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.
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