choosing kindness

I was having one of those mornings.

Truth be told, I've been having a week or more of such mornings.

Part of it is readjusting to waking with an alarm. There is just no way any of us in this family will wake up in time for school without setting the clock radio alarm and somehow, that onerous duty falls upon me. Which means not only do I have to pry myself out of bed, but then I have the joy of waking up two other grumpy and ungrateful non-morning people. All before I brew the coffee.  Yeah, good times.

Factor in the fact that I am currently menopausal hormonally challenged. What that means is I tend to wake up around 4 am needing to pee (sorry, if that is TMI) and then I realize what really woke me was a hot flush. I call these power surges flushes as they aren't as extreme as what other women have described to me. And I hope by speaking nicely about them, they will be nice to me.

Not yet anyway. 

So now I have to cool off (ah, a dab of peppermint oil on the back of my neck works wonders!) but am fairly alert now (due to activity of getting out of bed, peeing, finding peppermint oil) so then I lay in bed and watch the rabid squirrels tear up the stuffing that is my mind.

The only thing that helps is to wander downstairs, turn on the living room lamp and read for awhile. I wake the dog up doing this, but he is the only one pleasant about waking up (probably because he averages 22 hours of sleep a day but none-the-less he is always pleasant about keeping me company). 

So I had been up at 4 a.m. reading and was feeling all manner of crusty edgy by breakfast time. Oh, and another important detail: that previous evening Cowgirl came home from playing with the neighborhood kids, slumped over the kitchen island and wailed. She had been hit in the face by a ball. It was a "soft" ball she explained, BUT the Rule was no throwing it into people's faces AND even though it was soft, it bumped her glasses which - she pointed out in case I wasn't understanding the severity of the injury - are not soft. 

But more than her physical injury, it was the fact that the injuring party "didn't care" and merely shrugged her shoulders when Cowgirl explained that IT HURT. (Poor Cowgirl is ever frustrated by the fact that most people do not mind the rules and notions of fairness that she champions.) Now, what my mother never told me was that when you parent, you have the added option of re-living all your childhood woes and traumas through the lens of your child. It is an option not to, but like waving a biscuit in front of a dog, I cannot help but take a wee nibble. (Which is progress over snatching, gulping, consuming without batting an eye.) 

So I struggle in these situations with separating my own fears and experiences from those of my daughter's. And while I have learned the wisdom of listening, acknowledging, and holding space for whatever my girl is going through, my impulse is still to find some finger-hold of hope for forward movement. I want to help her feel empowered to make choices other than giving up.

Too often I confuse doing nothing with giving up. Slowly I am figuring out that resting in the moment - waiting, relaxing, "doing nothing" - is actually the best way to allow solutions, answers or options to present themselves. The emotions of the moment make everything cloudy and confused. It is best to attend to the feelings and allow time to work its magic.

Okay, so back to my morning. I was still ruminating up the previous evening, frustrated by my inability to find the right words (read: Wise Words HA!) to support my girl and yes, swallowing all kinds of bitterness and anger at the offender (her only crime being an aggressive and competitive nature) along with sadness over what I perceive to be a decline in kindness brought about by what feels like an increase in hostility and aggression in our world.

Then my doorbell rang. As I neared my front door, I realized  that the two shadowy figures on the other side were Jehovah's Witnesses. Too late to retreat, I opened the door and prepared myself for the attack. Two women stood there smiling, the older one with her Bible at the ready, a copy of their newsletter (my Good News I sarcastically thought) extended towards me.  I honestly heard little of what was said, I was busy in my head constructing my blistering rebuttal for whatever hokum they might offer me. But I caught myself.

Okay, I cried. And I'm not sure why? But I suspect it had to do with the earnestness with which they addressed me, their clean and formal clothes, their plain and scrubbed faces, the way they looked at me right in my eyes. They seemed so proper and from another era, as if coming out to talk to me was deserving of their best (pressed and pleated) dress. As if I was deserving of this attention and care. And I was immediately brought up by the ugliness in my knee-jerk reaction to them, my desire to put them in their place, my intention to show my intellectual and spiritual sophistication and yes, to squash theirs.

I blathered something about having a hard day and apologized for my distractedness. As I reached for their newsletter, the older of the two gently took hold of my wrist and told me she was sorry for my day. They both looked genuinely concerned for me, and that unsettled me even more. I hastily thanked them and retreated behind my front door. 

"Good grief," I thought, "I've really lost it!" But here's what I realized: I could choose to be right, or I could choose to be kind. And I could choose to accept kindness even if it isn't in a form that I had wanted nor expected. I wasn't going to change their spiritual beliefs and they weren't going to change mine. But I could accept the energy behind the offering of scripture and interpretation; I could accept the care and kindness. 

This epiphany lead to another crumb of insight. When Cowgirl came home that afternoon, I told her about my visitors and I told her about choosing kindness over needing to be right. As gracefully as a waddling goose, I immediately brought up the previous evening's events and how we always have the option to align ourselves with kindness but then to extend to ourselves. Sometimes self-kindness is knowing when to walk away, when to acknowledge we cannot fix, alter or amend a situation.

But we can ask for support. And so then we talked about turning over our frustrations, turning over our not-knowing-what-to-do to God and ask that she help us to see and accept a solution when it is ready or when we are ready for it. Until that time, we can continue to seek out and support kindness beginning with ourselves. 

I recently heard author Caroline Myss explain Every thought is a prayer.  

I'm awake now.

i've got your back

On Thanksgiving day Cowgirl received a bead kit from her uncle (he needed some beads for his fly fishing lures and passed on the remainders to us.)  There is a back story to bead kits in my family: years ago I sent one of my nieces what I thought was the deluxe-delight kit of multicolored beads.  Possibilities abounded in that box, but what I hadn't factored in was the probability of an equally massive bead mess.  My curmudgeonly brother called me up just days after that holiday with a "Thanks for the bead set ... may a pox fall upon you and your house."  Or something to that effect.

I actually was unaware Cowgirl had received the kit and had been too distracted to consider the reason she was staying confined to her room.  Any long weekend when she isn't begging to spend "just a little time" on the computer should have me seeking out the thermometer.

It wasn't until late Sunday afternoon that I learned she had the kit and had been absorbed by sorting all the beads by color and size. (The Husband calls it the Montessori Effect.)  Pleased by my child's commitment to such focused attention and detail, I was merrily engaged with a project of my own.

And then the wailing began.

It shouldn't be too surprising to reveal that shortly after sorting all the beads, Cowgirl bumped the tray and yes ... all the beads pooled together in a multicolor pile in the tray and on her floor (which is covered by a shaggy carpet that swallows any and everything short of dirty laundry that falls upon it.) 

I confess, I heard the cries and I sat frozen at the kitchen island.  I suppose I hoped The Husband was tending to this disaster (hope springs eternal) but if I am honest, I just wasn't sure I was up for the task of talking her off that ledge.  

She of course, came down to find me.  She flumped herself into the chair ( I know of no other way to describe the gesture of flouncing, bumping, dumping oneself into a pile of anger and irritation rolled in a crusty covering of frustration and despair), crossing her arms and dropping her chin she issued a sort of growling whining cry.  "I worked ALL DAY and now I've wasted my time!"  (Oh, little sister ... how well I know this lament!)

My usual tactic would be to rush in to comfort, but I've learned (slowly and painfully) to let her unspool her feelings.  I issued the appropriate "I can imagine!" and "Of course you would feel that way!"  until her fury was spent.  Then I suggested she bring the kit downstairs ("But it is too late now!") and together we could sort the beads.

What started out as a disaster turned into girls' time.  Soon we were laughing over those sneaky beads that bounce away, coming up with new strategies for separating small beads and more stable methods for holding sorted piles.  When she slipped out of her chair and came over to hug and thank me, I knew I had earned a parenting merit badge.

Just a few weeks ago there was an incident at school with a classmate and Cowgirl and I discussed how she wanted to handle it.  I listened to her ideas and I gave her my opinion on what I thought needed to happen.  In all of this I wanted her to understand that she is supported and that she has the right and the means to take action and find a solution.  I was bullied as a child, so I am super sensitive to this issue.  I never said anything to my parents and I was unaware until years later that my mother knew what had happened and had talked with my school principal.  My experience was one of feeling alone, frightened and powerless to do anything - except hide.  (I went out of my way to walk a circuitous route to and from school, avoiding as best I could my tormentors.)  I did not want this to be Cowgirl's experience.

I have been learning for myself that there is so much support out there, it's just a matter of asking for it and then believing I am capable of joining my resources with that assistance to find solutions. Sometimes it requires me being clear with myself and others as to my needs.  I know it is a sign of strength, not weakness, to truthfully acknowledge when I am overwhelmed and in need of guidance.  It is also an act of great trust to share my vulnerabilities with another and even more so, to be so honest with myself. 

I keep hearing the Rolling Stones song "Well we all need someone we can lean on ..."

I've been subbing at Cowgirl's school in the preschool class and I want to wrap up this verbal wandering with a story about the Zipper club.  In an effort to encourage the kids to put on and zip up their coats, the teacher implemented a Zipper Club.  I was there the first day of the club and the kids were buzzing with excitement.  Of course, there were the few who still needed help and the other aides were so loving and gentle in explaining to the kids that some of us just need a little more practice.  

The following week I was in and it was time for recess when one boy came over to me to ask for my help.  He still hadn't mastered his zipper yet, so I tried to encourage him to give it a go first.  The lining of his jacket zipped into the coat, so there was a confusion over which zipper where ... I got the zippers sorted and then dropped my hands.  "Okay, you try" I told him.  He got the zipper set and I tell you, it was like Edmund Hilary on the cusp of summiting Everest.  The other kids were leaving for recess and this boy started to become anxious, looking over his shoulder and whining.  

I morphed into football coach mode and began barking at him "Where is your brain?  Get you brain in the game!  Zipper!  Look at your zipper!  Pay attention!"  He turned back to me and the zipper, fumbling to pull it up, attention drifting back to the doorway and his departing classmates.  I almost lost him, he was teetering on the edge of meltdown, but I think I shocked him when I barked "Focus on your zipper!" and up the zipper went.

He looked at me stunned and uncertain.  What had happened?  I said to him "Look at what you just did!"  Saucer big eyes blinked, looked down, then back up at me as he hurled himself into my arms.

Yeah we all need someone we can lean on ... someone to remind us to believe ... someone who knows what we need to know ... that yes, we can ... we can do IT, whatever IT might be.  We just need to know when to seek support and guidance and when to listen to the voices cheering us on.  
 

 In gratitude for all who have so lovingly supported and encouraged me ... just so you know, I've always got your back and am thankful you are watching out for mine. ♥    

 

Learning as I go ...

"Gardens, like children, are forgiving; gardens grow. Love, even clumsy and unrefined, cultivates. Time, unhurried, is never wasted."

(Karen Maezen Miller, Hand Wash Cold: Care Instructions for an Ordinary Life)

I often tell my yoga students that the best way to understand a posture, especially the balancing poses, is through the struggle to attain them.  Attempting to balance on one leg, the act of falling out of balance teaches us what is missing and the process of returning again and again to the pose reinforces where our center is and what constitutes balance in our own body.  

So after the struggles of the previous few weeks, I am reminded once again that parenting isn't so much about getting it right, avoiding struggles or conflicts, but climbing back into the  arena with an open heart, fully present, open to new possibilities, and willing to risk falling down in order to learn how to stand up.

I find it curious I received several emails and private messages in response to my post on my mothering struggles.  I think so many of us hold this unexamined belief that others have a handle on this gig called parenting, whereas we somehow missed the class and are woefully ill equipped and in over our heads. But examined in the light of day and the light of reality and reasonableness, I recognize the absurdity of those assumptions.  Still, I know I am driven by irrational fear of exposure as a sham, as incompetent, a bad parent and that fear can silence me. Bravery is speaking my truth and listening yours; sharing our truths (the nitty gritty and the triumphant) is the means of liberation, hope and inspiration.

I am grateful for writers like Anne Lamott and Karen Maezen Miller who share with their readers their crooked journeys, missteps and misadventures if only to remind us we all are learning as we go.  And that's okay.  Maybe it is the best way, for then I am eternally responding to what is before me, rather than reacting to how I believe things ought to be, or how they were yesterday, last week, last year.  Because if there is one magically frustrating and inspiring thing I've experienced parenting my daughter, it is that she is always growing, changing, shifting, becoming.

Days after our family meltdown, I read this post which bumped me back on track.  As much as I want to make the journey easy for my girl, clearing out obstacles, bubble-wrapping the sharp edges, imparting to her the insights I've gain through heartache and suffering, that is not my role.  

"In hindsight, it seems to me that she has been waiting for me to stop imparting to her. To stop imposing on her, to stop judging, coercing, undermining, and second-guessing her, as if she were the proof of my able foresight and good intentions." (Karen Maezen Miller) 

This past week I've been subbing as a teacher's aide in the preschool class at Cowgirl's school.  I am learning so much from the teacher and the other aides who clearly love what they do and care deeply for each child and work hard to coax out his or her potential.  It has been reassuring for me to know Cowgirl is in this environment. (I know, not all teachers are equal, but we have been blessed by some truly saint-like in patience and enthusiasm teachers and I want to give a shout out for all those teachers - especially the ones in public schools - who do show up passionate and caring.  Because, my goddess, after a couple of days I am emptied and drained!)  Watching these teachers respond to the meltdowns was instructive.  They never coddled, never brushed away the incident.  What they did do was support the child to understand their accomplishments that day, to guide them to stretch a bit further in order to expand their abilities.  Taking small hands and redirecting them ... holding the scissors so they smile at you, guide the paper with the other hand  ... keep going ... look!  Look at what you just did!

Rushing in from my lunch break, I passed through the lunch room just as Cowgirl's lunch period begins.  She was sitting at the table, head down, face hidden.  My heart sank as a recognized the body language of "something's wrong."  I rushed over to her and sat down. Leaning my head in, I tried to coax from her what had happened.  Big, hot tears rolled down her cheeks.  She wouldn't answer me and she wouldn't take my comfort.  Finally, one of the lunchroom teachers noticed the distress and came over.  I reminded Cowgirl that in order for her to find a solution, she had to tell us what was wrong.  The teacher then stepped in and I realize this was my cue to step away.  For what mattered here was not my smoothing things out, but for her to know support is out there and waiting for her.  She just has to speak up and ask and by doing so, will discover she is the agent of her own solutions.


It is the most difficult Zen practice to leave people to their destiny, even though it's painful - just loving them, and breathing with them, and distracting them in a sweet way, and laughing with them . . . if something was not my problem, I probably did not have the solution.” (Anne Lamott, Some Assembly Required: A Journal of My Son's First Son)

 
I was witness to several situation where the teacher had supported the child in finding his or her strength, sense of power and possibility after a meltdown only to have the parent swoop in and undo that lesson.  It was a good reminder for me that as hard as it is to watch my girl suffer, fixing things for her is no solution.  She must find and craft her own tools, her own way and the most I can do is to hold the space for her to make her way. As my wise to-go mama friend recently counseled, perhaps we need to let them experience failing. Then she can discover her way back to her center, to her place of balance and strength. My role is not to stop the falling, but to cheer her on from the sidelines, reminding her that I believe in her ability to find her way.  And that I am finding my own way, learning by her side.

"I think the single best line of advice I ever heard on being a parent, a writer, a seeker, an anything, is something the great E. L. Doctorow said years and years ago, that writing is like driving at night with the headlights on: you can only see a little ways in front of you but you can make the whole journey this way. This may not be verbatim, but for me it has rung true in every area of my life." Anne Lamott

mirror mirror ...

"There was a little girl,
Who had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead.

And when she was good,
She was very, very good,
But when she was bad, she was horrid!"

- The Real Mother Goose (1916)

When I was little, my mother often would repeat the above rhyme to me.  In my memory, she never gave commentary, never explained the why of the when behind her recitation. Having been a curly-headed child, my sense then - and now - was that she was issuing some kind of warning, a foghorn cry that I was venturing dangerously close to banks of horrid-being, horrid behavior.

I'd ask her about this now, but I know time has erased any memory of difficulties.  She always tells me I was an easy child; I was labeled sensitive and shy and never ventured outside of the lines. But this memory of horrid and my immense fear of being labeled as such, it a tender spot I guard to this day.  Which means when I have a bout of fierceness - okay, an acting out if-you-will -  a wondering and worrying "was I just horrid?" quickly bubbles up within me, obscuring the situation and my feelings within it.

This past week ... or is it two?  or three? has been immensely tough.  I feel like I am lurching through my days, never finding a rhythm, creating collateral damage to emotional shins and elbows, hearts and spirits.  I've said before that parenting is like standing before a fun-house mirror: all of my disfigurements distorted to freakish levels.  My stubbornness is reflected back to me in an equally mulish daughter; temper, verbal acrobats, defensiveness, emotional hyperbole echoed tit-for-tat in a rendition of Dueling Banjos from the movie Deliverance.  And that trip down the river did not go well!

Being difficult ... that was to be avoided at all costs.  What I have on my hands is a double whammy of difficult and I am gutted by my reactions, emotions and triggers. 

It all boils down to expectations - what we each want from the other - and a mutual decision to not cooperate or even consider the other person's perspective.  Each of us was consumed by our own piece within the performance, riffing and reacting to the other.  If I wasn't in the middle of this jerky tango, it would be funny.  But I am impaled upon the prongs of horrid:  being demanding in some way,  challenging others to meet those demands and standing firmly by my line in the sand.  I am the adult here and trying my best to understand that role, which is hard when my inner little girl has her curls all knotted, tangled and sore.

I want to do the right thing, I want to be a good parent for my child.  I also want to be a good daughter and feel I am floundering on that level as well.  Of course, I know all of this would sort itself out if I first could remember to be good to myself.  

Walking the dog, I ran into a neighbor and ended up crying to her, "I feel like I am letting everyone down!"  She comforted me with the truth that we all experience this confusion in our roles, confusion in motives and responses.  When I am caring for my mother, I want her to comfort me but right now, our roles are reversed.  When I am standing firm with my girl, I want to be heard, acknowledged and reassured.  But that is not my daughter's burden. 

What I seek is some certainty that all will work itself out.  But I know certainty is more mythical than a unicorn.  I am slowing learning that the unraveling of my internal knots of confusion along with my tangled curls and moments of horrid, is a learn-as-I-go process. I forever will be untangling the threads of my personality: daughter, mother, wife, friend, child, maiden and crone.  Yes, there is a Queen somewhere in there and I need to find her, wipe off the mud and dirt of neglect and find an inner sovereignty. 

While certainty is not an option, trust is.  Trust in myself and in my girl.  And hefty dose of faith in something larger than myself ...  Love? Spiritual evolution? The power of dragons to heal and fly on?

I also must make my peace with knowing I am a work in progress and who I am is not a static entity or experience.  I want to be learning, evolving, growing.  I never want to be set in stone. That means even in the challenging moments with my girl, with my mother, and with myself and I can choose to open to vulnerability, allowing myself to be sad or scared or lonely which are my flip sides to horrid - and hopefully learn  from those encounters. 

This is what I have to say to you. In the first stage of the journey you learned to replace harmful beliefs with helpful ones. It was such a relief to let go of negativity that it became a temptation to stay there - to make your home in those newly acquired positive thoughts. But a positive self image is still a mask. The next stage of your journey is becoming comfortable with the unknown. It involves being clear and courageous enough to rest in bare awareness without having to create another identity, without needing to tack yet another belief to the end of "I am."

Experience the expansion, the spaciousness that comes from resting in the truth of unknowing. It isn't comfortable, at least not now, but it is powerful and inherently creative. It's what your soul longs for. Use the sense of vertigo to leave behind the know, and let go of the need to tether your soul to anything solid or definable. Let yourself go, over and over, until it is second nature to be weightless.

-Danna Faulds, From Root to Bloom

This is what I seek: "being comfortable in the unknown" and resting in "bare awareness" while letting go of  the tendency to label or judge or measure my experience as right or wrong, horrid or good.  Rather, I want to move towards healing, unity, understanding and compassion for myself and for those around me.  There is no right or wrong way, except perhaps to say the true way is to listen to my heart, honor and receive its guidance.  And then to listen and understand with my heart the actions, words and intentions of those around me. 

That I have such challenging days is a reminder that my girl and I are all shifting and changing.  It is not a sign that things are wrong - which is my initial reaction - but that things just are the way they are  and I can adjust and grow, or I can stay trapped in a net of expectations. 

I am looking in the mirror for clues to my transformation ... 

when surrender is the only option ...

I have no idea whether the Groundhog saw his shadow, but I am certain that should I be standing in full sunlight I would not cast one myself.  I'm not sure if I am living this or dreaming ... I have been in bed for a week and reality is  a rather tenuous thing at the moment.  Cowgirl has been by my side so either we're dreaming together or warped Doublemint twins with  hacking coughs, runny noses and insulated steins of Powerade moving to our lips in unison.  

(remember those ads?  I digress ... but I feel I need to explain: my father was an Ad Man ... yes, a Mad Man on Madison Avenue, NYC ... and my childhood was consumed by commercials and jingles.  We didn't watch t.v. shows, we watched the ads.  So lurking deep within this gray matter is a vast vault of 1960s and 70s catch phrases, songs and slogans. Oddly enough, Cowgirl seems to have inherited this trait and at an early age was recounting the wonders of Kaboom Cleaner products to our amazed and disbelieving ears.)

Four days of fevers and gut twisting coughs, cocooned in one family bed with tissues between us and an endless drone of the television with a few highlight moments of Wallace and Gromit movies and coloring book sessions.  Then back to Spongebob or cooking shows.  (Ask Cowgirl who she wants to win Chopped Champions or Top Chef  ... although she is more of an Iron Chef kind of gal.) 

Oddly enough, I could watch cooking shows even though I had absolutely no appetite for 7 days?

I will say, if you're going to be ill (we had some respiratory virus that is powering through our city like a ravenous swarm of locusts) it helps to have a buddy.  But as a mom, there is nothing harder than wanting to care for your cub and feeling so ill you can barely stagger over with bucket and washcloth (yes, one of those moments.)  I remembered the year I was 10 and my mother was in bed with a flu bug and she moaned that she was too ill to prepare Christmas dinner.  Our family did what I'm sure others would have  done in the same situation: stepped back, gasped in horror and disbelief, proclaiming "NO Christmas dinner?!"  Yes, my mother dragged herself from her sickbed, and in her pink quilted robe made the usual holiday feast and no, none of us felt the least bit of guilt or remorse for it.

Until now.  

I'm sorry mom.  I understand now how we played the worst card possible: the mommy guilt card. 

I think that karmic debt has been paid.  I think.  But in the worst moments - when my exhaustion and Cowgirl's fever seemed to never end, I turned to the only source of comfort I had left: my goddess in-box.

 It's something I've adapted from the writer Anne Lamott (she uses a God in-box).  When things seem overwhelming and are beyond my control, the only thing left for me to do is to surrender those worries and concerns to a force greater than myself.  I surrender myself and the messy, tangled yarn ball situation over to the more capable (and multiple)  hands of my goddesses.

I mean, if I'm calling for help, I want some fierce mama-love devouring-everything-in-her-way kind of help.  I write my pleas on a slip of paper and offer it into the box and to a force greater than thee and me. 

Then I breathe and settle back into the pillows, turning my attention to matters I can control: how many paper hearts does one need for a suitably festive Valentine's Day?

 

Cowgirl's fever broke and we both are emerging slowly slowly back into the world of the living, albeit one lacking the excitement and sparkle of kitchen stadium or the underwater charm of Bikini Bottom.  Wow ... I think I could eat a crabby patty about now. If only my goddess in-box could handle dinner orders. 

holding tight (hands=heart)

For Warmth

I hold my face in my two hands.
No, I am not crying.
I hold my face in my two hands
to keep the loneliness warm -
two hands protecting,
two hands nourishing,
two hand preventing
my soul from leaving me
in anger. 
-Thich Nhat Hahn

Right now I feel I am holding tight to my soul lest it slip away from me in sorrow and despair; I believe anger will come later.  Anger for the unwillingness to see how our culture and society have contributed to disconnection.  How the media - movies, television, music, video & computer games -  glorifies violence and de-personalizes human life.  Anger over the dragging of feet when it comes to gun control.  Anger stemming out of frustration and a sense of overwhelm when it comes to righting the course of things. The task it seems to me is how do we instill values of connection, care, respect and true dialogue?

Friday I had to resist the impulse to drive immediately to Cowgirl's school.  To see her and hold her and remind myself of the goodness of this life; her being a tangible expression of love and hope for positive change.  When I did go to pick her up, I had to control myself and not run to her and snatch her up in my arms.  I did give her an extra long hug and then proceeded as if everything was the same as usual.

Because things are the same.  This is the world we inhabit.  Cruelty and senselessness have always been in place.  Children are freed from sweatshop enslavement but more remain. The trafficking of human lives takes place across the globe.  Our planet continues to be raped on a daily basis. When I preach being present for my life, that presence includes these soul-crippling realities.  The impulse is to numb myself to all that is painful to bear, but that tactic enhances a sense of powerlessness and hopeless that I refuse to accept.

Being a parent, I am constantly challenged to clarify my thoughts and beliefs.  I strive to be truthful when talking with my daughter.  Children manage to ask the questions we adults have learned to avoid. So here is my opportunity to seek clarity and determine what it is I truly believe about this painful and beautiful life.

I do believe who we are at the core is goodness and love.  That said, I do believe evil exists.  I believe whenever we forget our essence is love, whenever we believe ourselves to be disconnected, damaged or cut off from the whole, then we align with that mis-perception of ourselves.  Evil is born out of this mis-identification. I tell my girl that people who do bad things do so because they believe themselves to be bad; they have forgotten or lost their sense of innate goodness and wholeness.  At a very basic level, they hold themselves to be unlovable.  

I'm not a position to argue over the source of this disconnect.  What I want more than anything is to stop debating, to stop trying to place blame outside of myself and look towards what is my responsibility.  When I talk about self-care I really mean so much more than good nutrient, rest and physical care.  The heart of what I want to offer is an experience of caring for, loving and honoring the goodness within ourselves.  To remember ourselves as worthy of our own expression of love and cherishment.  To then extend that care to those around us. To be fully present, loving and attentive to the people in our life.  To cultivate true bonds and relationships that are more than just Likes on a Facebook page or hits on a website.  

I want to know the color of your eyes, the shape of your smile, the person behind the avatar.  I understand the razor's edge I walk here: I am a digital entity to most of you, but   the real force for change has always been through words.  This is the gift of online life: sharing words, sharing ideas so that we might each recognize the power of our own words  as a force for positive change. 

Here are my thoughts on this grey December day: I want to remember that what I feed my child is more than just organic, healthful food but ideas and beliefs.  I want to raise her on a diet of loving values; entertainment that aligns with the principles of respect, care, and a valuing of life; kindness and compassion as anchors for living; I want her to know herself as worthy of both loving and being loved. 

I want to nurture and participate in true community.  People bringing their gifts together so that we may all grow stronger, wiser, more loving. Today I may hold my face and my heart in my two hands, but tomorrow I want to use those hands to reach out and bring the wisdom of love into my world.  

If you have suffered, it is only
because you have forgotten
you are a leaf, a flower.

The chrysanthemum is smiling to you.
Don't dip your hands into cement and sand.
The stars never build prisons for themselves.

Let us sing with the flower and the morning birds.
Let us be fully present.
- Thich Nhat Hahn (Butterflies over the Golden Mustard Fields) 

putting ourselves first (standing up to my biggest fear)

 

I am so proud of my girlfriend who is presently traveling in Morocco, a 40th birthday gift to herself.  She is with another girlfriend while her husband stays home and cares for their two children, one being Cowgirl's BFF #1 (Best Friend Forever.)  Our families met while we were in China adopting our girls and ever since we mommies have been BFF's as well.  Whenever I call her, I joke "did you see my bat signal?"  This friend has been a source of incredible support, mothering insight, in addition to lots of laughter, wine and chocolate.  She is probably the most generous and caring person I know (and I know a fair good number!) so I am extra thrilled that she is taking this time and celebrating herself with this trip.

Before she left, she wrote me this (as she is traveling, I hope it is okay to be sharing her words): I am a few days away from taking my big trip to Morocco and maybe I'm feeling a little guilty about leaving the family or maybe this is really a question to ponder for women like us who believe in taking care of ourselves. The question is. . . am I too selfish? Or, how do I know when I'm being too selfish?

She added that it was a female friend who could not understand the decision to travel without her family or take the time away from work and others who may need her.  How do you reconcile taking time for yourself while the rest of the world thinks you should be there to take of them?

These questions got me thinking a lot about this practice of self care that I've been preaching. The more I ponder it, the clearer it becomes that caring for ourselves is how we show up for our lives awake, present and full.  It seems to me if everyone tended to their own needs - by which I mean first love and honor themselves as worthy, sacred, whole - then we wouldn't need to take from another, we wouldn't be manipulating people and our planet to fill ourselves with meaning or importance.  When we deny ourselves that which nourishes our spirit, our bodies, and our Joy-selves, then any action we take will have some Shadow aspect at play.  I've seen and received the giving which has emotional strings attached.  I know I have given out of a need to feel needed, accepted and loved and never has that exchange satisfied myself or the other person. 

But if we care for ourselves and come to our relationships already full, we allow others the space and permission to do the same.  And then we are contributing to an environment of love and trust because others will not perceive us as needing something from them.  It is when we feel a lack within ourselves that we seek to gain or take something from another.  

 

I know as a woman the greatest gift I can give my daughter is to model loving and caring for myself.  It seems to me, women suffer more from this belief that to put their needs first is to be selfish.  I just don't buy that.  If I care for myself, then I have the energy and resources to be present for those who need me.  But I also allow them to focus upon understanding their needs AND then being empowered to fill them.  It seems to me it is about empowerment.  If I constantly do and give to you, aren't I sending the message that you are not capable of taking care of yourself?

These were all my responses to my friend, written in a moment of well ... feeling pretty empowered.  And then I watched this trailer and a monkey wrench of sorts landed in the middle of my neat and tidy theory.



Documentary Lost in Living go here for more info

I have found it easy to establish firm boundaries around self care when it comes to my physical being: staking claim to time for exercise, rest, nurturing my body and even my spirit in order to stay healthy and minimize stress and tension.  But when it comes to my supporting my creative well-being I admit, I do waver. 

I crave chunks of time to burrow into creative pursuits.  Writing and painting are practices that benefit from sustained effort. (I can so relate to the analogy of feeling like a car that cannot move beyond second gear and yet craves to speed down the open highway!)  I cannot feed those kinds of projects in 10 minute increments shuffled between  homework, making dinner and  bedtime. I come home from work and have to choose: tidy the house (rarely happens) or use the hour for my real work.  For this is how I think about it: I have my day job but the work that nourishes me, the work that fulfills and excites and contributes to my inner growth is this work here - this essay, the canvases waiting for me to continue the conversation, the larger projects that require my undivided attention and which take me on a journey of discovery and self discovery.  

And yet, I fail to vigorously defend the worth of these practices.  I find my conviction lagging as I explain to the Husband why dinner was thrown together haphazardly in a last minute frenzy; I find myself swallowing bitterness and anger when after a full afternoon of being with Cowgirl, I am the one to go upstairs and do the bedtime reading even though the Husband said he would, because now is on an important phone call.  I pass by my cluttered table of projects perpetually uncompleted.  

I know what I do is also important, but when its importance appears to be measurable by oneself, it is hard to stand firm and steady.  Yet this is what I know I must begin to do.  For if anything fills me up, promotes my complete well-being and by extension the well-being of my family, it is this work of my heart and soul.  It is tricky terrain.  More so because I am taking steps to allocate more of my time for it while restructuring and redefining career goals in ways that probably won't make sense to others outside of myself, my husband and kindred friends. It requires stepping into what will probably be considered selfishness and most certainly irresponsible.  Here I cling to Helen Keller's famous words: Life is either a daring adventure or nothing. Security does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure.

I'd like to believe that any positive change for our world, any possibility of healing for the planet will have to begin with each one of us. Our homes, our families, ourselves finding fulfillment within rather than from without.  As my dear friend and Shero Jane would say, I'm pulling on my big girl undies and stepping up to the task.  This is a conversation needing to take place. I'm not sure if it is just with myself, with my husband or with the entire bloody world?
 

struggles (a mother's heart)

I believe we each come here with tasks to attend to if not in this lifetime, then in future ones. I believe there are lessons and skills that are mine to master and challenges are opportunities for me to dig deep within and summon forth my courage to grow.

I suppose I envision each of us carrying an invisible laundry list, every item upon it essential if we are to manifest our full potential. I know myself to be stronger for all that I have survived; I know myself to be more powerful because I rose to meet my challenges even when I really wished they weren't mine to face.

I know no one else could do for me what I needed to do for myself.

I know all this and still my heart breaks when I see my girl struggling. I want to swoop in and scoop her up and away from any danger, any potential heart ache or self doubt. I want to cocoon her and her tender heart in bubble wrap and secure her away from danger, from meanness, from bullies who need to inflict their pain and shame upon others.

My brain is incapable of imagining the cruelties that exist in today's classrooms and playgrounds. Lord of the Flies seems mild in comparison. I have heard stories this past week from other mothers's that would stop hearts and freeze blood.

I try to arm her with the tools she will need to face her challenges head on, but each time I send her back out into what appears to be an increasingly dangerous, cruel and lopsided world I panic and fear I have failed her. I haven't given her enough. She is so very tiny and the world so very large and fast moving.

I have no insights here, no positive spin on what is really the beginning of her journey. She's only in first grade and it has been a frustrating and challenging year although truth be told, I believe it has been tougher on me than her. I freely admit I tend towards over-sensitive on the scale of feelings.

I just know this is my struggle and place for growth: to trust in myself enough to know what I pass on to her will be sufficient, will lead her to discover the tools resting dormant inside of her own warrior's heart. I believe in her and she has coaxed some fragile tendrils of faith in myself to take root; I just need to relax around my own anxieties and remember we both came here for this particular journey and there are no refunds, no cancellations. Only living fearlessly because after all, we are joy warriors to the core.

And whenever I do forget the truth of all this, she reminds me.

It really is a karmic dance where we each take turns leading. I love it. Oh, and how I love her.

postscript: I know I am being vague here ... the events being Cowgirl's story and not really as Dickensian as I may be making them out to be! Just to clarify: Cowgirl was not the victim of bullying though I mention bullying because so many mothers this week shared with me their children's stories of torment and pain which only intensified my angst.

connecting this girl with that girl

Recently, I was having lunch with some girl friends and I was telling them about Cowgirl's last martial arts belt test. Every 3 months the center has testing for the next level belt and the exams include knowing the full form, individual combinations, and concepts such as the school's student creed or black belt code. It is a grueling process - although I am only speaking about my experience as a mother sitting on the sidelines watching her incredibly small but brave child undergo such rigors.

As a rule, the students usually have to test twice. The first round everyone seems to "fail" (they don't label it as such, but that is how it feels) and they are admonished to go home and really practice and prepare. A lot of the time the issue is about attitude: demonstrating confidence, enthusiasm and strength.

This last test Cowgirl was with a group that had already tested once and were prepared for the second round in the gauntlet. Cowgirl had been sick, so we waited until midweek to attend. She was called out with 3 other kids to perform their 34 step combination form and around step 22 she got lost. It was a slow motion torture for me; she looked around, moved her arms in and out a few times and attempted to find her way back into the sequence. Finally, she just stopped and stood at attention, waiting for the others to finish. The instructor asked everyone else to go sit down and left her standing on her own in the middle of the room. He began shuffling through some papers and then talking quietly with the other instructor. All the while my girl stood completely still in a full but silent room of students and parents. All of us watching and waiting.

Finally the instructor called 3 other students out to join Cowgirl and she tested again with a new group. And again she got lost and attempted to fudge her way through to the end of the form.

She didn't pass that night but she held it together until she got off the floor. Then she climbed into my lap and dissolved into tears.

I was telling my friends how I then sent the Husband with her for the second test even though I knew she would pass because she knew she could pass. I was explaining that she is so much tougher and braver than I was at her age (hell, even in my twenties I didn't have such grit!) but that it is hard for me to not project my memories, my experiences, my fears upon her. And my friends unanimously shouted at me "Stop projecting!"

Coming upon the heels of this event was a request for me to post a picture of myself as a child to group forming for the upcoming ecourse Paint Your Story. As we would be channeling our inner child in the course, the idea seemed to be to to reconnect with the freer or less inhibited version of ourselves. Looking through the few photographs I have of myself as a child (well aware the glut of images chronicling daily adventures of me and Cowgirl is in direct response to this gaping lack) it dawned upon me that my taking such courses is precisely to heal this child:

This photo was taken across the road from my Uncle's house in Colorado. I believe I am around 7 or 8 years old. I absolutely loved horses and my fantasy life as a child would have been to live far, far away from other people, having only my loyal horse and the wide open fields for companions.

As a child I was given a small green photo album and this picture is one of a dozen I saved in that album. Flipping through its pages, I realize this album acted as a kind of repository of ambitions or dreams for myself. I have 2 other pictures of me with horses, several with my first dog and many more pictures of the adults in my life who I trusted and admired. I think this album was like a vision board of how I wanted to feel on the inside: accepted and connected and safe.

Looking at that picture of myself with the horse, what I see now is hesitancy, uncertainty, and doubt. I wanted to embrace that horse but was afraid to. And the horse seemed to sense my fear. I look at that girl and I am puzzled as to the source of so much discomfort. I'm stumped as to how to heal what was so deeply rooted. I remember that girl but I'm not sure how to redeem her.

That girl and my girl couldn't be more opposite. It has been challenging raising a child who is so different that I was; her responses and reactions beyond anything I could have imagined myself doing or being. Our being together often seems like a great cosmic joke. But if I know anything about the Universe and its sense of humor, I know humor holds the deepest teachings. Being together may be a karmic healing: Cowgirl teaching me about being a warrior and holding firmly to one's convictions while I in turn teach her it's okay to ask for support, not know all the answers, creatively seek solutions and trust in one's softer self. It is about balancing all parts of ourselves and learning from others how to access those aspects of oneself that are less familiar or developed.








I've been thinking a lot about the icons that inspire me; who does embody the me I feel myself to be on the inside? This is the material discussed on Jen Lee's Icon Self cd series which is pretty much rocking my poptarts ever since I popped the first disc in. (Why yes, I have been eating poptarts lately ... much be an inner child thang ... thank you for pointing that out!) The idea that our shadow aspects could be positive or empowered parts of ourselves held in check because culturally they are not considered appropriate (good girls don't make demands or fight back) is something I'd never considered before. But how profound is that idea?




For further clarification of this idea, do take a listen to this piece by Jen Lee on why we need Icons:

Emerging Icons: Why the World Needs Icons from Jen Lee on Vimeo.

And for other videos in her series, check here. I love what Jen is doing in this series and I love the message that we all are seeking to embody the fullest expression of ourselves and that by doing so, we support others in manifesting their whole and complexly wonderful selves.








So when I say I am wandering about many fields of thought, this is what has been on my mind. Healing myself, preparing my daughter so that she has the tools for her own healing (because I am thinking none of us gets out of this task; there is either avoidance or acceptance), and wondering who are my icons and what role models - what heroines - do I want for my girl? I think what is needed is a gallery collection with commentary - a vast pool from which to select and choose and I would love some suggestions. How do you step into the empowered version of yourself? What garb do you don? What tools do you gather? What songs do you play? Who do you turn to for inspiration and insight?

abiding in discomfort

I ask of you, dear readers, to assume with me a pose of some discomfort; to resist the natural impulse to move away from that which is uncomfortable and attempt to rest and stay present for what such an act may stir up within you. I promise a a payoff of sorts at the end here.

I must confess, I am not one to watch or read the news. I scan headlines, look through the online new feeds and stay somewhat abreast of current events but in all honesty my approach is a bit like an ostrich with her head in the sand. I tend to get overly emotional and then wallow in the overwhelm of "What can I do?" or "What should I do?" So my defense is one of avoidance.

Why I chose yesterday to read the news article about an Afghan woman being murdered by her husband and mother-in-law is a bit of a mystery. But reading it was like removing the one brick that had been holding up the wall guarding me from overwhelm. Why was this woman murdered? Because she had given birth to another daughter.

I was then reminded of the documentary It's A Girl! set for release sometime in 2012. I posted the link to the trailer a few months ago when I first learned about the film from artist Soraya Nulliah who has written some powerful pieces and interviews on her blog specifically addressing the issue of gendercide in India. (Soraya's two-part interview with gender activist Rita Banerji is must-reading for anyone wishing to understand the complexities of this issue. It should go without saying we all need to be informed.)

I watched the trailer again, my shock and dismay as fresh as it was with the first viewing. In December 2011 ABC News aired a piece by reporter Elizabeth Vargas about the situation in India and I was recalling the chilling interview with a mother - a physician - whose husband (also a physician) threatened and tortured her in an attempt to force her to abort the twin girls she was carrying.

Here are the statistics: according to the UN, 200 million girls are "missing" meaning aborted, murdered or abandoned by their families. The problem isn't confided to India and China, although they are two of the worst offenders (combined, the two countries eliminate more girls than those born in the U.S. each year); Pakistan, Taiwan, and South Korea are other countries contributing to the above staggering figure. It is estimated that 9 million more females are demographically missing than the total number of people believed to have been killed in all of the conflicts and wars of the 20th century.

Let that last statistic sink in ...

Are you feeling as overwhelmed, frustrated, angry and helpless as I am?

Not knowing what to do with such intense feelings, I decided to post the link for the It's a Girl! trailer on Facebook. I know, what was I thinking? But I was feeling outrage and I wanted to ignite some kind of fire if only for discussion and support. There were a few comments but not what I craved. I then posted a photo of Cowgirl and within minutes a flood of people took note.

I wallowed in disgust for awhile. Then I delved into guilt over my behavior: how I squander my attention and resources on what feels like frivolous matters in the face of such horror and injustice. I mean, earlier in the day I was pondering a pair of earrings from Etsy and cutting out magazine pictures for a dream board collage. I know, this is harsh and unproductive thinking but there I was. (Consumerism may be the opiate of the masses ... but I digress ...)

Two things emerged as I sat with all the discomfort of my heart, head and feelings: first that my frustration with others not responding to my outrage merely points up the fact that I too find it necessary to turn my head away from matters too overwhelming to grasp let alone take on. I know I've see similar posts and not knowing what to say or do, move on. I prefer placing my attention upon that which is positive and uplifting. Who wants to dwell upon pain and suffering, right?

I also realized my initial instinct - to guard myself against emotional overwhelm - is a healthy one. I recently received some "medicine' from Seal which involved swimming through my emotions and not becoming trapped or entangled in them. My response may be an emotional one, but action must come from careful thought, proper understanding and clarity. Change will result when the two - fire of emotional energy and fluidity of thinking and understanding - unite.

Besides the obvious distress of this reality is my personal connection with China and India. China's history and practice of favoring boys over girls is part of our family story. I struggle with my feelings for on the one hand, I am eternally grateful to that country and its people for allowing us the privilege of adopting one of their daughters. Yes, she may have been devalued, but there is no mistake that the Chinese people love children and they view Cowgirl as one of their own. I do know that many are unaware of the practices that result in the death or abandonment of female infants. (The book Messages from an Unknown Chinese Mother by the reporter Xinran is excellent account of the various pressures and situations that lead to child abandonment in China.)

But my heart aches knowing one day my girl will want to know why her birth parents did not keep her. We know no details of their story, so we can only make informed guesses as to their situation. That being abandoned was probably the greatest gift and act of bravery possible to her birth mother is a truth that sits like a stone upon my heart.

And then there is India and my lifelong love of the culture and the teachings from its rich spiritual heritage. I turn to my yoga practice for solace and direction uneasy in understanding how to completely trust the teachings. (Although I suppose this dilemma is nothing new to any spiritual aspirant; as one teacher wisely told me "The teacher may be fallible but the teachings are never wrong." At least the teachings at their core and not the interpretations and manipulations of those teachings to serve another agenda.)

Exhausted by it all, I did drag myself to my yoga mat. As I lay down, I remembered that each time I practice I do so accepting myself as I am in that moment. That means moving and stretching within the confines and limitations of the body I inhabit. There is not some mythical right pose I am aiming to achieve; I am working instead to experience the pose as fully as possible as I am right now. So I eased myself into a forward bend - head nowhere near my legs - and accepted this is what I can do. And I surrendered.

What can I do right now? I can continue to inform myself. I can continue to share information with others. I can more mindfully use my resources - disposable income and time - to support causes I believe in. My practice teaches me to go within and reconnect with the source of strength that is always available to me. That strength is not rigid or hard, but soft, fluid, moving, adaptable. That source is feminine power that moves through creativity and love and emotion to bring about change.

I am becoming more mindful about turning away from what is difficult to hold. I know I can rest in uncomfortable positions for a long time and find comfort, softness and ease and in doing so, discover my abilities are always greater than I initially realized.

I do believe our actions cause ripples to move out and impact others; that peacefulness, compassion and justice begin in our homes and in our relationships with those around us. And with ourselves. For I must take care to honor and value myself as a daughter, as a woman and pass this attitude onto my girl.

are you still with me? small reward i suppose,

but here is how i chose to find comfort amid

the turmoil of my day yesterday ...

test film for The Impossible Project

Seeking more advice, I turned to that wise man who knew a bit about the discrepancies between Spiritual truths and human practices:

As far as you can, hold your confidence.

Do not allow your confusion to squander

This call which is loosening

Your roots in false ground,

That you might come free

From all you have outgrown.

What is being transfigured here is your mind,

And it is difficult and slow to become new.

The more faithfully you can endure here,

The more refined your heart will become

For your arrival in the new dawn.

- John O'Donohue from For the Interim Time

I will be seeking that new dawn with all the passion and energy I can muster. I would love some company on that journey.