a golf-ball sized brain tumor, and was undergoing more tests to find out more information. The other was from my sister - telling me that she had been diagnosed with stage one cervical cancer.
I cannot even remember the following month clearly... on the grad school front, it was a flurry of papers, exams, final projects, and presentations. And on the home front, it was a flurry of doctor's appointments, consults, exams, procedures, and preparations for more procedures. It's a blur in my mind, how it all went, and how I coped with the stress of it all. Most likely, I just kept on moving. I avoided the stress, denied the fears, and didn't process much of anything except for the things that I had to get done.
My father attended my graduate school graduation at Virginia Commonwealth University on May 16th, 2008, approximately one week before his scheduled surgery to remove his brain tumor at the University of Virginia.
Both my father and my sister underwent surgeries (and both, thank God, are doing well today). My father's surgery was extremely risky, and it was a long road to recovery. I was so relieved that I was finished with grad school, so that I was free to be there for Dad's surgery, and to make multiple trips down to Lynchburg to see him in the weeks/months following his surgery. My sister had a procedure done, after which, she was proclaimed to be cancer-free.
Fortunate as were are to have them healthy today, it was an awfully scary time for my family. And I'm not sure that I've (even now) processed all the feelings that I had or that I suppressed during that time. And when the worst of it all was over (the surgeries, the trips, etc), I stopped moving. My sister and Dad were both out of the woods. School was finished. And I finally began to feel...and what I felt was depressed. And so I continued to run from the pain, pushing it away, afraid to acknowledge its presence in my heart.
During the summer/fall months in 2008, more pain made itself present. I struggled through 6 months of unemployment after graduating from school, sending out what felt like a million resumes and hearing next to nothing in return. The looming grad school loans made the pressure of finding a job even more intense.
I had a good friend suffer a mental health crisis, who my husband and I picked up on the side of the road and took in to help her stabilize; other friends, whose pain was emerging and marriages/significant relationships were crumbling; friends who lost family members or had family members who were being diagnosed with terminal illness; and more.
As I look back on that year, I realize that I did not know how to separate my own pain from the pain so many others were feeling in their lives. My heart was hurting and gaping open for those I knew and those I loved, and I was overwhelmed with the weight of it all. It was like I dove head first into other people's situations, taking on their pain and trying to help them alleviate it in some way... and I'm not even sure where my own pain began and theirs ended.
I'm realizing that I was choosing to see and feel and deal with other people's pain, but not my own. Perhaps it was easier for me to sit in their pain with them, rather than facing the impact that my own hurts were going to have on me.
It is a place that I am familiar with, however unhealthy it may be.
I did do one thing in the fall of 2008. I created a short dance piece about processing pain. A solo that was performed on the Kennedy Center Millennium Stage, called, "Breathe it Out." And in the piece, I used text...and a sentence that was prominent from the piece is "If we can't make sense of it, can we make space for it?"
I guess that THAT is one of the ways that I try to deal with/cope with pain - I try to make space for it. Space in my heart and mind and body. And usually, I'm quite successful in coping with my own physical pain. I have a high threshold for it, and have found ways to breathe through physical pain and to let it go. I'm not afraid of it. But the part I need to work on, is making space for my own emotional pain. I can find all the space in the world for other people's... but it's my own that I find hard to accept. To sit with. To acknowledge. To express. I let it get clouded in with everyone else's hoping that it will just fade away in the mix.
All things considered, I realize that I still have a lot of work to do. Awareness is the first step. And it will be important for me to do this work because as life goes on, it will inevitably bring more pain and more discomfort my way. More things that I will need to make space for in my heart, mind, and body. And I will be doing myself a disservice to run, or to deny/ignore its presence, as it will just find another way to resurface.
And so I continue on this path, as we all do, to know and accept ourselves fully in our truest form. To acknowledge all the beauty, all the pain and all the broken parts that make us wholly who we are.
All that makes us vulnerable. All that makes us real. All that makes us human.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Amazing people who do amazing things - Part 1
I am the youngest of three girls in my family of origin. My sisters are 5 and 7 years older than me. I have always looked up to my two older sisters, who, despite the obligatory teasing and tormenting that comes with having a younger sibling, have always looked out for me. In addition to looking out for me, they have always looked out for others. Their kindness and caring hearts for those who have less than they or those who need a helping hand, have always inspired me. They still inspire me to this day.
Sheri, is the middle sister in our family. She has always been the responsible one. The driven one. The type A one (in a good way. Ha.). She makes sure we get places on time, that we have a clean house, and that we do the things we need to do. Don't get me wrong - she also knows how to have fun. We always laugh together, and can talk about anything under the sun. She's easy to get along with, kind, and has the heart of a servant. Just like our mother.
She's fiercely compassionate, softer than she sometimes appears, and has a quiet courage that is unlike any I've ever known.
Sheri had an old co-worker who she reconnected with when she moved back to Lynchburg, VA in 2007. This friend, I'll call her "Sara," was a single mom with two young children, and she had kidney problems. In the last few years, Sara's health had declined and Sheri had been helping her with many things: taking care of the children so she could rest; cleaning her house; taking her to get groceries; and other things that Sara had difficulty doing in caring for herself and her two children.
Sheri shared the huge news with us last summer, that she was feeling a heavy burden in her heart for Sara. That she was feeling called to give more than her time, love, and help to Sara. She wanted Sara to have a chance at life again... to be restored to full health and given an opportunity to be there for her children. Sara was on the mile-long waiting list for a new kidney. Sheri decided she would get tested to find out if she was a match for Sara.
As it turns out, Sheri was not a match. However, if she donated her kidney to someone else who she was matched with on the list, the hospital would bump Sara up on the list and greatly increase her chances of receiving a new kidney. A new chance at life, before her failing kidney gave out for good. Sheri decided this is what she was going to do. She had a heart-to-heart talk with each of us family members, and made it clear that she needed our support. She was going to do it regardless, but our understanding and support was important to her.
Later in the summer (before Sheri had the chance to donate), we received the devastating news that Sara had gotten a serious infection. The complications from the infection were too much for her body to handle, and she didn't make it. Sheri was heartbroken... suffering the loss of her dear friend, and understandably heavy with sadness for Sara's children.
A few months later during a phone call with my sister, she informed me that the strong calling and heavy burden that she felt to help her friend Sara had not gone away with her passing. I silently did a double take, and asked her to repeat what she had just said. Yes - it was true:
My sister was going to have surgery to remove one of her vital body organs, to give it to someone that she does not know. Someone ill, in desperate need of a kidney, so that they might have a chance at life. Because she has two, and she needs only one.
She has been getting tested, prepped, and tested some more over the last several weeks/months.
Her surgery will take place next week, on Tuesday, July 10th.
Holy cow. Words cannot describe the simultaneous concern and awe and so much else that I feel for my sister's decision. It was amazing and self-less and beautiful and more, when she wanted to do it to save her friend's life. Now, to do it for a stranger in loving memory of her friend, is more than my puny human consciousness can fathom.
I try to put myself in her shoes.... to understand her heart and mind. And the only thing that I can come up with is that I don't think I could EVER do what she is doing. I keep thinking, that I can sacrifice my emotional health for someone else. I could give of my heart and soul and mind to help someone in need... but to go under the knife so that someone else may have a chance to be restored to life? I am not strong enough. The thought of it causes me to break out in a sweat, and fear to permeate my being.
What my sister is doing is a true testament to the beauty, strength, and grace of her character. To do something this great, this life-changing for someone else. Someone she doesn't know. Someone she doesn't need to know. And asking for nothing in return. Despite the physical discomfort or fears of the unknown. I knew my sister was strong before. But now, I'm overcome with awe and admiration.
So today, I put aside my human thoughts, concerns, and fears, and recognize this rare display of sacrificial love that she is about to embody.
And I support her always.
All things considered, my sister Sheri is my inspiration. She reminds me that life is short. And we all have different roles on this earth. And that we all have more than we need. She reminds me that doing what is comfortable is no match for doing something great. And that that could mean something different to everyone.
P. S. If you would, please keep my sister and her doctors and her kidney recipient in your thoughts or prayers next week. It would mean so much. Thank you...
Sheri, is the middle sister in our family. She has always been the responsible one. The driven one. The type A one (in a good way. Ha.). She makes sure we get places on time, that we have a clean house, and that we do the things we need to do. Don't get me wrong - she also knows how to have fun. We always laugh together, and can talk about anything under the sun. She's easy to get along with, kind, and has the heart of a servant. Just like our mother.
She's fiercely compassionate, softer than she sometimes appears, and has a quiet courage that is unlike any I've ever known.
Sheri had an old co-worker who she reconnected with when she moved back to Lynchburg, VA in 2007. This friend, I'll call her "Sara," was a single mom with two young children, and she had kidney problems. In the last few years, Sara's health had declined and Sheri had been helping her with many things: taking care of the children so she could rest; cleaning her house; taking her to get groceries; and other things that Sara had difficulty doing in caring for herself and her two children.
Sheri shared the huge news with us last summer, that she was feeling a heavy burden in her heart for Sara. That she was feeling called to give more than her time, love, and help to Sara. She wanted Sara to have a chance at life again... to be restored to full health and given an opportunity to be there for her children. Sara was on the mile-long waiting list for a new kidney. Sheri decided she would get tested to find out if she was a match for Sara.
As it turns out, Sheri was not a match. However, if she donated her kidney to someone else who she was matched with on the list, the hospital would bump Sara up on the list and greatly increase her chances of receiving a new kidney. A new chance at life, before her failing kidney gave out for good. Sheri decided this is what she was going to do. She had a heart-to-heart talk with each of us family members, and made it clear that she needed our support. She was going to do it regardless, but our understanding and support was important to her.
Later in the summer (before Sheri had the chance to donate), we received the devastating news that Sara had gotten a serious infection. The complications from the infection were too much for her body to handle, and she didn't make it. Sheri was heartbroken... suffering the loss of her dear friend, and understandably heavy with sadness for Sara's children.
A few months later during a phone call with my sister, she informed me that the strong calling and heavy burden that she felt to help her friend Sara had not gone away with her passing. I silently did a double take, and asked her to repeat what she had just said. Yes - it was true:
My sister was going to have surgery to remove one of her vital body organs, to give it to someone that she does not know. Someone ill, in desperate need of a kidney, so that they might have a chance at life. Because she has two, and she needs only one.
She has been getting tested, prepped, and tested some more over the last several weeks/months.
Her surgery will take place next week, on Tuesday, July 10th.
Holy cow. Words cannot describe the simultaneous concern and awe and so much else that I feel for my sister's decision. It was amazing and self-less and beautiful and more, when she wanted to do it to save her friend's life. Now, to do it for a stranger in loving memory of her friend, is more than my puny human consciousness can fathom.
I try to put myself in her shoes.... to understand her heart and mind. And the only thing that I can come up with is that I don't think I could EVER do what she is doing. I keep thinking, that I can sacrifice my emotional health for someone else. I could give of my heart and soul and mind to help someone in need... but to go under the knife so that someone else may have a chance to be restored to life? I am not strong enough. The thought of it causes me to break out in a sweat, and fear to permeate my being.
What my sister is doing is a true testament to the beauty, strength, and grace of her character. To do something this great, this life-changing for someone else. Someone she doesn't know. Someone she doesn't need to know. And asking for nothing in return. Despite the physical discomfort or fears of the unknown. I knew my sister was strong before. But now, I'm overcome with awe and admiration.
So today, I put aside my human thoughts, concerns, and fears, and recognize this rare display of sacrificial love that she is about to embody.
And I support her always.
All things considered, my sister Sheri is my inspiration. She reminds me that life is short. And we all have different roles on this earth. And that we all have more than we need. She reminds me that doing what is comfortable is no match for doing something great. And that that could mean something different to everyone.
P. S. If you would, please keep my sister and her doctors and her kidney recipient in your thoughts or prayers next week. It would mean so much. Thank you...
Monday, June 25, 2012
Visiting upstate
This visit to New York felt quite different than most of the other visits over the years. For starters, I'm in a completely different place in my life than any other visit. 34 years old - fully adult, married now with my own child and my own responsibilities. With more life experience, which has opened my eyes wider than they've ever been before. This time, this trip felt weighty and important. Not that other visits weren't important - all of them are. One difference that I noted was that in all previous visits, the family has come together to see us at some point... we've had a least one family gathering with all the aunts, uncles, and cousins who either live nearby or were in town to visit. This time, we visited with each family separately. And one cousin who lived a few short miles away - we didn't see at all. This time, there seemed to be too much pain, and too much distance, for a visit altogether. Too much distance, although only a mile apart.
Same people, same place, same memories... but so much has changed.
This visit, we spent the first full day and a half with my aunt and uncle and some time with two of my cousins. My same sweet Auntie Ev, my same wild, brash, fun-loving, generous Uncle Gene, my same crazy, fun cousin Kay, and my same smiling, more reserved cousin Elliot. We mostly spent our time sharing food, laughter, and lots of wine. But several things were different for these people. My cousin Kay and her boyfriend now own and live in the home/property that was previously my grandparents', and the home where my mother and aunts grew up. We had dinner there one night, and it was both lovely (very well kept and renovated) and strange to see the house transformed into a place where my grandparents no longer live. And we spent time listening to stories about recent work disappointments/struggles, family disagreements and strife, and painful realities that were new to my awareness. There was an air of sadness that had seeped in to these family members voices and lives since the last time I had visited. If it was there before, I had just never been mature enough or intuitive enough to notice.
The next full day we spent with my Auntie Jan, the next to oldest sister (79 years old). Still as funny, hard-edged, and endearing as ever. The first thing she said to my sister when she saw her blond highlights: "What is this? What is wrong with your hair?" And, she had some comments about my skirt which was asymmetrical and frayed on the bottom. "Where did you pick up that thing? Salvation Army?" Somehow, she pulls it off with love.
She's so much the same, but in a completely different place physically and emotionally, than the last time I saw her. The past eight years have been extremely difficult for my Auntie Jan.
My Auntie Jan, who, was diagnosed with ovarian cancer soon after my Grandmother passed away in 2004. She has had two surgeries to remove tumors over the last eight years, and countless rounds of chemotherapy. Her body has endured the strain of cancer and its treatments, and her mind has been subjected to the confusion, stress, heartbreak, and fear of terminal illness.
She made a comment about the "cancer fairies" who had come to visit her eight years ago. I told her I hated those fairies. So. Much.
As we ate a hearty dinner and my Auntie Jan laughed and told jokes, my father looked at her and said, "You know what? You are a pirata. Pirata means pirate in Spanish... full of spunk, full of life." And my aunt looked at him and said, "Well, Gene... what choice have I got?"
This particular day, cancer was no match for the fighting spirit of my Auntie Jan.
We spent the day catching up, and reminiscing about old times. She talked about her time in the Air Force, and I never realized she was called back into active duty at age 41.. she served for about 3 years, and then she was in reserves for 20 years or more. She retired with 6 stripes, and said being in the service was some of most fun she has had in her life.
It was very difficult for me to say goodbye to Auntie Jan this visit. I told her I loved her and that I would see her soon. I held strong and didn't let her see me cry. And as I walked to the car and we drove out of the driveway, I couldn't be strong anymore. I couldn't help but think I might be driving away from her house for the last time.
On our last day in New York, we visited with my mother's oldest sister, my Aunt Margaret. She is 83 years old, and her husband passed away the end of January this year. I felt horrible that we couldn't make it up for Uncle Gus's funeral, although my mom, dad, and sister were there. It was great to see her, and spend time hearing about how she is doing.
Considering the freshness of her recent loss, she was doing okay. She did fall apart a few times, admitting that it is so difficult to be alone after 64 years. In addition to losing Uncle Gus, she also has had other family problems that have been painful for her to bear. And, she has had many recent health issues which cause her physical pain. However, she didn't seem to dwell in the sadness or the discomfort... she was able to keep moving, in and out of the pain as she needed to. Both the physical and the emotional. I thought this was a real testament to her character - her will to remain strong, despite the weight she carries. There were many moments of lightness and laughter, and I was so happy to see her smile - it's what I think of, when I think of her.
With tear-stained cheeks and a painful resolve in her voice, she encouraged us all to remain close with each other, no matter what.
When I think back on my visits to Wassaic as a child, and even as a young adult, things just felt so light. So normal. So revolved around visiting together and having fun. Blissfully unaware of any heavier or darker things that might be taking place in the lives of my family members. And on this visit, as I could see and feel so much more, I couldn't help but look at my daughter and my nephews and see how much fun they were having. How blissfully unaware, as they should be. And how I hoped they would hold sweet memories of this family trip to see their relatives in Wassaic, just like I do.
And I realized... that although I'm still the youngest grandchild in my extended family by far, my adult eyes and heart are no longer protected from their hard realities of life. Nor should they be.
Knowing that doesn't make it any easier to process or feel.
It's been eight years... for many of my family members, those eight years have been hard, sad times... times which have included illness and years of declining health; years of growing distance between loved ones; painful years of figuring out how a family restructures itself - physically and emotionally - after both their patriarch and matriarch have passed on; years of loss - through divorce or death; and more.
I'm so glad we went and so grateful that we could be with my family for a little while. I'm sorry it's been eight years, and I'm so sorry for the struggles they've all been through. And as an adult, I'm grateful that now, I could fully see them; to see where they've been, to know their hurts (in their hearts and bodies), to feel the brokenness, and to be able to share in it with them in some small way.
All things considered, I'm grateful for the new, sweet memories. Thanks, Wassaic. And even though we're separated by age, distance, and much more, you're always close to my heart. We'll be back to see you soon.
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| Uncle Gene and my nephew Cameron |
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| Auntie Ev, Mom, Hazel, Elliot, me, nephew Griffin, sister Sheri, Dad |
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Kay and her sweet pup, Molly |
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| Sheri, Auntie Jan, and me |
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| Hazel walking barefoot |
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| Mom. me, Aunt Margaret |
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| Dad, Mom, Aunt Margaret, Sheri, me, and cousin Faith |
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| A little pass through on the way to my Auntie Ev's house from my Grandparents/Kay's |
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| The home where my mom and aunts grew up/Kay's home |
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