The day to day is lived in tiny increments. I try to start each day putting myself on a positive path, reminding myself of all that for which I should be grateful. I thank my guides and my angels that helped me sleep through the night and I pray for the continued safety of my family--for our health, peace in our hearts, love. I try to forgive myself the mistakes I will surely make throughout the day and hope that I am leaving lasting memories, good thoughts, proof of my good intentions in the hearts of my girls. That I am arming them with a sense of this dimension and the others and interconnectedness all while serving up pasta, reviewing homework, demanding clean up of the play room, and directing the nighttime program in that killer 5:30 to 8:00 block.
I am incredibly conscious of my actions, my deeds, the things I say, aware that I play a starring role in their early childhood memories and that these moments will be mined for information, for truth, that they will be distorted and contorted to tell the story of how they were loved or how they were not, maybe because those thoughts from my own childhood flood into my mind still. Most especially when I am having a particularly good or bad moment with them, I think, 'God, I hope they know how much I love them or 'Please don't let them think I didn't. ' I am present, conscious, real, and flawed all the time except for when I am not. And so it goes.
Since visiting with my husband's father this summer, we've been talking about the small ways in which he was letting go, in which he was straddling here and now and forever. Our visit provided the girls, who'd only seen him in photos or in the case of our oldest had met him just once when she was a toddler, a chance to spend real time with him. Though he had people who came every day to check and administer his medications and others who provided him with appropriate meals for all of his health issues, with us he had company. There were slow broken conversations in English and French. The girls sang songs and made drawings for him. Jean or Papi as he is called, was feeble and disconnected, a little lonely and frustrated. He'd become annoyed at times, disoriented at others, happy and full of wonder at others. We lived with him in 3-D, wandered his home looking at journals and incredible memorabilia from his travels. The girls looked at him and his home with awe.
One evening, after I'd put the girls to sleep, I started to walk down the stairs when I overheard my husband and his older brother having a pretty deep conversation with their father. A conversation full of longing and need, revelations of secrets and stories from long ago. They were pleading with him for information about their father's family, his boyhood, his hopes and dreams. They were asking for connection, drawing for memories. clues. I stayed at his desk at the top of the stairs and let the boys and their father share a moment. I feared my interruption would give everyone an unwanted distraction, an escape from that incredible connection. I hoped they'd file that memory to pull up when they needed to recall him.
These tiny moments add up to make a life. They leave an imprint, serve as mile markers. I leave little ticks and grooves in my girls' stories so that when I am gone they might say, "Wasn't that such a beautiful moment with Mom" or "I am so grateful that we had that time together or that conversation or saw that sunset/sunrise/incredible earthly moment together." I try to shore them up with self-love, self-respect, identity. I've begun to slowly trace the roots of both families that intertwined to create this branch of the larger family trees. I tell them secrets, our secrets, whisper to them about the people full of hope, love, and promise that came before them.
Before my mother's mom passed, we all spent a last summer on Hilton Head Island and I watched her sit at the edge of the ocean on the sand watching the sun set. I knew it wouldn't be long. She too. I went with my mother a couple of weeks later to move my grandparents' things from their home to the nursing home they were meant to move to. She never made it there. I knew she wouldn't. A week before my father's mother passed, I'd called her rather unexpectedly to tell her I loved her. It was Mother's Day. I chose that evening to tell her about my then boyfriend, now husband, who was, up until then a secret, whispered only in strict confidence, spoken only to help myself believe our love true. She was so tired but so present. I'd never have thought she was soon to leave us. I think of her so often, speak out loud about the mundane, ask her questions. I miss being able to ask the questions. To get the answers.
When someone dies, they are elevated to the heavenly realm, the eternal, esoteric, almost immediately. Remembering how they were in life becomes an exercise, a quiet search for moments real and true. In our mind's eye the memories are pulled and twisted in the murky quicksand of the earthly realm. They are still with us, of the earth, on this plane, only we can't find them. We are so full of longing, living in those dreamscapes, hoping to be with them, see them, hear them speaking to us as they really did, with weight and seriousness, but also humor and humanity and humanness just one more time.
After a 1/2 day of school, a lunch at the pub with friends, ice cream at the parlor for dessert, ballet, homework, bath time, and dinner, the girls and I tucked ourselves in to bed for the night. The day patched together with sweet moments and a whole lot of chatter. My husband's tiny steps took him to his parents' home where he sat in silence, their presence all around him, longing for one more word. The funeral over. Attendees to the service gone home. Flowers laid. I hope that he and his brothers were able to pull up those saved moments, let them shiver through their bodies, feel the life shared with their dad coursing through them before they said goodbye to him and released him to the infinite.
(c) Copyright 2015. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Monday, February 16, 2015
Back to the Suburban Grind: 1/2 full
Back to the Suburban Grind: 1/2 full: When my husband goes away for work, he usually fills the gas tank for me. Even if he knows that I won't drive more than a few blocks, h...
1/2 full
When my husband goes away for work, he usually fills the gas tank for me. Even if he knows that I won't drive more than a few blocks, he knows I will feel better seeing that needle on F(ull).This morning, I went out in the frigid cold, ran to Trader Joe's and CVS, to get the handful of things on our needed list, though I knew that four more packs of seaweed snacks and a new roll of aluminum foil were not urgent and that missing them in the house would not put us on empty. At Trader Joe's, I bought three and four of everything we needed though we already had more than one of each at home. We're stocked.
My husband left for a long weekend (It's Winter Break in our school district.) one day before he'd been scheduled and had to rush to get himself properly packed and prepared for 5 days in Florida. I took him to the train station with plenty of time to spare when I looked to the odometer to find our needle underneath the picture of the gas pump and on its way to E(mpty). I mentioned its position nearly inaudibly because I did not want him to worry about the state of affairs when he left and a tank nearly on empty might tilt the board. He muttered something about having enough and being able to make it wherever I needed to go but avoided my eye because he knew it was turning crazy.
I think so much about the question, that one wherein others try to determine your stance, your position on facing obstacles in life, "Is the glass 1/2 full or is it 1/2 empty?" and I try very hard to meet them with 1/2 full. I try to look on the bright side, make lemonade out of lemons, accept that everything happens for a reason, and that as one door closes another opens. But all this comes after the scream, audible or silent, the kicked can, the certainty that my glass is nearly done. I feel hopelessly out of control, sure that whatever it is I desire, whatever it is I long for is out of reach.
In that hollow where love fills up, I have not been able to get enough. All my life. When it comes in, I scramble for things to protect me from feeling so much, for wanting to be connected, loved, seen, cared for. Just in case it won't happen, I prepare. Prepare for having to do it all alone. I've stockpiled, barricaded, trapped myself in. Paralyzed, afraid to move the line on that glass.
I'd probably have no reason to stop getting so bothered by my 1/2 empty glass were it not for the watching eyes of the girls. In a culture of consumption and with the desire for things to feel secure and valuable part of the American way, it is important that I show the girls how to work with what they have, how to make it work no matter their circumstances. When I fear my glass is 1/2 empty, there is still hope that I can use my reserve, that I have something instead of nothing. Having even a 1/2 empty glass is privileged. I've at least got something.
It is fear that leads me to want the safety of complete fullness, that wants the buffer, the cushion should I fall or should I fail. I used to say that I was an optimist preparing for the worst outcome, bracing myself for disappointment. That may very well still be true. Failure, disappointment, and losing hurt so much, and adding a spot of shame, humiliation, and embarrassment on top of that can make it all unbearable. But it also holds me back. There is hesitation, avoidance, missed chances and opportunities because I long to be promised that I will always be safe, that nothing can hurt me. I suppose it's a survival tactic. I cannot be hurt or wounded if I don't try, but I also cannot have surprising and wonderful experiences, can't discover something unexpected, cannot be inspired by something new, see something precious, hear my inner voice and learn to trust it from the comfort of my cushy perch.
I took my cash to the gas station (I get a better rate for paying in cash than with a credit card.) and asked the attendant to fill it up. I was sweating a little, nervous about getting out of my comfort zone, changing the routine. The attendant asked if I'd like to have my oil checked and cleaned the windshield. I said, "Sure," and he checked. Everything was fine. I thanked him and he told me to take care. The little one asked, "Why did that man do those things for you?" to which I replied, "Well, it's his job...but he also wanted to be helpful and be sure we were safe. People have to look out for each other. I am glad he was looking out for us. The people in our neighborhood."
Long ago when I was the age of my little one now, I used to love the People in Your Neighborhood segment of Sesame Street. We kids were introduced to all types of folks who lived and worked in our neighborhood. We learned about their jobs, what they did, where we might find them. Every one of them was smiling and happy and proud of their work and gave us a sense of community, of connection and belonging that I often miss. A friend posted on Facebook the other day about shoveling her driveway all by herself while her neighbors, all with snow blowers, all men, buzzed around her, never offering to help her. She finished the job on her own, knowing she was fully capable of the task, but missing that neighborly kindness. She wondered on her page just what might prevent them from coming to her aid, even speaking to her, a friend, a neighbor, while she toiled away in the frigid cold.
When our glasses are 1/2 empty, we spend more time trying not to spill what's left, rather than share ourselves and our joys and fears and loves and hurt. We give up on our connection. Living in a state of lack rather than abundance teaches us to distrust, to hoard, to close rather than open and share. I have my suspicions about my fear of not having enough, not being enough. It's my work to do, my issue to overcome. But I don't want to send my girls out into the world full of fear, hesitation, with closed hearts and minds. We are privileged, all of us, and a glass 1/2 empty or 1/2 full has at least something. The state in which we view it, our perception of just how much we have can be changed, strengthened or weakened, by our sense of connection and belonging.
We have enough food, enough toys, enough clothes, enough gas in the car, enough things. That it hasn't been enough tells me there is something more to share. Ourselves. And then the cup will runneth over and won't stop. I just have to get to the place where I don't mind spilling and I don't mind taking a sip.
(c) Copyright 2015. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
My husband left for a long weekend (It's Winter Break in our school district.) one day before he'd been scheduled and had to rush to get himself properly packed and prepared for 5 days in Florida. I took him to the train station with plenty of time to spare when I looked to the odometer to find our needle underneath the picture of the gas pump and on its way to E(mpty). I mentioned its position nearly inaudibly because I did not want him to worry about the state of affairs when he left and a tank nearly on empty might tilt the board. He muttered something about having enough and being able to make it wherever I needed to go but avoided my eye because he knew it was turning crazy.
I think so much about the question, that one wherein others try to determine your stance, your position on facing obstacles in life, "Is the glass 1/2 full or is it 1/2 empty?" and I try very hard to meet them with 1/2 full. I try to look on the bright side, make lemonade out of lemons, accept that everything happens for a reason, and that as one door closes another opens. But all this comes after the scream, audible or silent, the kicked can, the certainty that my glass is nearly done. I feel hopelessly out of control, sure that whatever it is I desire, whatever it is I long for is out of reach.
In that hollow where love fills up, I have not been able to get enough. All my life. When it comes in, I scramble for things to protect me from feeling so much, for wanting to be connected, loved, seen, cared for. Just in case it won't happen, I prepare. Prepare for having to do it all alone. I've stockpiled, barricaded, trapped myself in. Paralyzed, afraid to move the line on that glass.
I'd probably have no reason to stop getting so bothered by my 1/2 empty glass were it not for the watching eyes of the girls. In a culture of consumption and with the desire for things to feel secure and valuable part of the American way, it is important that I show the girls how to work with what they have, how to make it work no matter their circumstances. When I fear my glass is 1/2 empty, there is still hope that I can use my reserve, that I have something instead of nothing. Having even a 1/2 empty glass is privileged. I've at least got something.
It is fear that leads me to want the safety of complete fullness, that wants the buffer, the cushion should I fall or should I fail. I used to say that I was an optimist preparing for the worst outcome, bracing myself for disappointment. That may very well still be true. Failure, disappointment, and losing hurt so much, and adding a spot of shame, humiliation, and embarrassment on top of that can make it all unbearable. But it also holds me back. There is hesitation, avoidance, missed chances and opportunities because I long to be promised that I will always be safe, that nothing can hurt me. I suppose it's a survival tactic. I cannot be hurt or wounded if I don't try, but I also cannot have surprising and wonderful experiences, can't discover something unexpected, cannot be inspired by something new, see something precious, hear my inner voice and learn to trust it from the comfort of my cushy perch.
I took my cash to the gas station (I get a better rate for paying in cash than with a credit card.) and asked the attendant to fill it up. I was sweating a little, nervous about getting out of my comfort zone, changing the routine. The attendant asked if I'd like to have my oil checked and cleaned the windshield. I said, "Sure," and he checked. Everything was fine. I thanked him and he told me to take care. The little one asked, "Why did that man do those things for you?" to which I replied, "Well, it's his job...but he also wanted to be helpful and be sure we were safe. People have to look out for each other. I am glad he was looking out for us. The people in our neighborhood."
Long ago when I was the age of my little one now, I used to love the People in Your Neighborhood segment of Sesame Street. We kids were introduced to all types of folks who lived and worked in our neighborhood. We learned about their jobs, what they did, where we might find them. Every one of them was smiling and happy and proud of their work and gave us a sense of community, of connection and belonging that I often miss. A friend posted on Facebook the other day about shoveling her driveway all by herself while her neighbors, all with snow blowers, all men, buzzed around her, never offering to help her. She finished the job on her own, knowing she was fully capable of the task, but missing that neighborly kindness. She wondered on her page just what might prevent them from coming to her aid, even speaking to her, a friend, a neighbor, while she toiled away in the frigid cold.
When our glasses are 1/2 empty, we spend more time trying not to spill what's left, rather than share ourselves and our joys and fears and loves and hurt. We give up on our connection. Living in a state of lack rather than abundance teaches us to distrust, to hoard, to close rather than open and share. I have my suspicions about my fear of not having enough, not being enough. It's my work to do, my issue to overcome. But I don't want to send my girls out into the world full of fear, hesitation, with closed hearts and minds. We are privileged, all of us, and a glass 1/2 empty or 1/2 full has at least something. The state in which we view it, our perception of just how much we have can be changed, strengthened or weakened, by our sense of connection and belonging.
We have enough food, enough toys, enough clothes, enough gas in the car, enough things. That it hasn't been enough tells me there is something more to share. Ourselves. And then the cup will runneth over and won't stop. I just have to get to the place where I don't mind spilling and I don't mind taking a sip.
(c) Copyright 2015. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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