Category Archives: Steps

Sep25

Packing In, Packing Out

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You know what role you play in life by how you carry your “stuff.” In a purse. In a wallet. In an art folio. In a drawing tube. In a briefcase. In a book bag. In a diaper bag. In a gym bag. In a rolling suitcase small enough to fit overhead on an airplane.

I’ve switched from a small clutch purse and laptop case to a backpack. A heavy backpack. Lots of pockets and compartments for everything from textbooks and computer to student ID and train pass. Plus extra pens, Kleenex, snacks and change of clothes. Yes, I prepare for all possibilities, including being stranded overnight.

I’ve always been known as the bag lady in my family. Now isn’t any different. I usually have necessities for all sorts of emergencies that never arise. But heck, if they come up, I’m ready. Carry around almost everything except a first aid kit!

This also means that I tend to take on burdens and lug them around. Regardless of whether they’re mine to worry about and try to fix or not. It’s just how I’m wired. So I do a lot of work about letting go of issues that I cannot control or change, and trying to be responsible for those things that I can do something about … usually my own stuff. Sounds like a twelve-step recommendation, doesn’t it?

What I bring to campus, even with all the extras, is an editorial process every day. Some books go into the pack, others come out. Depends on the class. Sometimes I add layers like a sweater that I might need later, as the weather changes. Or extra meals, if I’ll be on campus very late.

I try to lighten the load, both physically and metaphorically. Acknowledge which texts I’ll have a chance to read, and give myself permission not to carry an extra stack, just in case I have unexpected blocks of time (usually I have less time than anticipated, rather than more). By minimizing what I need, I take a few pounds off my back, and incidentally off my mind.

To make sure I’m only bringing what I need, I often check my calendar and syllabi, reviewing deadlines for both reading assignments and papers due. Then I pick one project I can work on, using my computer or some time in the library, to keep up with course work. That’s what I’ll complete during my “down times’ for the day.

Staying focused, and one step ahead of my assignments, seems to keep my spirits revived. And that’s another way to lighten the ‘stuff’ that I’m lugging around.

Anyway, today’s journal is simply an acknowledgement that we’re all carrying a lot of burdens. Some of them pack away tidily into our chosen forms of storage and porting. Some spill out. Some just don’t fit at all, and we carry them loose, in our arms, slung over a shoulder, or in some other unexpected ways. Some burdens we try to leave behind. Or put into storage, until we have a chance to cope with them.

Every time you empty your pockets, your purse, your backpack … every time you move your gear from one container to another … it’s a chance to conduct an editorial exercise. Relinquish those things you don’t need. Collect and bring along those items that you find essential (right now). In the same way, it’s an exercise that can also lift the weight of a spiritual load, at least for a little while.

I’ve written, more than once, about the act of taking inventory, holding on to the essentials, and letting of of the rest. In sustainable ways, when possible: donating, recycling or repurposing.

My backpack is heavy. So is my schedule.

But my step? My step is light-hearted. I’m where I want to be, a lot of the time. I’m fortunate to be able to say so.

Aug30

Go In to Go Out

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Yes, we all know by now, the seasons are changing, and many of us find ourselves in transition. In the middle of all this change, chaos and bustle, self-care becomes more important than ever.

After all, most of us are responsible to and concerned for other people in our lives. We serve as partners, friends, colleagues, caregivers, guardians or advocates of some kind. We are engaged in relationships with people who need or expect some connection with us.

Yet if I don’t make it a priority to pay attention to my own wellbeing, who will do it for me? Admittedly, I don’t claim to know what that means for everyone else. Probably you know what’s good for you, and what’s not. You know what you want to do, what you should do, and what you’ll do anyway …

I have a well-intentioned debate with myself almost every day. It takes on countless variations. Sleep in or wake up for yoga? Drink caffeine or water? Take the stairs or use the elevator?  Walk or drive?

So this is just another reminder to me … and anyone else who needs it … to make time for what helps maintain equilibrium.

  • Sleep. (It’s the greatest gift we can give our bodies and minds, which are designed to rely on this daily renewal in order to operate at best capacity.)
  • Movement and exercise. (Our bodies work better when we use them. People in recover from joint replacements, for instance, are often supported and encourage to move as soon as possible, especially to reclaim as much function as possible.)
  • Nutrition. (Eat well. Hydrate. Choose healthy meals. Refuel.)
  • Spiritual practice. (Prayer, meditation, reflection, journaling, music, etc.)
  • Pastime or avocation. (Something you love to do, that engages a different part of the brain or different muscles, changes your rhythm and focus, and helps you switch gears. Maybe it’s yoga or running or reading  or crossword puzzles or cooking.)

Today, in a “being well” session during a week-long orientation at Harvard University, we were encouraged to continue our spiritual and physical self-care practices, regardless of how hectic life gets. After all, when we’re the most pressed for time and energy, when we’re pulled in too many directions, when we’re overwhelmed … that’s exactly when we need balance the most.

The reminder was posed as, “We go in, so we can go out.” This was the wisdom offered by Kerry Maloney from the Office of Religious and Spiritual Life at Harvard Divinity School. Her challenge suggested that we take care of ourselves (“go in”) so that we can serve others (“go out”).

By this, she meant that we turn inward … that we engage in self-care at the level of mind, body and spirit … so that all those integrated aspects of ourselves are whole and in good health. By maintaining internal equilibrium, we have resources and energy available to share with our loved ones and our larger community.

It’s a timely reminder, as we hasten toward the next page in the calendar, and enter an autumn humming with appointments, commitments, obligations and activities.

 

 

Aug29

Note to Self

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Today at one of the orientation sessions for graduate school, incoming first-year students (that’s me) were asked to write notes to our “future” second-semester selves. We jotted down reflections about our hopes and expectations. Also, our worries and challenges.

Then we sealed them in envelopes. No one will read them … except each student opening and re-reading his or her own note. Next year.

Yes, these notes will be mailed out to us next March. They will serve as a check-in about where we find ourselves toward the end of our first academic year.

We’ll read our notes to ourselves, and gain some perspective.

  • Have we each accomplished or experienced what we hoped?
  • Have we resolved the issues that concerned us?
  • Have we found balance?
  • How are we doing?
  • What’s going on during the spring semester?

It’s a good idea to check in with yourself from time to time. Reflect. Recap.  Take a step back, and remember there’s a “big idea” to many of the decisions we each make in life. Ideally, we’re not just reacting … not just getting by. Optimally we have made some focused, goal-driven, value-laden choices that provide meaning and context to our  home, relationships, career, education, community, health, and other commitments.

Many of us are in some form of transition. Moving. Changing relationship status. Working toward sobriety. Seeking treatment for better health. Entering or hunting for a new job. Taking up new pastimes. Giving time to special causes. Going to school.

Whatever the reason for change … and whatever the nature of such a transition, it’s easy to worry about details, and forget about the new chances that await us. (This presumes that we can view the cause or result of transformation as an opportunity, which may not always be the case.)

In times of flux, we may lose perspective. In my case, I’m sometimes overwhelmed by a litany of anxiety about juggling loan payments, train tickets, textbook purchases, work projects, class schedules, commuting times, registration info, family time, community service commitments, and many other logistics.

Instead, today I literally wrote a note to myself. Months from now, I’ll open up that envelope and read it as a reminder about why I’m back in school. My reasons include personal growth, vocational development, and the integration of professional and spiritual experiences.

You have your own reasons for whatever changes you’re making.

We can each care for ourselves, metaphorically, by checking in from time to time. Maybe you, too, will write yourself a note and open it sometime in the future, like a time capsule. Or you could flip open your calendar and make an appointment with  your “future” yourself … to pause and take stock. Or make it a diary entry. Or a prayer.

However you do it … take the time to reflect. To appreciate. To observe.

And hopefully, if circumstances permit, to celebrate.

Aug6

Time: Then and Now

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I recently teased my friend’s daughter, almost outraging her, about freezing time so that she can’t grow older than 14 years. She is reaching for everything that comes after this year. High school. Summer jobs. Learner’s permit. Driver’s license. Voting. Graduation. And everything beyond that.

This young lady is the same age that my youngest child Jessie would be, if she’d continued to grow up.

Isn’t it provocative, to consider what you’d do if you could slow, stop or reverse time? It’s certainly been the subject of many stirring and playful plots by authors and screenwriters over the centuries. It could be a thriller or a life lesson, depending on whether you’re Steven Spielberg, Frank Capra, Audrey Niffenegger or H.G. Wells.

Time. Stopping it. Letting it flow.

At some points in life, we’re in such a rush. We want what comes next. Just like 14-year-olds. As children or teens, we’re looking ahead. Counting down. Or counting up, depending on your point of view. Striving toward the goal of being a grownup. Yearning for what seems so enticing.

Yet ask almost any recent high school grad. Wouldn’t they sometimes prefer to relinquish the pressures and responsibilities piling up on top of them, and just be a kid again? With only a child’s concerns? They’re staring adulthood in the face, feeling it shifting their frame of reference, altering their sense of the value of free time and work time, play and respite, labor and effort, privacy and intimacy and friendship and social liberty versus  commitments to college, jobs, loans, housing, relationships and many other binding connections.

A recent graduate might actually wish to stop the hands on the clock. Or spin them backward, to return to what seemed like simpler times.

If you look backward or forward with too much idealism, it’s basically a “grass is always greener” viewpoint. Every moment, past or future, is layered and complex and special and compromised.

In other instances, we’re wise enough or foolish enough, or at just the right cognitive developmental stage (babies, for instance) to loll around in the moment. Bask in it. Splash in it. Submerge ourselves inside it. Be present, here and now.

So recently, I was tugged into my own past during a lively reminiscence with this same 14-year-old girl about our favorite Disney television comedies. Hannah Montana, to be specific.

I found out, much to my shock, that the television series continued beyond the years I’d watched it. Why was I surprised? But I was. I’d missed some seasons, because we don’t have expanded cable access at home. And I don’t have a reason to watch it anymore.

So where did I originally watch this Disney series? When I spent endless hours at Childrens Hospital with Jessie. That was a surreal slice of life, living inside a climate-controlled atmosphere, unable to feel the touch of wind or sun most of time, shut inside an environment with its own rhythms and traditions and language, unlike anywhere else in the world: time lifted out of any other reality, stretching out from hours and days into months and years.

We spent time meaningfully. We conducted plenty of school work and tutoring, reading and writing. Creative projects with fabric and glue and paper and paints and clay and scissors and every sort of craft material you can imagine. Imaginative therapy with music and play and art and talking and role-playing.

But we also spent recreational time playing competitive video games, board games, reading books or watching hours of movie and television, when Jessie felt especially yucky.

Do I miss living in the hospital? No. Do I wish I could snuggle up next to Jessie in bed, watching her favorite Disney shows … yes.

Though the reality of Jessie’s mortality was always palpable, we couldn’t imagine a time we wouldn’t be able to feel her curl up close, still fitting into our laps at age 9, thin and graceful, long and prickly, moody and sweet. It’s impossible to imagine that you won’t be able to touch, protect, play, argue with and console your child. It’s impossible to imagine the emptiness where arms once encircle, or a weight that won’t press against you any more, or a breath, or a voice, or a giggle, or a brush of her fingers.

We’ll say good-bye again again, in a healthy, natural way when Sarah goes to college in the fall.

But a child’s passing? His or her permanent departure? You can’t imagine that will eventually feel like.

Yet the shadow of it  made us pay attention to the time we had with her, and each other, in the moment. In a sense, it focused us. Acted as a lens, and changed how we viewed and measure time. We tried not to take any of it for granted.

Afterward, time changes again. You must grow familiar with her absence hour by hour, day by day, month by month, year by year. Now we measure time, in part, by what came before. And after. For instance, as my conversation with a 14-year-old revealed, there are  years punctuated by High School Musical and Hannah Montana. And years without.

Some children will achieve those milestones that my friend’s 14-year-old yearns to reach. Others will never get there.

Yesterday during the PMC, I watched the results of time’s progression: its blessings and its losses. Survivors posed for a “Living Proof” photo, and many of them were once toddlers or elementary school students on treatment for cancer. Now they’re teens and young adults riding to support cancer research. Like Sarah, many members of those families grow up to study medicine of some kind. I also sought out and hugged sweaty panting adults riding in memory of their children. Others, whom I don’t know, rode for siblings, spouses, or parents.

Then there’s Hannah Montana-time. I realize that some parents don’t approve of the Disney channel. Or Hannah Montana. Mostly on principle. It represents some frothy, silly values that don’t gibe with feminism, for instance. It’s sort of like letting little kids play with Barbies. It demeans, in a way, a more intellectual and wholesome value system. There’s merit, of course, to that position.

Yet it doesn’t make me feel guilty or apologetic for enjoying Hannah Montana with Jessie.  I have written before about the importance of letting children feel like princesses. Role-playing. Therapeutic play. Externalizing experiences and developing scripts and games and roles around it. The potency of magical thinking and the power of fantasy, dreaming and escaping. (Aside: Hannah Montana was a big hit for little girls of Jessie’s age, in part because they could imagine themselves living a double life as “regular kid” and a “superstar.” The possibility of being either ordinary or fairy-tale … or both at once. And in Jessie’s case, perhaps her wishfulness extended to being healthy, as well as all tossing around all those long blonde tresses and rocking those great wigs and outfits.)

So yes, I appreciate the value of my Hannah Montana-years. But I don’t think I’d turn back time. Nor would I fast-forward it.

Here? Right now? A whole lot of life is happening in our family. Sarah’s last month at home before college. My final few weeks before graduate school. The start of a new season and transformation in our family’s life.

The same is true in most families, for a variety of reasons. Summer versus autumn. Vacation and camps versus school, sports, extracurriculars and work. We’re all in the height of this time of year, but it will come to a close soon enough. We’ll all be in the middle of transitions, and the stress that comes with them.

For now, I’ll just savor right where I am. Sure, maybe I’ll sneak in a new episode of Hannah Montana, in honor of Jessie and childhood and the silly ways we escape difficult realities, and the magic of both childhood and a rich adult fantasy life. (Trust me, hours upon hours of Disney channel didn’t steal Jessie’s ability to use her imagination … or mine.) But mostly I’ll try not to tune out; I’ll pay attention to the experience of my living daughter Sarah, who is letting go of childhood and grabbing onto adulthood, even as I write this journal.

Aug1

Feeling Like an Imposter

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During a recent conversation, one of my friends described her 20-year-old daughter, whom colleagues and friends recognize as a smart, poised and attractive young woman. “When she came to visit me at the office, my co-workers commented on how intelligent she is, and also how beautiful. But all my daughter notices about herself, right now, are her flaws. She exudes confidence, but she’s actually uncertain about who she is; she doesn’t realize how amazing she is.”

Then my friend went on to remember herself at age 20. She commented on a picture of herself from almost three decades ago, as an undergraduate student. In the photo, her much-younger-self was snapped with head raised high, hair tossed back, arm outflung, pointing and gesturing definitively. (I’m paraphrasing this conversation, but it was something along the lines of this.) She observed, “I look so sure of myself in that picture. But that was a moment in time. Maybe my peers perceived me as being confident, but I know that the 20-year-old me didn’t feel confident at all. I often felt like someone was going to figure out that I didn’t belong there.”

Her observations about herself back then, and even now, started a round of confessions among a circle of competent and accomplished adults. It turns out that universally, we all seem to feel as if we’re “imposters” at least some of the time.

Everyone with whom I spoke seems to suffer from this lack of confidence at times. As if, despite years of accomplishment, we are somehow just “getting by” and waiting for someone to discover that we’re inventing the rules as we go, that we don’t really know as much as we’re supposed to or have the skills that we should have, that we’re not actually qualified to hold the responsibility or position that we currently hold. We’re waiting to be called out as fakes. Wannabes.

Sometimes, we simply feel as if we don’t deserve the jobs, relationships, homes, or other resources that we inhabit. As if they’ve been given to us on a probationary condition, but could be snatched away, because we don’t merit them. (And of course, to be clear, just because you ARE good and kind, talented and smart, doesn’t mean you end up having things that should justifiably be part of what you expect for your life. Many people don’t have what they deserve; and others who probably don’t deserve a lot, have a lot anyway. It’s not exactly a just system that we’re talking about.)

For the moment, let’s visit the notion that we all, sometimes, feel like imposters inside our own lives. As if we’re waiting to get caught. Even worse, as if someone in authority can tell us to exit our own lives … because this was meant for someone else. Not you. Not me. Like seat-fillers at the Oscar ceremonies, we sometimes feel as if we’re just placeholders in our own lives. Warming the chair for someone else.

This realization echoes the insight of a newsletter written for incoming graduate students. The column is called ‘Things We Wish We’d Known.’ In an opening essay, HDS Orientation Co-Coordinator Kate Mroz wrote, “There must have been some kind of mistake. … When the semester starts, everyone will find out I don’t really belong here. Feeling like you are an  “impostor” can be debilitating not only to your self-esteem, but your overall academic and social experience … “

She goes on to encourage her readers. “In every situation here, YOU have something to offer just by being YOU. Your new colleagues have something to teach you, and you have something to teach them. Each one of us has our own life story, which has shaped our thoughts and ideas. So, do not be afraid to venture out of your comfort zone. Nurture your current interests and passions, but also be open to developing new ones. YOU belong here.”

Isn’t it interesting that a 20-year-old and an almost-50-year old might share the same insecurities? That the people you most esteem in your life, if asked, might admit that they, too, feel like imposters? At what age do we feel like we deserve to inhabit our own lives? That we belong?

Hmmmm. By now, you know I often wrestle with such questions, yet I don’t have a definitive answer. Meanwhile, just be sure that if you’re feeling like an imposter, you’re not alone. You’re actually experiencing what seems to be a common feeling among people of all ages and walks of life.

And guess what? Since we seem to need reminding that we’re each worthy and valuable, today I’m pausing to do so. The essayist above is correct. You? Me? We do belong here. In our own lives. We belong.

Jul25

Teachers and Students

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In the past 24 hours, the following teachers have been part of my life.

  • Started my day under the guidance of kundalini yoga instructor Ingrid.
  • Talked to one of my spiritual mentors over tea.
  • Checked in with writing buddy Miriam and discussed some techniques.
  • Received editorial feedback from colleague Lisa.
  • Communicated with two professional mentors, Rebecca and Jan, about next steps in the process of becoming a pastoral candidate through the UCC (demonination which will ordain me after I earn a degree)
  • Followed up with another freelancer, Camille, who swaps design tips with me about specific web-building projects.
  • Got a ping (quick note) from Jenny, our family friend and my daughters’ dance teacher, from her location in Colorado, where she’s teaching aerial and modern dance to older students.
  • Observed that my longtime kickboxing teacher, Tashi Mark, is opening his dojo in downtown Ipswich.
  • Remembered in a lively conversation, Jessie’s teachers Mrs. Lampros and Mrs. Falabella, and so many other staff members from Winthrop Elementary.
  • Caught an update on Facebook about JT Turner’s latest theatrical production, and reflected on his mentoring role among youth who love the performing arts, including both of my girls. And many other kids in this town.
  • Listened to Chris working on his latest piano lesson, as assigned by his teacher Vianna.
  • Got some cooking and dessert-making tips from foodie friends Meryl, Dana and Linda.
  • Talked to a young man at the Greek consulate about the process of securing Sarah’s student visa to Greece, where she’ll study nursing this fall, as part of an international program through Northeastern University.
  • Spoke to a financial aid officer about completing the process of payments for school.
  • Read the wise words of an author that I admire.

Think about it. In most of those situations, I have been a student, learning something new. A skill. A step. An insight. A lesson of some kind.

Yesterday I also poked fun at class titles and descriptions, while registering for graduate courses. Yet I’ll reiterate that I’m extremely privileged to start school in September. While it promises to be a lot of hard work, I’m enrolled for positive reasons. It is my choice; no one is making me go back to school. I want to do it, because it’s exciting and motivating, even though it’s also intimidating and overwhelming.

The response to my grad school decision, among friends and peers, has been varied. A few people … not too many, luckily, or it might be daunting … think I’m crazy. After all, I’ll be 50 years old by the time I earn my degree. (If everything goes smoothly.) Others say I’m brave, to start over now. In either case, that response is triggered by my “advanced years.” From some points of view, I’m o-o-o-o-o-l-l-l-l-l-d-d-d-d-d to go back now.

Chuckle.

Let’s put this into perspective. Age and challenge, I mean.

  1. My mom completed two graduate degrees after the age of 50, both of them in the aftermath of catastrophic injuries, including brain trauma, in the wake of a severe car accident and subsequent complications. She had to audio record lectures, transcribe notes twice for every class hour, then type them, and read materials over and over, in order to complete every course, because of memory impairment and information-processing deficits caused by the coma and brain injury. Yet she persisted, and earned two Masters degrees.
  2. Meanwhile Dr. William Tan (our friend) earned his doctoral degree, a medical degree and two post-doc degrees from Harvard and Oxford Universities, while challenged by the complexities of life after polio, living as a paraplegic with a wheelchair. He also competed in world-class athletic events while finishing his studies, setting world records all over the globe. He completed marathons on every continent, in a wheelchair, including in arctic conditions. Plus he assisted during heart surgeries and delivered babies.
  3. When I attended college in Boston, one of my classmates was in her 70s, just getting her first undergrad degree in literature.

We all know people like these. Inspirations. Reminders that we’re never too anything — too young, too old, too impaired, too obligated — to do what we’re inspired and moved to do. Compared to those examples above, returning to school with all of my faculties intact, even at age 47, isn’t such a big deal.

Many other members of my community recognize enrollment in graduate school as a solution to a spiritual or vocational restlessness that they have also experienced. This itchiness … this impetus to go in different directions, to ask difficult questions and find new answers, new situations, new vistas … seems to be common in people between 30-60 years old.

I’ve been asked, often, what sparked this idea to return to school? To shift focus to a whole new path, a spiritual journey, that’s quite different from my background? What inspired me to try school again? How do I know this is what I want to do? What will I do when I get my degree? How do I feel about going back to school? How does my family respond to this decision?

The common theme, behind many of those questions, is that familiar, internal restlessness. The urge to change, to move, to do something different, seems to happen inside the hearts and minds of many friends and peers. I’ve been told several firsthand accounts about men or women who are not satisfied by their own careers or choices anymore. Usually the words that surface are, “I need a do something different with my life.”

In our middle years, now that we have grown up (hah), started or raised our families, accumulated decades of work experience, and checked a few items off our “life lists,” I guess many of us are re-assessing. (Not all of us. But a lot of people.) We realize, maybe because we feel an uncomfortable, this-doesn’t-fit-anymore sensation, that we want something else. More. Different. Meaningful. Fulfilling. Interesting.

The solution may vary for each of us. Sometimes it might need a thoughtful plan of action. Or require an impulsive decision.

Perhaps it leads to a change in jobs. Or a long-term break and retreat. Travel. Sabbatical. Taking up special causes or humanitarian service; joining a club or a church or service project. Adding new layers of extracurricular activity to lives that have been narrowly focused. Learning a new sport, skill or pastime. Exercising. Maybe returning, like me, to post-graduate studies to earn certification or earn another degree. Relocation of home or work.

Maybe it’s letting go. Maybe it’s doing something new in addition to what’s already part of your life.

My husband Chris would tell you, that my decision was a long time coming. That this choice seemed inevitable, from his perspective. Obvious to some who know me well. Yet it caught me by surprise and seemed like a fully-formed idea by the time I realized that I wanted to go back to school and seek a new vocational path. Maybe it’s been growing inside for a long time, but it blossomed into vivid detail by the time I felt and saw it.

Meanwhile, why did I write that list of teachers at the start of this post? Because you don’t have to go to graduate school to find teachers. They’re all around us.

Once you start paying attention, you’ll be amazed by how many mentors, coaches, instructors and guides cross your path on any given day. How many lessons have been offered.

Inevitably, you have also been a mentor and role model for someone else in the past day. We all have the opportunity to be students in this life. And we all have the chance, the privilege, to be teachers, too.

Jul23

Closure

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I wish that life didn’t include breakage. Relationships, hearts, bones. I wish we could all stay whole and hale, stable and intact.

Yet that’s a futile wish. A child’s magical thinking. Really, we need to bump into things, react, learn, grow from such stimulation, to evolve as a species and as individuals.

In so many ways, we are born to break, aren’t we? We are designed to recover, too. As little ones, we have an open fontanel, so that we can lose balance, bump our heads over and over, and get up and keep going. Although we have a cognitive memory of pain, our bodies cannot actually feel its intensity when we recall events.

But that doesn’t make it easy to be hurt, does it? And it’s one thing to sport a bruise on your arm, or wear a cast until a bone mends. It’s another to endure emotional pain or intellectual hurt on a much deeper level.

Ultimately, in this reflection, I’m focused more on emotional breakage, as opposed to physical wounds. Whether insight arises from growing up inside a family with a parent who struggled with addiction and then achieved sobriety, working on my own complex family connections to a living husband and daughter, mourning Jessie, wrestling via conversations with girlfriends about strained partnerships and parenting roles, remaining quiet when someone asks for news about a family with whom I don’t share intimacy, listening secondhand to narrations from divorced parents working out finances for education of their kids, or becoming privy to someone applying for a new job or ending a career, it becomes clear that we are all, always, navigating this journey of changed relationships. And that not all bonds survive.

When we mourn, what we feel is the ache of what should be there. What’s missing. The body we can’t touch anymore, or words we want to say aloud, with no one to hear them. It throbs: the absence of some part of ourselves. Or the emptiness once occupied by another person.

When I speak of this breakage and loss, I don’t just mean death. Oh, that comes first and most easily to mind. My daughter Jessie. Or my dear friend Rebecca. Other women in my life such as Liz, Pam, and Gloria. My father. Chris’s mother. Our neighbor Sue. The children we have watched in life, who have gone ahead, too many to name here, and too devastating to try at the moment.

They have truly died. Whether it was sudden or after a long journey, they have moved past where I can reach them (for now). Some passed away as a natural part of life’s cycle. Some left us much too soon.

Other relationships in our lives are broken, or altered, yet continue. Friendships that may have changed gradually or quite dramatically. Marriages or partnerships that have ended. Work connections that shift. Affiliations through different organizations that have tapered off, or run their allotted time. Acquaintances that simply faded.

Sometimes these are natural and inevitable partings. Other times, they are caused by a breech of intimacy.

In any case, many of our broken or ended relationships must be conducted real-time, since those involved are alive, and may often see each other in the same community, even after the relationship has ended or changed. Although we aren’t connected in the same way anymore, we have shared a past that was important and real, perhaps deeply emotional or as intimate as any family bond.

As wise companions have reminded me, the end of such a relationships is its own death. It requires grieving. Time. And comes at a cost. And yet, such a relationship is also characterized by the difficult aspect of going on.

Hopefully, most of these connections can continue with some acknowledgement for past ties. With recognition for what has come before, what was real and true when it was part of our lives. With respect for each other, with care for another’s dignity and tenderness for another’s vulnerabilities.

I have witnessed many families, former lovers, or past colleagues who successfully, with a lot of work and patience, and some bumps along the way, negotiate the ways in which they continue to remain in each others’ lives and must continue to navigate enforced connections, perhaps due to shared custody, shared investments or ownership, or contractual obligations. They can do so with humor, with kindness, with tolerance and respect for each other.

Other times, perhaps too much trust or safety has been compromised, and different boundaries are required. Perhaps distance, or utter non-communication, is the only possible result.

Most of the time, though, we stay in each others’ circle of connections. So when we encounter each other, as we must do? Sometimes it’s okay. It’s friendly, but distant. Or perhaps it passes with silence and a nod, or the barest greeting.

Contrarily, sometimes we can’t manage a polite social courtesy, because the hurt goes too deep to pretend in public. We look away, cross to the other side of the road, or hold back the words that want to tumble out or the hand that wants to span the distance, and make contact again.

Contact? Contact might not be a polite hello and a distant smile, a turning-away before any more can be expected of either of us. It might not be frosty and remote. It might not be sad and aloof. It might be up-close and too-much. Maybe what’s underneath the casual encounter comes, instead, as a slap in the face. A desperate hug. A shout. A whisper. A sob. Maybe if it was allowed to be admitted, it would be expressed as anger or resentment, or a slow inhalation and the soft question, “Why?”

When we don’t have business contracts, court rulings and enduring family commitments to bind us, to force a negotiation that gives us some rules and habits for how to stay connected, we can be left with a more casual reminder of what came before, and all that’s missing between us. We are reduced to random social encounters,  small interactions when passing by, that don’t come with the promise of reconciliation or resolution. And don’t have obligations associated with them. Such moments don’t support closure. These sightings and interactions may actually keep an old wound open instead.

How do we go on? Sometimes we can create opportunities to make amends, or to achieve a sense of resolution. Sometimes we have to work hard to gain such chances. Other times, they just won’t happen, because that’s not the nature of the separation or the moving on. Or because we don’t have the capacity or courage to take the risk. I have certainly failed to resolve some of the relationships that ended in my own life.

Sometimes we have tried to find closure in private. Or remotely. By text or call. By email or letter. In therapy sessions. With words that aren’t shared reciprocally, each party listening and responding, but are delivered one way. Or as a flurry of exchanges that, nevertheless, talk over each other and don’t achieve any sort of two-way communication.

Sometimes we have knocked on the door. Sat with a neutral party to negotiate terms or help achieve communication. Offered the words. Reached out. Risked ourselves.

Maybe we await what isn’t coming. There is only silence, and the expectation of an explanation, or an apology. Perhaps you never receive an adequate reply.

Although it may not be directly applicable to all situations, to all broken relationships, the wisdom of Step 9 (Making Amends) in the 12 Step process can be a good resource. And it is preceded by 8 other steps, so it isn’t sudden; the groundwork (for you) must already have been laid.

Whole professions are built around healing hurt — and building the foundation for new beginnings –  from such breakage: counselors, attorneys, pastors, mentors, coaches, mediators and medical caregivers.

Oh, I don’t speak lightly of the work that goes into maintaining or mending a relationship. Nor do I pretend to know, firsthand, the toil of trying to navigate a broken connection that must continue to function on legal and logistical levels, if not emotional ones. Yet each of us has experienced some aspect of this territory.

Humans exist in a state of change and flux; this includes endings, shifts, and partings. Changes in connection. They come as part of living in community with other people.

Where relationships cannot continue, and if it is possible, we are called to make amends and do our best to create some closure.  Or allow others to ask it of us. It will benefit ourselves, as well as others.

Along the way, part of healing is to forgive not just someone else, but yourself, too.

Jul20

Molting

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I started this journal by admitting that I’d woven feathers into my hair. At the time, it was a celebration of taking chances and investing in the next step toward personal and professional development.

The day I got feathers, I’d just returned from taking the GRE (graduate school exam), a necessary precursor to my application for admission to Harvard. It was a big risk. I’d studied. Crammed.

Ultimately, I performed reasonably well on the language portion, but although I tried to catch up on math concepts that I hadn’t used for about 30 years, only 14% of all Americans who took the GRE did worse than me. (Did you follow that sentence, and its bit of math … tricky, huh?) Luckily, I’m not pursuing a degree that relies heavily on numbers, phew!

Anyway, the GRE wasn’t the most important part of my application. Essays and recommendations were probably more important. But taking a standardized test for the first time was a big deal (to me). Sweat. Performance anxiety. Sleepless nights. Hours of study. It meant I was serious about this whole process. And I was being measured against a lot of other people who also have graduate school dreams and vocational aspirations … you get the idea.

So I’ve had these feathers since December. And for those who are curious, but haven’t had the chance to ask, you can shampoo feathers. You can brush and style them, if you want. When you get your hair cut, the feathers come out, and after the cut, they’re knotted back into place. They’re attached by a knot, but they basically stay in for a lo-o-o-o-o-o-nnnngggg time.

See, I had about 12 or so feathers when I started out. All kinds of colors. Over the course of several months (seven, but who’s counting?), they fell out a little at a time.

The last one drifted to the ground, and I didn’t even see it happen. I washed my hair this morning, and didn’t find any more plumes. Sigh. The feathers are gone. This phase is over, it seems.

The feathers were … what, a symbolic act? An external recognition of an exciting accomplishment (surviving hours in a cubicle answering questions on a computer, knowing I was bombing on the math, because my 16-digit answers didn’t fit into the 2-digit blank answer box)? A sheer giddy indulgence?

All of the above.

Their slow shedding has been, in a way, a metaphorical measurement of the many steps that have passed since I sat down to take the GRE. 43 drafts of an essay later, I completed the entire application process. Filed it online. Waited until mid-March for acceptance. Waited longer, through rounds of debate about how we’d pay for graduate school and Sarah’s college at the same time, to decide if I’d accept a spot in the 3-year, full-time MDIV program at Harvard’s Divinity School. Stayed below the radar screen a lot of the time, because this summer and this autumn are so focused on Sarah’s transition to Northeastern to study nursing, that I often forget that I have my own forms to complete, loans to secure, classes to choose and many other administrative steps to finish, also.

The final feather disappeared on the same day that I opened my new student email account, submitted my bio and picture, and looked at the list of classes available for registration. I’m still bad at math, by the way. But I can count to zero (no feathers).

Now my head is a blank canvas again; it awaits a new cut, and perhaps more decoration. Maybe I’ll re-plume. Maybe not.

Meanwhile, the first burst of feathers fulfilled its role … it served as a talisman, while I dared to dive into the unknown depths of a new adventure.

How do we outwardly mark milestones? With jewelry like class rings or engagement diamonds, perhaps. With a tattoo, permanent or temporary. A piercing. A badge or pin. A uniform or new type of clothing. Head gear. A name tag. Some grooming of hair, nails or skin, such as a haircut, mani/pedi, facial or other makeover.  A change in external style.

Other landmarks are never visible. We often don’t wear insignia to show where we have been, what we have endured and overcome, where we are going next.

Ultimately, you can’t look at a person and read their entire story based only on an outward appearance. But sometimes, it’s fun to provide a clue about what’s going on inside.

Feathers, for instance.

 

 

 

Jul13

Tuning Up, Trying Again

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Did I mention that friends – the Colters — gave us an heirloom piano? It belonged to Pam’s mom and dad, who have passed on, so the family wanted a new home for it.

We adopted it. It’s an Everett Piano, made in Massachusetts in 1890, based on its serial number. An antique. It’s called a cabinet grand model, and even though it’s old, due to its size, it offers a deep, robust sound.

Of course, we already had a piano in the house: a smaller 1960s model that Chris had received from his father about 15 years ago, when his dad was downsizing the household.

So for several months, we had two pianos here.

At a time we were trying to simplify and let go of belongings, two pianos felt like a lot. One more than we needed. Both used a lot of space. Also, both the Everett and the original Doktor family piano were out of tune and in need of repair. We couldn’t afford to fix both.

While researching the value of pianos, I learned that most pianos, except for grands, don’t retain their original worth. (And yes, there’s a blue book value for used pianos.) Unlike many period pieces of furniture or handmade instruments, these are machines. They’re comprised of many delicate and connected moving pieces, presenting many chances to fail functionally. Their parts age and break, and must be replaced. So pianos don’t retain their original condition and materials anyway. At least according to the primary sources (piano tuners) and other sources (reference sites) that I checked. (The exception seems to be grand pianos, because older ones are so well-built, that even if they require a major restoration, they’re often better quality than many newer imported ones, and less expensive, too.)

Anyway, old pianos are not like fine wine or antique furniture, gaining or holding their value with age. Their intrinsic merit, of course, must be considered sentimental or functional, as opposed to monetary.

We had both pianos evaluated for repair. The 1960s piano was so structurally compromised (sound board split, etc) that replacing its major parts would have cost more than its value. All in all, the tuner estimated that the Everett would be less expensive to restore to working order.

So for the past few months, we’ve invested in a series of tunings and small repairs for the Everett.

Meanwhile, we wanted to give away the other piano. Yet if you’ve ever tried to donate a used piano, you probably know that it’s not so easy. Knowledgeable musicians don’t usually want castoff pianos. Even beginners find out that there’s no such thing, really, as a free piano.

The price of a recycled piano? That will be calculated by the cost to move it. The expense of a piano tuner’s time to repair it. And the total bill for replacement parts.

When any or all of those items, together, add up to more than the replacement cost of the whole instrument? Nobody else wants it.

Of course, as I already mentioned, there’s also the emotional and symbolic value to be considered. The 1960s piano belonged to Chris’ childhood. His siblings also learned on it while growing up. Our girls used it when they were little. Now that Chris is taking lessons as an adult, he practice on it whenever possible, even though part of the sound board had split and some octaves didn’t really make music anymore.

Then the Everett arrived.

In the end, we weighed the pianos’ significance based on emotional, fiscal and musical priorities. We wanted to honor both, but we had to let one go.

Since we couldn’t give away our used piano, whose cost of moving and repair totaled more than its blue book value, we chose another approach. We were inspired, in part, by IMADA, the non-profit organization that salvaged badly-made violins by converting them into sculptures that raised funds for arts programs in our public schools. We have one of those violins hanging in our livingroom. Chris had also seen a soundboard and strings hung in someone’s home.

Rather than discard the 1960s piano, we dismantled it. Saved the soundboard and strings, to use as a piece of interactive artwork, once we figure out how to hang it, and identify where it will be displayed. For the moment, it’s leaning against a flat surface, awaiting its next gig. It will continue to have a purpose, and a place in our home (at least that’s our intention, practical or not).

The other piano – the Everett — is still being fixed. It’s not a quick process. Three piano-tuner visits later, parts of the keyboard gain more resonance and pitch. Others sigh, thud and echo when played. The tuner came back again, this week, to continue mending it.

Pianos. Families. Communities. We’re always a work in progress, with new and old pieces working in cooperation, sometimes held together by glue and wire, so that an imperfect collection of discrete working parts continues to function in unison, at the best  performance levels possible, given its circumstances. Small changes in environment, such as humidity, can put us out of tune again. Long-term exposure to undesirable conditions, such as direct proximity to heat or cold, can also damage us.

Instruments. Individuals. Kindred. Communities. We’re sensitive. Idiosyncratic. In need of regular tunings and attention, caregiving, in order to stay in operating order. If not loved, capable of dissonance and silence. Yet when put to use, when filled with purpose, as we were first created, then mended — over and over — to be, we’re willing to make music, to add harmony and depth to each others’ lives.

And sometimes, when we just can’t make music anymore, we find a new way to offer inspiration and meaning.

Jul6

The Best Part

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Yes, I can say, honestly, that I had a favorite moment about my daughter’s homecoming yesterday. Homecoming, again, you ask? Yes, she’s been traveling a lot this summer, and will do so again.

My older daughter is actually a grown woman, in so many ways. Over 18. Headed for college: Northeastern University, Boston. Focused on her degree: nursing. Traveling internationally at the end of the summer (Italy) and for the first semester at school (Greece). Meanwhile, working an office job plus bussing in a restaurant for several weeks, saving money. Making plenty of her own choices, without the need to check in with dad and mom about whether it’s okay or not. As far as I can tell, she uses sound judgment, and keeps herself reasonably safe, though she’s willing to take chances, too, which is a healthy balance. Living independently, setting her own hours, making her own plans.

She spent several days out of state with a friend. She saved up the money for the trip, planned it and was responsible for her own itinerary, goals and arrangements. In many ways it was one in a series of symbolic journeys that stake claim to her adulthood.

This was a post-graduation trip she had planned with a companion as a celebration. It was a whirlwind turnaround, just 48 hours after she’d come home from the youth group’s community service trip to Staten Island, NYC.

So much coming and going. It’s like rehearsal for her “big” departure to college, studying abroad for a semester, this autumn.

She just returned home last night. Again.

Chris (my husband) and I had talked about the transition each time she leaves. He has observed, and I think he’s correct, that her absence has more immediate and daily impact on me than him, in some ways. Not that he doesn’t miss her. Just that he goes to work and focuses on that, while even though she’s grown, my days remain more organized around Sarah’s needs and schedule.

Since she’s an adult and quite independent, that may sound surprising. Yet our days often intersect as we work out connections. It’s a careful dance of boundaries, of her emerging role as an adult woman in the house, a give and take between parent and grown child, the little daily steps of an intimate and changing family relationship.

So when she’s gone, I take time to become accustomed to her absence. To the lack of Sarah-centric activities: calling out hello when I hear the front door swing open or click shut, stocking the fridge with fruit she’d prefer or a beverage she enjoys, or scheduling how we’ll share the car for the day

Then just about the time I stop waking up, wondering if she’s home yet, or checking my phone for a call about the day’s plans, or asking if she wants to have dinner with us, or whatever other little ways we’d connect about logistics, she comes home again. And those “tuning in to the Sarah channel” habits settle back into place.

When she’s home, I check in with her. Not a lot, but hopefully enough to find out if she wants or needs anything from her parents during the day.

Sure, I thought I’d be ready for her launch to college in the fall. Yet the deep way in which I missed both Sarah and Chris when they were away in Staten Island was a reality check. Even the smaller ache of her trip to Florida was a revelation.

Realistically, I can’t prepare, totally, for her departure … I’ll have to experience it when it comes, go through the changes that come with her absence, and become accustomed to new rhythms and ways of being connected from afar, as two adults.

She’ll be away from home more this summer. Overnight. Weekends. Several days.

Each trip will be, for me, a lesson in letting go. For her, another chance to take up adulthood.

I’m learning the rhythms of a mom whose older daughter is alive and well, but living some distance away, and claiming the life of a grown woman.

Now you can argue that, yes, our children aren’t fully adult until their early twenties. Technically, their brains aren’t completely developed until they’re about 22. In some ways, they’re not even physiologically able to function as adults until then, because the part of the brain that exercises judgment about risk-taking and consequences, etc., isn’t actually all wired until their early twenties.

Wait, not actually an adult until 22 or 23? Yeah, right. Sure. Tell that to my high-school-graduated, off-to-college daughter. She feels like an adult. She acts, a lot, like an adult. She has many of the responsibilities of an adult.

Legally, state by state, our children have different rights at different ages. For instance, in the Commonwealth of MA, by age 15 they can establish sexual emancipation and seek contraception and treatment without parental consent. At age 16 they can start driving with a limited license. By age 18 they’re voting (we hope), may join the military, co-sign a college loan, and legally manage their medical care (for most situations, they’re now considered legal adults). After age 21 they can purchase and consume alcohol, or rent a car.

Those are all technicalities, and don’t apply to individuals. None of it, in reality, is the measure of cognitive development. Or emotional maturity. It’s just a date on a piece of paper that sets a standard to provide some common rights for all citizens.

So meanwhile, Sarah’s finding the real balance of what she wants to do on her own, and what she wants to share with us, her family.

And I’m learning to step back. Hold my breath. Wait.

I’ve done it before – let go as a child journeyed where I couldn’t follow — in different, more permanent ways, when my youngest child Jessie died.

Trust me that Sarah’s coming and going, her impending departure to college, and my own acclimation to being the parent of a grown daughter, is not the same. It is a separate and equally important experience. This way of letting go is a healthy and natural step for all mothers and children.

Natural. Also, messy. Imperfect. Sometimes heart-breaking. Other times exhausting. Exhilarating, for each of us, in different ways. Always a work in progress, as boundaries and expectations change. Hard to do. Yet desirable.

For each of us, her departures and returns are steps in a bigger journey. The transformation toward a different, more mature relationship.

I believe … I hope … that we will be mother and daughter, but also friends, on the other side of this evolution, this change, this transition. There’s so much I admire and respect about my daughter. Conversations we’ve already had. Others I hope we’ll have. Experiences we have shared, and others yet to come.

So when she came home yesterday? Well, Chris was stationed in the car in the parking lot, while I was in the airport, looking for Sarah. Sarah and I somehow missed each other, and she found dad first. Loaded her bags into the car. By the time I got back, everyone was buckled in place, ready to go home.

There she was, Sarah sitting in the back of the car, me in the front. I turned around, said hello, welcome home, over the headrest. Huh. We were divided by seats and belts, by knees and elbows, by the need to get out of the parking garage, and by just plain awkwardness.

The moment to greet each other had passed, a missed opportunity. Sigh. Oh, well.

Then when we stopped to eat dinner on the way home? She didn’t sit down in the booth right away. Instead, she stood there, and reached out with both arms.

Asked me, “Can I have a welcome home hug from you?”

Wow. My daughter.

In that moment, right there? Such grace. Such insight. Such good ways of saying out loud what she needs, laying claim to what is healthy in a relationship, and then doing something about it.

I loved that embrace. That Sarah wanted it. That we both needed it.  That she asked aloud for it.

I loved that we held on tight, for a long moment, and connected without words. Sometimes words liberate us. But sometimes words get in the way.

Meanwhile, that welcome home hug? For me, it was the best part of her immediate homecoming.

That hug said just about everything that really mattered.