The narrower circles seem easier to figure out. A common bond, similarities in personal histories, questions that are parallel or identical. Yet I still wonder if and what lesson I am learning, or about to learn. While enjoying the moment--the learning, the sharing, the laughter and the tears--I am also hopeful and confident that twenty years from now, when I look back, I will see even more of the beautiful picture created by the swirling, twisting, spiraling trails left in the dust of the common paths we trod; even for a short time.
When I was younger, I would anticipate the longevity of relationships, oftentimes predicting "when we are old" and dreaming of the friendship at that point in the future. When those people that were "season" friends, or worse, not actually friends at all, but something else in disguise, evaporated from my periphery, I would mourn. Eventually, I realized that I was trying to live in a future that I could not predict, rather than living in a present that was real. Probably in an effort to ignore or escape a past I did not want to remember.
As my life circles around, again and again, I have begun to understand that when I come back to the same place, there is a lesson I haven't learned, or taken to heart. That's where some of the intersecting circles come in. A very dear friend of mine frequently says, "Another thing we have in common!" Each time, I am so greatly comforted! Sharing fears, frustrations, those funky realizations that could make or break an emotional bank, sharing even a small part of those things clarifies the lessons they represent. Lessons about love, honesty, charity, looking forward--with a firm hold on the reality of now.
One of the coolest discoveries I made, and I've written about it before, is that my friends--my real, true, dear friends--are all people I would love to have in one room together for a party, a discussion, dinner. They are all people with whom I would share my celebrations and my sorrows. And in that realization, I see the Venn diagram that is our lives, the intersecting points of our individual spirals, even the odd "Hey, I know you!" of a group of seemingly random people who do, indeed, have much in common.
The circles and spirals in my life exemplify my place as a child of God. A part of a whole. I'm a huge fan of paisley patterns, the more swirly and intertwined the better; and have long wondered just what it is that appeals to me. Sometimes, when looking at a pattern, I see the complexity of my own thoughts: the things I think, feel, ponder, bounce around, that I can't quite seem to grasp or express. Or let go of. Other times, the simplicity of a repeating shape sooths me. It depends on the day. I once told a friend that if I were ever to get a tattoo, it would be a paisley pattern. She readily agreed that would be the best representation of "me." I wonder if the appeal is really in the "road map" a paisley pattern represents. Or the way the segments fit together and overlap, as we do when we embrace one another. One of many, belonging together, becoming more colorful with each lesson learned.
Perhaps, dear friends, when we are old and grey and wrinkled, it will be because our paisley pattern has become filled with the color that is us; the lessons we have learned, the gifts we have shared, the joy and strength we have shown, the love we have been. Where once I complained about "coming around again," I now can see that returning to a place is an opportunity to realize that I am right where I need to be. Right where I am.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
circle gets the square
Most of my life I've thought about circles and spirals. The kinds that bring you around again to a point in time, or a place in space that seems destined and unavoidable, though perhaps delayed for various reasons. Lately, I've been reminded of forks in my road that may have delayed or changed the point of meeting some people that have become dear to me.
Some circles are fairly easy to identify as they seem to create tighter spirals. In thinking about these tight spirals, I find myself wondering which other circles may be intersecting. A new friend who feels like an old friend and lives and works where we lived when we first moved here. Minor changes in course over the past 20 years, and we easily could have met earlier. The same could be said for a few other people I've met recently who may or may not become good friends, but who are nevertheless important to me at the moment. And I wonder if those multiple circles are meant to intertwine.
An interesting circle that's crossed my mind lately is much bigger. Possibly the biggest circle I've come across, and, therefore, likeliest to be a long-shot. (Although I've come to understand the unlikelihood of mere coincidence.) When Ronald Reagan was elected, I had my first thoughts about a career path. The hostages in Iran were released, and the news was all about what sanctions might be brought, where exactly international waters were, and whether there really was a fear of "cowboy justice." I was completely intrigued by the field of International Law. According to our encyclopedia (which had been published roughly 15 years before I was born), there was no such field, per se. Nevertheless, when I went to high school, I enrolled in French and Spanish. By the time I graduated, I had taken 5 years of each language, and a year of Russian, as well. I would have taken Greek, happily, but the class was held after school, I had a job in the evenings. My goal, having largely forgotten the law aspect, was to be an interpreter at the UN. For various reasons that had less validity than I realized at the time, but as I started getting college catalogs in the mail, one particularly colorful cover caught Dad's eye.
Catholic University had nothing to offer in the Hospitality field I was then considering, but it was the right distance away from home and was near a city Dad traveled to on business. (I didn't realize how important that was to him until I eventually graduated from a school near another city he visited often.) It did have some interesting law majors--including International Law. I was also fascinated by the offerings in Canon law. I seriously considered changing my college goals, but I was talked out of it by my guidance counselor. (Law is no field for a smart young woman like you. And what good would a course in canon law be for a woman at all?) Honestly, it wasn't that hard for me to toss the thought aside: when I was in 8th grade, we went to DC for some reason, went to Mass at the Cathedral, and while there, all our clothes were stolen from our car. I was, interestingly, more upset that my favorite skirt, top and dressy sandals were gone forever than I was about any "violation." I remember Dad saying that anyone who would steal from a car in a church parking lot clearly was more in need of what they took than we were. I was not quite sure I agreed....
Again I was reminded of my early interest when I took my Hospitality Law class. I loved it. I loved the instructor--a crusty older guy with a quirky sense of humor, and a weird way of trying to awe us. (He once told us how to commit the "perfect murder" that would be impossible to be convicted of, even if we were caught, because there would be no evidence. All we would leave would be circumstantial. Odd and creepy.) I loved the way he argued that Connecticut should be outlawed, and there should then be a way to teleport from the end of I-95 in Rhode Island to the beginning in New York. Most of all, I loved the content. I loved everything about tort, proving cases, finding precedents, writing up something like 6 cases per week. (One case study was about the signage in a parking garage. I was in heaven!) At the beginning of class on the first day, he told us the only way to get a good grade in his class was to work. One hour of homework each day, and we could expect a D-C; 2 hours, a solid C. An A would require, at minimum, 4 hours of homework per night. If we managed to do less work and get the grade we wanted, we were to let him know. He'd retire. I accepted the challenge, and pulled off an A--with an hour and a half of work dedicated to Law each morning. Total. Everything about it made sense to me. I wanted to change my major.
Unfortunately, I was stubborn. I had one more trimester of classes left. I had already decided that I was going to take the Associates degree and run. I had already convinced Dad that working for a couple of years and going back to school was the best thing for me. I had already decided that instead of having a career in Recreation and Leisure Management, I was supposed to be an English teacher. But I had fallen in love with Law. When the professor told us that the school had approved a Sports Law class for the following year, and that anyone who had ever had an A in his class would get first shot at it, and that he didn't expect any women to have any interest, I was sooooooo tempted to re-enroll in school, just for that class.
I wonder now if I had followed that pull to law, would I still be at this place at some point in my life. If I would still have the people in my life that support, guide, challenge me on a regular basis. (One of whom teaches law at Catholic. Although I wouldn't have met him while I was in college, had I followed my first instinct, we may have crossed paths professionally.) If it's too late to jump into the legal waters. I'm not a shark. But the types of law I was interested in didn't (seem) to require that type of personality. In no way do I feel unfulfilled. Just a continued curiosity. One that, likely, many would not understand, and insist that if I think about it, I must have regrets. I do not. Not in the least. I see that a circle has come full around, and I feel peace. Curiosity is not, for me, something that gets in the way of peace. Curiosity is something that drives me to continue to grow, to learn, to move forward.
Some circles are fairly easy to identify as they seem to create tighter spirals. In thinking about these tight spirals, I find myself wondering which other circles may be intersecting. A new friend who feels like an old friend and lives and works where we lived when we first moved here. Minor changes in course over the past 20 years, and we easily could have met earlier. The same could be said for a few other people I've met recently who may or may not become good friends, but who are nevertheless important to me at the moment. And I wonder if those multiple circles are meant to intertwine.
An interesting circle that's crossed my mind lately is much bigger. Possibly the biggest circle I've come across, and, therefore, likeliest to be a long-shot. (Although I've come to understand the unlikelihood of mere coincidence.) When Ronald Reagan was elected, I had my first thoughts about a career path. The hostages in Iran were released, and the news was all about what sanctions might be brought, where exactly international waters were, and whether there really was a fear of "cowboy justice." I was completely intrigued by the field of International Law. According to our encyclopedia (which had been published roughly 15 years before I was born), there was no such field, per se. Nevertheless, when I went to high school, I enrolled in French and Spanish. By the time I graduated, I had taken 5 years of each language, and a year of Russian, as well. I would have taken Greek, happily, but the class was held after school, I had a job in the evenings. My goal, having largely forgotten the law aspect, was to be an interpreter at the UN. For various reasons that had less validity than I realized at the time, but as I started getting college catalogs in the mail, one particularly colorful cover caught Dad's eye.
Catholic University had nothing to offer in the Hospitality field I was then considering, but it was the right distance away from home and was near a city Dad traveled to on business. (I didn't realize how important that was to him until I eventually graduated from a school near another city he visited often.) It did have some interesting law majors--including International Law. I was also fascinated by the offerings in Canon law. I seriously considered changing my college goals, but I was talked out of it by my guidance counselor. (Law is no field for a smart young woman like you. And what good would a course in canon law be for a woman at all?) Honestly, it wasn't that hard for me to toss the thought aside: when I was in 8th grade, we went to DC for some reason, went to Mass at the Cathedral, and while there, all our clothes were stolen from our car. I was, interestingly, more upset that my favorite skirt, top and dressy sandals were gone forever than I was about any "violation." I remember Dad saying that anyone who would steal from a car in a church parking lot clearly was more in need of what they took than we were. I was not quite sure I agreed....
Again I was reminded of my early interest when I took my Hospitality Law class. I loved it. I loved the instructor--a crusty older guy with a quirky sense of humor, and a weird way of trying to awe us. (He once told us how to commit the "perfect murder" that would be impossible to be convicted of, even if we were caught, because there would be no evidence. All we would leave would be circumstantial. Odd and creepy.) I loved the way he argued that Connecticut should be outlawed, and there should then be a way to teleport from the end of I-95 in Rhode Island to the beginning in New York. Most of all, I loved the content. I loved everything about tort, proving cases, finding precedents, writing up something like 6 cases per week. (One case study was about the signage in a parking garage. I was in heaven!) At the beginning of class on the first day, he told us the only way to get a good grade in his class was to work. One hour of homework each day, and we could expect a D-C; 2 hours, a solid C. An A would require, at minimum, 4 hours of homework per night. If we managed to do less work and get the grade we wanted, we were to let him know. He'd retire. I accepted the challenge, and pulled off an A--with an hour and a half of work dedicated to Law each morning. Total. Everything about it made sense to me. I wanted to change my major.
Unfortunately, I was stubborn. I had one more trimester of classes left. I had already decided that I was going to take the Associates degree and run. I had already convinced Dad that working for a couple of years and going back to school was the best thing for me. I had already decided that instead of having a career in Recreation and Leisure Management, I was supposed to be an English teacher. But I had fallen in love with Law. When the professor told us that the school had approved a Sports Law class for the following year, and that anyone who had ever had an A in his class would get first shot at it, and that he didn't expect any women to have any interest, I was sooooooo tempted to re-enroll in school, just for that class.
I wonder now if I had followed that pull to law, would I still be at this place at some point in my life. If I would still have the people in my life that support, guide, challenge me on a regular basis. (One of whom teaches law at Catholic. Although I wouldn't have met him while I was in college, had I followed my first instinct, we may have crossed paths professionally.) If it's too late to jump into the legal waters. I'm not a shark. But the types of law I was interested in didn't (seem) to require that type of personality. In no way do I feel unfulfilled. Just a continued curiosity. One that, likely, many would not understand, and insist that if I think about it, I must have regrets. I do not. Not in the least. I see that a circle has come full around, and I feel peace. Curiosity is not, for me, something that gets in the way of peace. Curiosity is something that drives me to continue to grow, to learn, to move forward.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
notebooks
When I was a teenager, Dad frequently gave me blank journals and diaries. He said it might be good for me to write things down, to work things out; that writing in them might help me to better understand myself. Occasionally, I would start writing on the blank pages--mostly about boy troubles--but only about ten of those pages remain. Most of them were torn out and burned in the woodstove within weeks of being written. There was a part of me that suspected that Dad really wanted me to write in journals so he could better understand me. Every time I wrote the kinds of things that I thought diaries were for, I was quite concerned that someone else might read them. There was quite a chorus of "if no one should know...." in my head when I was a teen.
This past week, I was reminded of those journal gifts when I pulled out my notebook as part of my routine when reading. I've kept notebooks for years--lines from books that touch my heart, notes on lectures, thoughts on what I've read, heard or seen. And the fact that this blog is, as Anna Nalick says, "my diary screaming out loud," is not lost on me. I had forgotten about all those journals, though.
When the memory caught me, I was (am still) in the midst of pondering a question posed to me. Pieces had been falling into place, slowly--as they do, and probably should, but the picture was still unclear. Many times when I'm feeling particularly befuddled, I think of Dad. At times, he comes to me, with that feeling of an arm over my shoulders, a glimpse of his thoughtful eyes, and once his clear voice speaking in my head. More often, though, there is something much more subtle: I come across something he'd given me, whether concrete or abstract. Pulling out the notebook brought him to mind, which, of course made me wonder why. As I opened my book to read, I found my answer--another piece to my current puzzle. Possibly the most important piece so far--and, interestingly, a lesson I now know Dad had been trying to teach me since those days when he gave me the journals.
One of my goals is to get my notebooks in order, and consolidate where I can, to make a cohesive order. My notebooks are all over the place, and sometimes even consist of loose sheets of paper stuffed into books that may or may not bear any reference to the notes. It'll be quite an undertaking, but worth the lessons about me I will learn. Ordering the notes will not necessarily order my mind, but that is quite all right. If nothing else, the consolidating will unclutter my heart.
This past week, I was reminded of those journal gifts when I pulled out my notebook as part of my routine when reading. I've kept notebooks for years--lines from books that touch my heart, notes on lectures, thoughts on what I've read, heard or seen. And the fact that this blog is, as Anna Nalick says, "my diary screaming out loud," is not lost on me. I had forgotten about all those journals, though.
When the memory caught me, I was (am still) in the midst of pondering a question posed to me. Pieces had been falling into place, slowly--as they do, and probably should, but the picture was still unclear. Many times when I'm feeling particularly befuddled, I think of Dad. At times, he comes to me, with that feeling of an arm over my shoulders, a glimpse of his thoughtful eyes, and once his clear voice speaking in my head. More often, though, there is something much more subtle: I come across something he'd given me, whether concrete or abstract. Pulling out the notebook brought him to mind, which, of course made me wonder why. As I opened my book to read, I found my answer--another piece to my current puzzle. Possibly the most important piece so far--and, interestingly, a lesson I now know Dad had been trying to teach me since those days when he gave me the journals.
One of my goals is to get my notebooks in order, and consolidate where I can, to make a cohesive order. My notebooks are all over the place, and sometimes even consist of loose sheets of paper stuffed into books that may or may not bear any reference to the notes. It'll be quite an undertaking, but worth the lessons about me I will learn. Ordering the notes will not necessarily order my mind, but that is quite all right. If nothing else, the consolidating will unclutter my heart.
Anxiety is fatal to recollection because recollection depends ultimately on faith, and anxiety eats into the heart of faith. Anxiety usually comes from strain, and strain is caused by too complete a dependence on ourselves, on our own devices, our own plans, our own idea of what we are able to do.
~Thomas Merton, No Man Is an Island, p. 224.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
tintinnabulation
The church bells are missing. Every evening for the past 18 years that we have lived here, I've heard them, with varying degrees of awareness. Often as background to cleaning up from dinner, sometimes as accompaniment with dinner or the visits that go along with mealtime. Frequently the songs are ones I know, and I sing along in my heart. Occasionally, an unknown song plays, and I wonder what it's about. The week of July 4th, patriotic songs were in the mix, making me think of Dad and his funeral (the not-so-painful parts).
There was a time, quite a while ago, when I wondered if being agnostic would be better than the limbo I felt I was in. The church bells were part of the reason I stuck with my faith, lukewarm as it was. They were too beautifully reminding me of songs and messages I had always loved. [I realize now that I was likely suffering from mild depression, rather than a lack of faith, per se. But I imagine the feeling is similar.]
Lately, the bells have served their traditionally intended purpose: a call to prayer. At 6:00 each evening, I have been beautifully and gently reminded that if I haven't yet said my prayers, I should make the time before the evening gets away from me. I often sit on our balcony and pray the rosary or another devotion, or do some spiritual reading, with the sound of bells in the air.
Monday night, I had somewhere to be from 6-7, and as I got in the car, I realized the new weekly appointment would mean that I wouldn't hear the bells. But I reassured myself that it was for a very good reason, so it was okay. Tuesday night, I wondered around 6:30 just what I had been so busy doing that I didn't even hear them. I'm pretty sure whatever I'd been doing, I should have been able to hear them, but perhaps I was just preoccupied or distracted. Wednesday was one of those days when I just felt like my life was crumbling; like I'd made the wrong decisions, and there was no way to reset. A dear friend and I "chatted" for a while in between weeding, and something he said resonated with me: "Your faith exploration has been wonderful and it seems to have been feeding you." He had been asking about coping mechanisms, and how most of my usual ones were on summer hiatus. [and it's been far too hot, although that hasn't stopped me from doing more yard work than is usual for me! And I've been enjoying it, too!] This morning another friend said, after I told her that I find myself wondering where I'd gone wrong, that she figures that God must find himself asking the same question about His children.
Tonight, when I made myself very aware of the 6:00 hour approaching, and no music started, I realized that I may have come to depend on the bells in a way. I sat on the the balcony and missed the church bells. There was thunder, so I was well aware of not being alone in any way. But the bells are missing. I'm not one of those who is against change, or new things, but I do miss things. I hope the bells are on vacation. I'm off Tuesday, so if they haven't been found by then, I think I will walk over and enquire. They truly are one of the perks of living here.
There was a time, quite a while ago, when I wondered if being agnostic would be better than the limbo I felt I was in. The church bells were part of the reason I stuck with my faith, lukewarm as it was. They were too beautifully reminding me of songs and messages I had always loved. [I realize now that I was likely suffering from mild depression, rather than a lack of faith, per se. But I imagine the feeling is similar.]
Lately, the bells have served their traditionally intended purpose: a call to prayer. At 6:00 each evening, I have been beautifully and gently reminded that if I haven't yet said my prayers, I should make the time before the evening gets away from me. I often sit on our balcony and pray the rosary or another devotion, or do some spiritual reading, with the sound of bells in the air.
Monday night, I had somewhere to be from 6-7, and as I got in the car, I realized the new weekly appointment would mean that I wouldn't hear the bells. But I reassured myself that it was for a very good reason, so it was okay. Tuesday night, I wondered around 6:30 just what I had been so busy doing that I didn't even hear them. I'm pretty sure whatever I'd been doing, I should have been able to hear them, but perhaps I was just preoccupied or distracted. Wednesday was one of those days when I just felt like my life was crumbling; like I'd made the wrong decisions, and there was no way to reset. A dear friend and I "chatted" for a while in between weeding, and something he said resonated with me: "Your faith exploration has been wonderful and it seems to have been feeding you." He had been asking about coping mechanisms, and how most of my usual ones were on summer hiatus. [and it's been far too hot, although that hasn't stopped me from doing more yard work than is usual for me! And I've been enjoying it, too!] This morning another friend said, after I told her that I find myself wondering where I'd gone wrong, that she figures that God must find himself asking the same question about His children.
Tonight, when I made myself very aware of the 6:00 hour approaching, and no music started, I realized that I may have come to depend on the bells in a way. I sat on the the balcony and missed the church bells. There was thunder, so I was well aware of not being alone in any way. But the bells are missing. I'm not one of those who is against change, or new things, but I do miss things. I hope the bells are on vacation. I'm off Tuesday, so if they haven't been found by then, I think I will walk over and enquire. They truly are one of the perks of living here.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
for many reasons
This entry begun on January 18, 2013. I don't know why I didn't finish it, but I suspect because the direction was not quite right, although the content is quite precise.
"Why are you here?" was the question, and was meant to be contemplative. The question, while directed at a specific person to help clarify another question, struck me as the one I needed to contemplate and pray on.
Why am I there? At first, my presence was a by-product of my desire to do something for someone else. And I got hooked and found myself learning more about myself and my religion than I thought I wanted to. Before long, I was there for me, and the someone else was a nice addition to the evenings. At some point, my focus shifted, and I felt peace. That was a different gathering, or class, if you will. A study.
This one is different. This one is about history, too, but not in the same way. This one is also about self--self-sacrifice, contemplation.
"Why are you here?" was the question, and was meant to be contemplative. The question, while directed at a specific person to help clarify another question, struck me as the one I needed to contemplate and pray on.
Why am I there? At first, my presence was a by-product of my desire to do something for someone else. And I got hooked and found myself learning more about myself and my religion than I thought I wanted to. Before long, I was there for me, and the someone else was a nice addition to the evenings. At some point, my focus shifted, and I felt peace. That was a different gathering, or class, if you will. A study.
This one is different. This one is about history, too, but not in the same way. This one is also about self--self-sacrifice, contemplation.
yes, it counts
This week I attended a training that felt like a turning point in my life. The funny thing is, within moments of the class beginning, I was annoyed. The training was on Project Management; an area of management theory with which I had about zero exposure to. Practical application, however, is another story, and that's where my annoyance came into play. There were interns in the room, and the statement was made that since they were "only students" they obviously had little to no PM experience, and any of us who were not management level likely had a fairly small amount of experience. Mom that I am, I immediately felt defensive for the interns--as far as I could tell, from my fairly recent college classes and watching and guiding my own kids, students use a ton of Project Management skills. Oh, and did I mention I felt particularly Mom-like? I also took the comment a little personally. Isn't raising a family of four children a major Project?
The first day of the class slowly proved me wrong. There are few times when I have dealt with deliverables or work breakdown structures. Unless getting everyone to games/practice/performances/church in one piece, and relatively in a reasonable state of mind counts as a deliverable! The first day also involved group work--not one of my favorite activities!
The second day was more my speed. Scheduling and finding critical paths, slack and float, all added up to the way I have always organized my work, my play, my life. I sent my husband a text: "I. Love. This." And he responded that he was not surprised. He has often told me that he sees me as a business analyst, and in his experience, the two go hand in hand. Quite a few years ago, we had an addition put on the house. The contractor told me one day about the next phase of the project, and the research he would be doing at home prior to getting my input. His wife had recently had a baby, and I knew what it was like to have a newborn, and a husband who had to work after work. I sat at our computer and did the research while he continued to work, and by the end of the day had taken care of the decisions that would have to be made, and had made up a loose schedule of dates that would work, based on what he had told me. At his daily wrap-up, he told us that I would make a fantastic project manager. I've always wondered just what that meant.
While I'd love to get certified, or get a degree in project management, it's likely a dream that will stay more nebulous than real. I'm satisfied--for now--knowing that I not only know the skills and have the tools for project management, but that I've been using them for ages without giving them a second thought. Hopefully, there will be other classes, and practical applications that relate to 'worker me.' In the meantime, here's one more reason why Momming is a valid section on my resume.
I'm not the one that needs convincing, though!
The first day of the class slowly proved me wrong. There are few times when I have dealt with deliverables or work breakdown structures. Unless getting everyone to games/practice/performances/church in one piece, and relatively in a reasonable state of mind counts as a deliverable! The first day also involved group work--not one of my favorite activities!
The second day was more my speed. Scheduling and finding critical paths, slack and float, all added up to the way I have always organized my work, my play, my life. I sent my husband a text: "I. Love. This." And he responded that he was not surprised. He has often told me that he sees me as a business analyst, and in his experience, the two go hand in hand. Quite a few years ago, we had an addition put on the house. The contractor told me one day about the next phase of the project, and the research he would be doing at home prior to getting my input. His wife had recently had a baby, and I knew what it was like to have a newborn, and a husband who had to work after work. I sat at our computer and did the research while he continued to work, and by the end of the day had taken care of the decisions that would have to be made, and had made up a loose schedule of dates that would work, based on what he had told me. At his daily wrap-up, he told us that I would make a fantastic project manager. I've always wondered just what that meant.
While I'd love to get certified, or get a degree in project management, it's likely a dream that will stay more nebulous than real. I'm satisfied--for now--knowing that I not only know the skills and have the tools for project management, but that I've been using them for ages without giving them a second thought. Hopefully, there will be other classes, and practical applications that relate to 'worker me.' In the meantime, here's one more reason why Momming is a valid section on my resume.
I'm not the one that needs convincing, though!
Sunday, July 7, 2013
a hug
Yesterday began with a hug from a near stranger. Not often does something so unexpected seem so comfortable and familiar. Hours later, another hug from someone else, along with the words, "You give great hugs." Just a simple statement of fact, and I realized one more of the pieces of "me" I have let go somewhere along the way. As I heard the words spoken close to my ear, almost feeling as though they were inside my head rather than outside, I heard echos of the same from loved ones now flung far and wide, physically and spiritually.
Dad used to comment on my hugs; usually with a simple word of thanks. Mostly our hugs were unconventional--a squeeze of the hand, or his left arm around my shoulders and my head on his, my right cheek on his chest. Recently, I recalled in that moment, someone else had told me about missing my hugs, but I can't for the life of me remember who. And that's when I realized and remembered how much I miss the genuine, spontaneous, joy-filled hugs that used to explode out of me everywhere.
I've been watching for the me things, the gifts I've been given, entrusted with, and that I should be honing, sharing, returning. A number of years ago, I lamented to a friend that I was missing the hugs I used to share with classmates, co-workers, and oftentimes, people I'd just met. He immediately hugged me, and offered to receive any hugs I might have pent up. He is still a very dear friend (who also is an amazing hugger!), but I don't see him often at all. Luckily, I have a family--both of heart and of blood) who hug hello and goodbye.
Somewhere in there, in what I can only describe as an effort to fit in, I have turned myself into a square peg trying to fit into the round hole that is reality; that is my space in this world.
Paddling on the water yesterday, I found a piece of me. One that I had forgotten was missing. Our fearless canoe adventure leader told me that she leads this group because on the water is where she found God again, and in sharing the wonder of nature, she is doing what she can to give praise. While she did not emphasize the "again" part, I could completely identify. I found him again on a highway. And ever since, I've been letting him lead me back to me. To him. And what I'm finding is that being myself is enough. The true myself: the one that wants to be comforted like a child; the one that wants to comfort; the hugger, the laughter, the listener; the hermit; the butterfly---the one that is me.
There are days when I am contentedly moving forward at a snail's pace, but what is really awesome is that I am not spinning my wheels, lost and alone. I am right where I am, and right where I am supposed to be.
Armed with a hug.
Dad used to comment on my hugs; usually with a simple word of thanks. Mostly our hugs were unconventional--a squeeze of the hand, or his left arm around my shoulders and my head on his, my right cheek on his chest. Recently, I recalled in that moment, someone else had told me about missing my hugs, but I can't for the life of me remember who. And that's when I realized and remembered how much I miss the genuine, spontaneous, joy-filled hugs that used to explode out of me everywhere.
I've been watching for the me things, the gifts I've been given, entrusted with, and that I should be honing, sharing, returning. A number of years ago, I lamented to a friend that I was missing the hugs I used to share with classmates, co-workers, and oftentimes, people I'd just met. He immediately hugged me, and offered to receive any hugs I might have pent up. He is still a very dear friend (who also is an amazing hugger!), but I don't see him often at all. Luckily, I have a family--both of heart and of blood) who hug hello and goodbye.
Somewhere in there, in what I can only describe as an effort to fit in, I have turned myself into a square peg trying to fit into the round hole that is reality; that is my space in this world.
Paddling on the water yesterday, I found a piece of me. One that I had forgotten was missing. Our fearless canoe adventure leader told me that she leads this group because on the water is where she found God again, and in sharing the wonder of nature, she is doing what she can to give praise. While she did not emphasize the "again" part, I could completely identify. I found him again on a highway. And ever since, I've been letting him lead me back to me. To him. And what I'm finding is that being myself is enough. The true myself: the one that wants to be comforted like a child; the one that wants to comfort; the hugger, the laughter, the listener; the hermit; the butterfly---the one that is me.
There are days when I am contentedly moving forward at a snail's pace, but what is really awesome is that I am not spinning my wheels, lost and alone. I am right where I am, and right where I am supposed to be.
Armed with a hug.
Friday, July 5, 2013
momma mia
Over the past few days, I have been getting gentle reminders of the importance of my Momma-ing. And the complexity of the job. All of these reminders are little bits of consolation related to wherever it is that I'm headed.
We've already had our discussion at Book Club about Thomas Merton, but I am still working my way through the book. Although I know I will never be "done" with this book, I have also not yet finished it. One of the very common threads I've run into (you might find something else, or I might the next time I read through it) is the gentle admonishment to be myself, to be the self I was created and intended to be. I know with certainty that a good part of that self is a mother, or mother figure. I also know that as Momma, I muddle through, partly relying on what I've learned from other mothers I admire, partly making it up as I go along, and often asking for guidance.
In the past, asking for guidance came more in the panicked moments when I felt at the end of my rope, stretched too thin, or terribly frightened. In the past year, I've put on a different spin. Nowadays, I ask daily--well, almost daily--for reminders that I am Momma for a reason, or at the very least, for help remembering that much of what I do is an example to my children. In the end, I'm probably asking for guidance, help and support just as much as I always did, but the end result is so much different! Whereas I used to find myself stressed, used up, tired, afraid--in reality, depressed--I now feel more strength to face the challenges, and actual joy that I have them to face. Being a mother is not easy; there are times when no one is happy with the outcome of making and following rules, or following through with consequences. But time and again, even my children have told me how important it is that we do just that.
There have been times when I've told myself there must be more to my life than being their mother. That when they are grown, I will need to find something else, and for that reason, I need to develop other aspects of me. I'm finding that the other aspects of "me" develop best in the context of my identity of "mother." Thomas Merton has helped me to realize just how far-reaching "vocation" is. In an essay on marriage [below], I found the most amazing joy that what I knew was another vocation of mine (marriage) was another shining facet of me. It sounds crazy, but I've lived with a misguided inclination to compartmentalize my roles in order to really show who I am, and, frankly, it's always made me quite uncomfortable in my skin! In actuality, the facets cannot be separated. A prism may separate the colors, but they are always united, touching and attached to each other. I am always, at once, mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend, employee, co-worker, student--all are me. Not simply pieces of me that I can pull out as I need them.
In this knowledge, I've found freedom. Freedom to choose growth and forward motion. Freedom to be the me I was created and intended to be. I still do not know precisely what that means beyond this moment, but I'm also free to follow the road where it leads. Building the road myself was getting me nowhere. Fast. Progress is still slow at times, but the view is far more spectacular when I can free myself of every last detail.
We would be better able to understand the beauty of the religious vocation if we remembered that marriage too is a vocation. The religious life is a special way of sanctity, reserved for comparatively few. The ordinary way to holiness and to the fullness of Christian life is marriage. Most men and women will become saints in the married state. And yet so many Christians who are not called to religious life or to the priesthood say of themselves: "I have no vocation!" What a mistake! They have a wonderful vocation, all the more wonderful because of its relative freedom and lack of formality. For the "society" which is the family loves beautifully by its own spontaneous inner laws. It has no need of codified rule and custom. Love is its rule, and all its customs are the living expression of deep and sincere affection. In a certain sense, the vocation to the married state is more desirable than any other, becuase of the fact that this spontaneity, this spirit of freedom and union in charity is so easily accessible, for the ordinary man, in family life. The formalism and artificiality which creep into religious communities are with difficulty admitted into the circle of a family where powerful human values triumphantly resist the incursions of falsity.
Married people, then, instead of lamenting their supposed "lack of vocation," should highly value the vocation they have actually received. They should thank God for the fact that this vocation, with all its responsibilites and hardships, is a safe and secure way to become holy without being warped or shriveled up by pious conventionalism. The married man and the mother of a Christian family, if they are faithful to their obligations, will fulfill a mission that is as great as it is consoling: that of bringing into the world and forming young souls capable of happiness and love, souls capable of sanctification and transformation in Christ. Living in close union with God the creator and source of life, they will understand better than others the mystery of His infinite fecundity, in which it is their privilege to share. Raising children in difficult social circumstances, they will enter perhaps more deeply into the mystery of divine Providence than others who, by their vow of poverty, ought ideally to be more directly dependent on God than they, but who in fact are never made to feel the anguish of insecurity.
No Man Is an Island, Thomas Merton, p. 152-153
We've already had our discussion at Book Club about Thomas Merton, but I am still working my way through the book. Although I know I will never be "done" with this book, I have also not yet finished it. One of the very common threads I've run into (you might find something else, or I might the next time I read through it) is the gentle admonishment to be myself, to be the self I was created and intended to be. I know with certainty that a good part of that self is a mother, or mother figure. I also know that as Momma, I muddle through, partly relying on what I've learned from other mothers I admire, partly making it up as I go along, and often asking for guidance.
In the past, asking for guidance came more in the panicked moments when I felt at the end of my rope, stretched too thin, or terribly frightened. In the past year, I've put on a different spin. Nowadays, I ask daily--well, almost daily--for reminders that I am Momma for a reason, or at the very least, for help remembering that much of what I do is an example to my children. In the end, I'm probably asking for guidance, help and support just as much as I always did, but the end result is so much different! Whereas I used to find myself stressed, used up, tired, afraid--in reality, depressed--I now feel more strength to face the challenges, and actual joy that I have them to face. Being a mother is not easy; there are times when no one is happy with the outcome of making and following rules, or following through with consequences. But time and again, even my children have told me how important it is that we do just that.
There have been times when I've told myself there must be more to my life than being their mother. That when they are grown, I will need to find something else, and for that reason, I need to develop other aspects of me. I'm finding that the other aspects of "me" develop best in the context of my identity of "mother." Thomas Merton has helped me to realize just how far-reaching "vocation" is. In an essay on marriage [below], I found the most amazing joy that what I knew was another vocation of mine (marriage) was another shining facet of me. It sounds crazy, but I've lived with a misguided inclination to compartmentalize my roles in order to really show who I am, and, frankly, it's always made me quite uncomfortable in my skin! In actuality, the facets cannot be separated. A prism may separate the colors, but they are always united, touching and attached to each other. I am always, at once, mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend, employee, co-worker, student--all are me. Not simply pieces of me that I can pull out as I need them.
In this knowledge, I've found freedom. Freedom to choose growth and forward motion. Freedom to be the me I was created and intended to be. I still do not know precisely what that means beyond this moment, but I'm also free to follow the road where it leads. Building the road myself was getting me nowhere. Fast. Progress is still slow at times, but the view is far more spectacular when I can free myself of every last detail.
We would be better able to understand the beauty of the religious vocation if we remembered that marriage too is a vocation. The religious life is a special way of sanctity, reserved for comparatively few. The ordinary way to holiness and to the fullness of Christian life is marriage. Most men and women will become saints in the married state. And yet so many Christians who are not called to religious life or to the priesthood say of themselves: "I have no vocation!" What a mistake! They have a wonderful vocation, all the more wonderful because of its relative freedom and lack of formality. For the "society" which is the family loves beautifully by its own spontaneous inner laws. It has no need of codified rule and custom. Love is its rule, and all its customs are the living expression of deep and sincere affection. In a certain sense, the vocation to the married state is more desirable than any other, becuase of the fact that this spontaneity, this spirit of freedom and union in charity is so easily accessible, for the ordinary man, in family life. The formalism and artificiality which creep into religious communities are with difficulty admitted into the circle of a family where powerful human values triumphantly resist the incursions of falsity.
Married people, then, instead of lamenting their supposed "lack of vocation," should highly value the vocation they have actually received. They should thank God for the fact that this vocation, with all its responsibilites and hardships, is a safe and secure way to become holy without being warped or shriveled up by pious conventionalism. The married man and the mother of a Christian family, if they are faithful to their obligations, will fulfill a mission that is as great as it is consoling: that of bringing into the world and forming young souls capable of happiness and love, souls capable of sanctification and transformation in Christ. Living in close union with God the creator and source of life, they will understand better than others the mystery of His infinite fecundity, in which it is their privilege to share. Raising children in difficult social circumstances, they will enter perhaps more deeply into the mystery of divine Providence than others who, by their vow of poverty, ought ideally to be more directly dependent on God than they, but who in fact are never made to feel the anguish of insecurity.
No Man Is an Island, Thomas Merton, p. 152-153
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