Category Archives: Voice

Oct29

Hurricanes, For Real

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Yesterday, after our faith community shared the names and worries and celebrations in their lives, about which we prayed as a congregation, I then closed by delivering a spontaneous closing prayer. Inspired by the impending hurricane, of course.  This was offered at at the church where I conduct my field education in Beverly. It went something like, “God, high winds are coming. We have lifted up to you our hopes and our concerns. And we know that you are the Creator who can calm the waters and create a quiet place in our lives and our hearts, a sanctuary amid the storms. Now we ask you to hold our concerns, the ones we speak aloud and the ones that we share through silence, hold them in your light.”

Today as leaves are torn from their twigs and then branches fly loose, and only tree roots cling tightly, as salty white-capped tides rush up over the causeways, making islands of green-tossed hillocks at the edge of sea and shore, as the world is shaken and blown, I’m inside writing  papers, working on an exam, finishing  deadlines, and hoping we don’t lose power, so I can fit it all in. As if I can outrace, outpace all the storms in my life. Can any of us do so?

Although classes are cancelled and businesses are closed, once the world reopens tomorrow, if enough of it remains in functioning order, we’ll be back on schedule. I won’t be permitted to turn my assignments in late, or say I didn’t have time to read my books. At least that’s how I interpret things … but I did take a break to make tea while there’s still hot water, and put a soup simmering on the stovetop. We have our candles and batteries gathered. Extra water set aside. We’re safe inside. Ready as we can be, I suppose.

So I want to pause a moment, and pay attention to Hurricane Sandy. She’s hitting the Eastern coast of the United States. We have friends and family directly in her path as she comes ashore. And likely our part of the country will experience some of her might and fury. Other parts of the country have felt the edges of her storm, which have created blizzards and snow storms, for instance. Her reach is extensive.

Always, I find comfort in language. This simple stanza by William Carlos Williams certainly speaks to our world’s weary resignation when pummeled one more time.

HURRICANE
by William Carlos Williams

The tree lay down
on the garage roof
and stretched, You
have your heaven,
it said, go to it.

Another blogger named Austen Allen collected some hurricane poetry last year. When I was researching storm poetry, his posting popped up, and I defer to that entry for a nice overview of lyrics about storms. You can find more at poetry.org.

Also, if you want to think more deeply about the words that surround our human responses to loss and disaster, consider visiting Nicole Cooley’s entry at poetry.org about the Poetry of Disaster. She argues that far from being voiceless and speechless at times of crisis, we fill the void of loss with language. We shape it. We reflect on it. We try to make meaning, to fit it into verse, so that is knowable. So we can  scale it down to a proportion we can actually understand: a size that fits in your mouth, or can be swallowed by your eyes, that can spoken and read and shared.

Sometimes the storms that lash out at us, that suddenly topple our lives, uproot our realities, or pick us up and carry us off in new directions, aren’t literal weather patterns. Maybe they’re emotional or mental assaults. Maybe their financial crises. Lost jobs or traumatized relationships. Sudden catastrophic changes. Violence or illness. Events we can’t imagine, over which we have no control, that leave us standing in a torn, flooded and sundered landscape. Where nothing is familiar anymore. All is changed and damaged. Yet we are left to navigate, to rebuild, to name and claim it all over again.

Meanwhile, consider this poet’s viewpoint about what is familiar and beautiful to you, and how it can suddenly become your undoing.

Problems with Hurricanes
by Victor Hernández Cruz

A campesino looked at the air
And told me:
With hurricanes it’s not the wind
or the noise or the water.
I’ll tell you he said:
it’s the mangoes, avocados
Green plantains and bananas
flying into town like projectiles.

How would your family
feel if they had to tell
The generations that you
got killed by a flying
Banana.

Death by drowning has honor
If the wind picked you up
and slammed you
Against a mountain boulder
This would not carry shame
But
to suffer a mango smashing
Your skull
or a plantain hitting your
Temple at 70 miles per hour
is the ultimate disgrace.

The campesino takes off his hat—
As a sign of respect
toward the fury of the wind
And says:
Don’t worry about the noise
Don’t worry about the water
Don’t worry about the wind—
If you are going out
beware of mangoes
And all such beautiful
sweet things.

Sep19

New Things, New Year: Encountering Other Faiths

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On one of the first days of Rosh Hashanah, which is THE (or one of many, depends on whom you ask) Jewish New Year, I tried something new. Part of this graduate school time is to work and study and play among people of many faiths. Develop chances to visit, to dip my toe, into other experiences.

Along the way, perhaps to better understand and embrace different traditions as something akin to my own cultural identity … connected, related … though not the same. I’m learning to make that distinction.

Yes, we can share many facets of history, belief and experience in common. Yet we don’t have to be one homogenized, same-everything confluence of cultures. The days of the immigrant melting pot, when we shed our pasts, changed our names, and tried to be like everyone else (usually in a white American-European-Protestant-Christian context) are over. In the past several decades, it has become increasingly safer for people to claim their roots, their ethnicity, their language, their religion, their race, their gender identity, their individuality. That should be okay.

Does this sound idealistic? Yes. Possible? Yes. Easy to do? No? A work in progress? Always.

We should be able to live side by side, yet be different from each other. Coexist in a pluralized society that respects and wrestles together with constructing a civilization that accommodates and welcomes diversity in many forms.

As part of this journey, I want to de-mythologize other faiths. Remove the stereotypes, biases and assumptions that I have internalized, or at least carried with me as an unconscious filter.

One of the forms of education I am receiving is to recognize other religions, practices and beliefs as different, but not as something that occurs “outside” a spectrum of societal patterns. Not “apart” from what we define as culture and civilization. Not “other” or “alien.” Not wrong, bad or in any way unacceptable.

One way that I’m grappling with this goal is to take classes. To study other religions through their history, art, development in different nations and languages, their connection to governments and politics, and through a glimpse into their sacred revelation. To understand each religion in its role as part of our broader American (Western) tradition, as well as its presence in other parts of the world. To this end, I’m taking two classes on Islam. It makes me look differently, already, at world events and the media coverage of them, political rhetoric, and our responses to them.

On the other hand, it’s best to get to know diversity up close. To form relationships with people who identify themselves in association with a variety of race, ethnicity, nationality, religious tradition, gender association, cultural affiliation and other characteristics. To make friends. To get to know each other, and put a face on “differences.” To study and learn together. Ask each other questions. Share each others’ traditions. I can do so with my classmates. We all learn and share with each other, and it’s safe to ask questions and explore diversity in this setting.

Back to the “new thing” I experienced.

Yesterday I attended a Rosh Hashanah New Year’s service. It was an improvisational service led by one of the students, Jeremy. It included many readings and songs in Hebrew. Jeremy’s voice rose, rich and redolent, to the rafters. His face shone with happiness to share this time with us.

We participated in some responsive readings in English. We recited a statement of faith (This rarely happens in the  annual Jewish tradition, since this is a religion of practice versus creed, unlike Christianity, but much like Islam. In fact, it may only happen in this service each year.) We remembered the departed. We considered and let go of our trespasses from the past year, since this is a time of letting go and starting anew.

Side note: My friend Miriam, however, celebrated somewhat differently. Among other rituals she and her children participated in Tashlick, which is the act of releasing crumbs or pieces of bread in a moving body of water. Naming regrets or transgressions, and letting them go. Setting new intentions for what you can do right, better and with more integrity in the coming year.

At the end of the worship service Jeremy sounded the shofar. This is a ram’s horn. It makes a blatting cry. It resounded through the chapel. We all listened to its echoes fade.

I cannot say I understood or connected with all aspects of the service. The parts in English resonated with me. They’re akin to my own statements of faith, and align with my beliefs. I felt bound in community.

Here’s the frustrating part. Admittedly, I was restless, listening to long passages in a language I don’t understand, regardless of how beautiful they were.  I felt, right then, like a little kid attending a classical orchestral concert, with no education or appreciation for what I’m listening to, and a tendency for my mind to wander, even while I try to pay attention and let it all soak in. * sigh *

A fellow student Lauren explained that much of the language (Hebrew, so I didn’t understand some of it, though we were provided with translations) of the service is a metaphor from archery. The intention is to recognize where we have “missed the mark” and improve our “aim” through our actions and intentions, so we will be “on target” in the coming year.

Another student, a Muslim peer, also attended the Rosh Hashanah service.  Like me, she’s trying to learn. To expand her understanding on an experiential level. She asked permission to record Jeremy’s recitation. I haven’t asked her why she wanted to record it, although I suspect that the Hebrew chants echo with the art and practice of oral recitation of the Qur’an.

The echoes fell silent. The year has begun. It is a sweet time, these High Holidays, in the Jewish year. We dipped apples in honey. Left the room, a little lighter in spirit, and perhaps a little wiser … or more foolish and opened-up … than we’d arrived.

Sep6

Belonging

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I just read, in an essay by Karen Montagno entitled Midwives and Holy Subversives, her description of the many circles of belonging in her life. She says, “My story is one of overlapping contexts. … I am an African American woman … instructor and practitioner of pastoral care, an Episcopal priest in a local parish, a seminary dean, and a parent. My communities are multiple, significant, and formative.”

It resonated with me. It’s really true for all of us as humans. I don’t mean that I identify with Karen Montagno’s unique and specific context, but with the more universal observation that we all belong to many overlapping circles.

Today I reflected on some of my circles.

In my life, you won’t be surprised that I put family first: my own birth family of grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins and siblings. My husband, with whom I have shared a longer relationship than anyone else in my world, except my mom, sister and two brothers. My nieces and nephews. My extended family through marriage, with whom many special moments (happy and sorrowful) have been shared. And foremost, my daughters Jessie and Sarah.

Then there are so many other webs of connection. For instance, there are circles of social ties. Personal friendships developed across years of proximity and shared experiences, forming complex bonds that include raising children together, being single or inside marriages or partnerships, changing careers or relocating homes, setting and reaching for personal goals, and so many other milestones that we share with our intimate ones. Acquaintances through different organizations or shared interests … maybe we waited together in the schoolyard while picking up or dropping off children at class, met in line at Zumi’s, or sat side by side on the sidelines of a soccer game while our kids played in a game.

Then we have ties to our colleagues and peers in the workplace or the professional field; we share significant time together and many responsibilities. Plenty of us also dedicate time to service or volunteering in different organizations: mine happens to include Rotary Club and some civic organizations. And for many of us, this also includes our faith community, where we spend a rich amount of time that is deeply emotional and intellectual, but also involves engagement of much time and talent: many folks invest a lot of their lives in this sphere. And there are other connections to mentors and coaches and teachers. Plus more occasional and yet oddly intimate transactions with other people on whom we depend in some way, whether it’s a medical caregiver or a counselor, or perhaps the person working at the cash register in our neighborhood, or the train on which we commute, or the circulation desk of the library we visit. (I’ve also recently added a campus community. My professors, students and advisors. The staff and peers with whom I now spend several hours a day.)

And of course, we can identify with larger contexts. By ethnicity. By gender. By faith tradition. By sexual preference. By political affiliation. By nationality. By so many “markers.” I thought a lot, this past week, about the labels that are placed on us. The categories used to define us. The ways we are perceived by the world, and the ways in which we describe ourselves. Some of these labels and tags may be welcome. Many are probably weighed heavily with assumptions and preconceived ideas that we would prefer not to accept or have applied to us. It is wise to be thoughtful about these labels and categories. And to challenge how you many be applying them to others as well.

Today I’m glad to be the following things:

  • Mother
  • Wife and partner
  • Woman
  • Sister, daughter, cousin, niece, aunt
  • Friend
  • Christian with an open mind about other faiths
  • Member of First Church, Ipswich, UCC
  • Rotarian
  • Professional website developer and writer
  • Director of non-profit foundation working with cancer families
  • Graduate student at Harvard University’s Divinity School
  • Commuter by foot and train
  • Resident of Ipswich, Massachusetts in New England, USA
  • Independent (political party)
  • Writer
  • Artist

There are lots more circles of belonging, I’m sure. I belong to so many communties, large and small. And I have responsibilities to all of them. I feel a little overwhelmed when I consider all that I’m trying to balance right now. I bet we all do, at one point or another. So I consider my communities. I make checklists and put dates and commitments on the calendar. Prioritize. Do one thing at a time. Breathe. And try to do what’s possible and relinquish what I cannot do right now.

Meanwhile, here’s something that all adults who are legal citizens can do for their community. Vote! In Massachusetts, the primaries are today.

Voting is not just a privilege. It is a responsibility. It’s your chance to act. To speak with your vote. To care and be engaged in issues that affect you and your community. To the places where you live, work and play. The people with whom you belong.

Aug9

Self Care: Checklist from the Past (Still Works)

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Self care in difficult places. How do you do it?

Back when we spent extended periods of time with Jessie at Childrens Hospital Boston, it was easy to let go. To make excuses and just overindulge. To say to myself, “You’re under tremendous stress, so don’t worry about what you do to make yourself feel better. Just take the elevator, because time is more important than exercise on the stairs. And the breakfast pastries? Those carbs don’t count right now.”

But those indulgences did count. The cravings, the bad food, the less-than-virtuous habits, the lack of movement … it all added up. And I carried (and still do) the results of that lack of self care even now. I’m still regaining balance.

Now let me clarify, that given the constant crisis in which we often lived, I coped darned well. I only slept a few hours each night, but I was alert and functioning at a very high level. Always “on” …  checking monitors and daily numbers, being Jessie’s companion, working out Jessie’s schedule for the day (coordinating visits with friends for her, organizing therapeutic appointments, negotiating time on/off the IV so she could be more mobile, making a plan with her nurses for any other particularly difficult procedures, scheduling her daily ACE flush, participating in rounds with the oncology and transplant teams … later ICU teams … and any specialists), consulting with a variety of staff members at crazy hours of the day and night, and keeping up with Chris and Sarah either during their visits, calls or remotely (I was still handling Sarah’s schedule and organizing the logistics of her daily life, from a hospital room in Boston, through a network of phone calls among friends). We did a lot from a small room in Boston. But only because we had so many people willing to help. Chris and I were a team. And our community was an extended web of compassionate hearts and hands, willing to make almost anything possible.

Taking care of yourself and each other? Could depend on your definition, I suppose. In a way, when your child is diagnosed with a mortal illness, your sense of power, control and competence is already being put to the test. You can’t make her safe anymore. The disease wasn’t cause by your lack of vigilance, and it won’t be fixed because you pay extra attention now. And yet … you have been dealt a severe blow to your own self-image as a parent and member of a family.

Realistically, although only one body is affected, this kind of trauma happens to everyone. It ripples out and touches, affects, changes all family members … and also friends, peers, community. In my family? I think we all feel like we had cancer, though only Jessie truly did. And if she were here, she’d stomp her foot, raise her voice, and be quite clear that it happened to her body, it was her experience, and not mine. Not dad’s. Not Sarah’s. But in many ways … yes, it happened to all of us. Hurt all of us.

Below are some of the ways we managed self-care even in stressful places and times. Many of them would translate well to virtually any experience in life. Admittedly, it’s easier to dole out wisdom than to act on it … I attempted all of these things, but I was better at some than others, as I’ve admitted earlier in this entry. If you find something helpful on this list, that’s great.

  • Walk. Use the stairs. Exercise. The hospital staff used to pass out pedometers, so that parents could measure how many steps they walked. We figured out that several rounds up and down the halls of the hospital, as a parade of patients and parents riding or driving wagons, tricycles, IV poles and plastic cars, totaled a mile or more. (Jane Roper, the mom whose daughter has just completed her first month of treatment for leukemia, made a humorous post about her exercise regimen. It was familiar, I assure you.) Or you could go down to the garden, as Jessie often wanted to do, and run laps. We had a timer and stop watch, because she liked to be clocked for speed. Usually I was timing her, not running, though. Using the stairs? It was an easy way to improve cardiac health. I started, in the last few months of Jessie’s stay, to challenge myself to do this every day. I admit that down was easier than up.
  • Eat healthy foods. Homemade food didn’t really exist at the hospital. There was plenty of cafeteria food, and it was fine, but not home-cooked and not always very appealing … the best, healthiest menu item available was the soup from Au Bon Pain restaurant. Otherwise, we always asked for homemade food in containers … Chris would bring a stack of filled Tupperware for us to put in the unit’s refrigerator, slices of all the casseroles and meals that our friends were delivering to the house each week. I tasted a lot of those meals. Now kids on treatment have steroid cravings, or can only eat restricted diets, and sometimes homemade foods won’t work. There were lots of times when we gave up, and let Jessie eat whatever she wanted, but we worked hard to offer healthy alternatives, and not to buy into the “every calorie is a good calorie” mantra we’d been taught early in her treatment. Like us, she had to have healthy eating habits that could translate in and out of the hospital, as much as possible.
  • Say yes. When people offer to help, let them. Be specific and express your needs. It empowers others when they can’t actually do anything about the disease, but you give permission for others to “do something” in other ways. It heals everyone. And lets you focus your limited resources and energies where they’re most needed. We went through this journey, as I mentioned above, in the company of hundreds … possibly thousands … of caring souls, starting with our own extended families and our town of Ipswich. Meals. Pet care. Household chores. Rides. Visits. Errands. Childcare. Yard work. There are always so many big and small ways that others can assist … it takes a village to raise a family living with cancer, you might say.
  • Find a mental escape. A little every day. Late at night, when Jessie finally went to sleep, was the only time my brain could have “down time,” and I craved that almost more than sleep. I needed to go on a mental vacation. So I’d put on earphones (one side only, so I could listen for Jessie and the monitors, though) and if I was too tired to read a book, I’d watch movies … all of the movies made from Jane Austen’s novels or the Bronte sisters’ works … and the entire JRR Tolkien Lord of the Rings series. Fantasy. Period pieces. Stories so removed from the room where we lived, with beeps and clicks and small flashing red lights and digital numbers counting down, that I was transported away, could escape and unwind a little bit.
  • Swap shifts. Take a break. Most families had some variation on this routine; parents would trade roles. One would spend time at home, the other in the hospital, with brief overlapping periods. Some would do a night-day rotation. In our family, I’d do the week shift, Chris would come in and handle the weekend, and I’d go home, spend some time with Sarah, and get the only real sleep of the week. Chris would take a fresh look at the situation in the hospital, and problem-solve whatever he could.
  • Sleep. When you can, every day. Naps are good. If Jessie slept, sometimes I did, too. I’d start off in Jessie’s bed, until she was deeply asleep, and then I’d move over to the “parent bed” and attempt to sleep more deeply.
  • Counseling. Work on what’s happening. We had a therapeutic relationship counselors. We spoke (or in Jessie’s case, played) with the counselor as often as possible. We also did a lot of role-playing with dolls and stuffed animals. Writing stories or creative art projects.
  • Social time. We made play dates or therapeutic sessions for Jessie. Adult friends came down to visit, too. (And the staff were often friends, so you could have plenty of bonding time with them, too. Many of the nurses and a few of the doctors remain good friends even now; they allowed themselves to be more than just medical caregivers. If you think about it, we basically lived with them for extended periods of time.)
  • Shower. It helped to scrub away one day’s stress, stand for two minutes under the pounding hot shower, and then feel slightly more alert and a little more pulled together.
  • Clean clothes. Chris did loads of laundry and brought them in, exchanging dirty for clean garb … it was possible to do laundry in the hospital, but it was another chore and expense that we handled at home instead. And when the new bag of clean clothes arrived, it smelled like our detergent, our house, our …. Our lives. I developed a “hospital uniform” that was layered for temperature changes (we would travel to different areas that were hot or cold), could stand up to messes (blood or puke, for example), remained comfortable (I was often contorted into weird positions, crawling into bed with Jessie, playing games in odd spaces, etc), felt clean and loose (I hate tight constricting clothes) and forgave my lack of grooming, but made me feel presentable when dealing with teams of professionals who can shower and change into cleaned, laundered and pressed outfits with heels or polished leather. I was lucky if I got to brush my teeth. Jessie had a whole different wardrobe. It was mostly pajamas and some street clothes, all marked by her style. Lots of cute slippers or flipflops. Head gear, scarrves and hats. When she had certain kinds of cardiac catheters, we sought halter-style dresses, pjs and tops, because of how we had to maneuver her arms in and out of clothing.
  • Personal grooming. Take a little quiet time. I liked to get away from the hospital room, behind a closed door inside a bathroom to myself for five minutes (on oncology, ICU or transplant, parents shared a few bathrooms, so you couldn’t monopolize it for long). Completed small daily rituals. Brushed my teeth. Shaved armpits. Applied deodorant. Washed my hair if there was time. Changed my socks and undies. Phew.
  • Cry. Mostly in the shower. You can weep in private in a shower. Your child or spouse won’t know. And you have to let it out sometime.
  • Journaling. Wrote a daily blog entry that I would email to Chris, along with photos if I’d taken any, and that he would post for us. It was a joint effort to maintain the journal every day during Jessie’s treatment. Tried to make some meaning of this experience, and also communicate with everyone who cared about what was happening. Other people did it through scrap-booking, or video journals, Youtube posts, or online journals such as caringbridge or carepages, or MySpace or Facebook, or yes, old-fashioned diaries. In all kinds of ways, the experience was recorded. In addition, we kept a running Daytimer schedule appointment book that was passed back and forth, so that when we handed it to each other, we’d recorded such items as what medications had been given, what doctors had visited, Jessie’s vitals, her temps, if she’d eaten or gone to the bathroom, what she’d had been doing (active, tired, playful, cranky), any memorable quotes, and those sorts of details.
  • Communicate. Visits in person. Notes and letters. Pictures. Skyping. Phone calls. Facebook. Staying connected.
  • Photography. An amazing tool for family and the patient, too. The lens can be turned toward the experience itself, or pointed outward, away from the body and self, to whatever else draws the eye. The birds in the garden. Other patients. The hospital environment. Details. Also, we put up the prints of loved ones and home where Jessie could see them and visitors could look at them. They can help with visualization. And remind caregivers that this is a real person, a well-rounded family, and they’re only meeting us in one part of our lives, but through photography they can learn more about their patient as a whole person, with other interests and even appearance (like a kid outside on a soccer field with hair, not just bald in pajamas hooked to an IV pole).
  • Take a walk. We’d negotiate ten minutes to walk outside in the garden. Or while a nurse or therapist kept Jessie company, because she didn’t usually ever want to be alone in her room, even surrounded by staff, I’d make a quick run for supplies (toiletries from pharmacy, snacks from grocery or new titles and games from the book store). Sometimes I’d stand outside the front entrance to Childrens, ignoring the traffic and the pedestrians, and just lift my face to the sky. You don’t know how important it is to feel any kind of weather on your face … rain, sun, wind, snow … until you’re stuck behind a layers of insulated glass in an environmentally-controlled, filtered-air, cycled-water, colored-lights-in-the-ceiling unit … where nothing is real.
  • Caffeine. I wanted to sip chai latte every day. Some people love Dunkin Donuts for its coffee. I drink tea, so I went to Starbucks, because there wasn’t a Zumi’s in Boston.
  • Creativity. Sing. Dance. Make a video. Express yourself.
  • Pets. Animals are an amazing form of unconditional love and affection, and a safe place to put feelings you don’t share with anyone else. They won’t give away your secrets.
  • Create family time. We’d organize visits for the whole family, so Sarah remained connected, as much as possible, to events in the hospital, and Jessie got family time. We’d eat a meal together downstairs (during the periods when Jessie was allowed off the floor or in our room), play video games or board games, take a nap, watch a movie, read a book … just hang out.
  • Scream. Jessie had to yell in her bed. We worked on ways to handle rage. We’d close the curtain. She had a “monster” pillowcase on which she’d drawn the “mad monster” and the “happy monster”. She’d flip sides, and pound on the pillow until some of the anger dissipated. Or she’d just yell invectives at the top of her lungs. And why not? What was happening wasn’t okay or fair or anything resembling the childhood that any child might hope for. You can call it a “Book of Job” moment if you want. Other cancer parents have told me stories about throwing rocks at the ocean … hurling missiles at the biggest, most impassive element in their worlds … because it was the closest they could come to screaming and hitting at their Creator (or fate, or providence, or karma, or whatever … depending on faiths).
  • Pray. Yes, always. Sometimes the negotiation variety. “If I do this, will you do that?” We’d make lists of what we hoped for, and ask everyone reading the blog to pray for specifics. Good blood counts. Stability. Remission. Healing of infections. And we were sent all kinds of prayers. Stones with words in them. Angels as pins and small objects. Buddhist prayer flags. Quilts. Native American prayer wheel. Tibetan prayer wheel. Cards and mementoes from sacred places known for their healing power. Meditations and mantras. Digital messages with scriptural texts. Visits with our minister Rebecca. Songs. Oh, and all the unspoken prayers that arrived in every bag and box delivered to the hospital … embodied as stuffed animals, books or homemade food.
  • Laugh. We learned early about the power of laughter to release tension and restore balance. Another family from Ipswich, whose daughter was treated for non-Hodgkins Lymphoma, told us right away about a website called squirreltales.com and a list of funny observations called “You Know You’re the Parent of a Kid with Cancer when …”  We posted the lists on our hospital room door, and other pediatric cancer families also read them and guffawed out loud. We all understood the bizarre humor. Meanwhile, Jessie was a big fan of playing jokes and pranks. She had a fart machine. She’d draw fake rashes with washable marker. She’d make squirt guns out of clean syringes and shoot water at her nurses. Oh, the fun.
  • Seek alternate therapies. The staff used to arrange chair massages for parents. Once a week, if you were lucky, a masseuse would come work out the knots of tension, anger and grief in your neck and shoulders. (It might be the kindest and most intimate touch you experienced in place filled with masks, gloves and gowns.) We also had access to reiki, which didn’t require touch, and was safer for patients to use, too. And then there’s simpler therapy, like doing manicures. Believe it or not, that used to be a very helpful pastime for parents and patients alike. Except you have to leave one fingernail unpainted, so they can hook up one of the monitors that clips to your finger and reads vitals through your nail (I think it was O2 saturation, but blessedly, it’s been long enough that I don’t really remember, and I’m not going to research it for this blog). And yoga.
  • Know you’re not alone. It was humbling to realize that we were surrounded by other families also on the same journey. When you look outside your own door, or even peek around the curtain in a shared hospital room, you learn that this story has many variations and many outcomes. And you have a whole lot of companions, people you’d never meet any other way, who share this common experience and can understand it from the inside out, and may even have more wisdom or tips for how to cope. And as mentioned earlier, you also have friends and family participating, as much as possible, in this journey. And staff, who also become like family along the way. You really have a whole lot of support and community available. (I hope others also find this true, anyway.)

Okay, here’s a confession. I also had “drinking” on this list. As in, adult beverages. Margaritas. A beer. Social chances to unwind. But then I decided that was never a self care habit; it was more along the lines of eating too many carbs and making excuses. Not when you’re run down and strung out. So I can’t recommend it as a responsible therapeutic step. Even if it’s soothing.

The truth is, we also cope by indulging. Becoming childlike in our activities. We play video games. Eat sugary or salty foods. Misbehave in many ways. And that’s okay. That’s human, and it’s part of what happens in stressful times. It’s just good to find equilibrium, and use those other resources listed above to maintain some healthy counterbalance in life, and not tip so far over into any unsafe, destructive choices, that you can’t be a responsible, competent caregiver to your family or yourself.

Aug3

Why We Ride

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Something short, for a change, I promise.

Below are the lyrics to a song that I wrote for the Coast of Hope bike ride, but they apply equally to the Pan Mass Challenge bike ride this weekend.  Chris and Sarah will ride as a father-daughter team for the fourth year. We welcome your support for their ride, but also know that many of you actively support other causes that are close to your heart.

Let this song speak to you. It is written for any ride, any journey, regardless of the cause or inspiration. As soon as possible, I’ll share the recorded version with music and vocals by a local high school band called Gnarly Charlie. It’s inspired by the many cyclists in my life, past and present, and there are lots!

WHY WE RIDE
by Gail Doktor © 2012

We ride to feel the rush
And the stirring of the wind
We ride on paths unknown
And roads where we have been

We ride through wild silence
In rugged highs and lows
We ride in dappled sunlight
And where the seawind blows

     Oh, we ride for those who can’t
     We ride because we can
     Yes (oh), we ride because we believe
     We ride for one more chance

We ride to push each other
Past distance, youth and years
We ride to push ourselves
Beyond all doubt and fears

We ride in celebration
We ride beyond our loss
We ride to honor others
Or to help a greater cause

     Oh, we ride for those who can’t
     We ride because we can
     Yes (oh), we ride because we believe
     We ride for one more chance

We ride to find a way
To get up when we fall
We ride to finish first
Or to cross the line at all

We ride at softest daybreak
We ride til touch of night
We ride in search of hope
We ride to catch the light

     Oh, we ride for those who can’t
     We ride because we can
     Yes (oh), we ride because we believe
     We ride for one more chance

Jessie and Sarah on bikes, before cancer.

Jessie and Sarah on bikes after cancer.

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.

Jul16

Every Prayer

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Every prayer is sacred and powerful, regardless of language and religion. Prayer also comes in many forms. So I have come to believe.

When our younger child Jessie was diagnosed and living with cancer, we learned to appreciate and welcome every form of prayer, positive intention, affirmation, meditative reflection, mantra, chant, song, or any other form of energy ever offered to us. Don’t all faiths and practices, in the end, have the same intention, at least when it comes to sending out cries for peace, hope and healing into our universe? For the sake of one child, or a generation of children?

When we were in the hospital, we wanted and needed every vibe and Amen that came our way. We hung up a cross, Buddhist prayer flags and a hand-made Native American dream catcher. We made a bowl that accumulated — as gifts from practitioners of many healing methodologies or faiths – angels of all sizes and shapes, a Buddhist prayer wheel, stones incised with words like love and believe, prayer cards from saints and sacred sites, crystals with different healing capabilities or properties, necklaces or bracelets strung with symbolic beads and prayer boxes. We received a quilt, blankets and shawl all stitched with more prayers and wishes. We listened to music ranging from vacation bible school songs to sounds of the earth itself, plus hymns, chants and mantras.

We cherished all of them, because they came to us from many parts of the country and the world. Carried home from other people’s travels. Some hand made. All tenderly packaged and delivered, when we were isolated in one small room, unable to go further than oncology unit’s hall or the garden downstairs.

Of course, sometimes people would make observations, sometimes in the guise of a prayer, with the best of intentions or from inside their faith tradition, that we didn’t agree with. Sentiments such as “this happened for a reason,” or God “wants another angel in heaven” or “you’re only given what you can handle.” The Creator in whom I believe doesn’t dole out diseases as punishment, to balance the scales, or to fulfill a predestined script. I understand that other families with different backgrounds found these statements to be comforting and consoling, and I wouldn’t ever negate or argue with those perceptions, where they provide support. Yet if we couldn’t bear to be told such things, we were explicit about asking people not to make certain statements; we established boundaries, when we needed them, even though we wanted every good wish and prayer.

Personally, I cannot imagine a Creator who deliberately creates illness, famine, war, disease, hunger, poverty and other conditions that hurt us. In my estimation, we connect with the Sacred when we find comfort and resources to endure or overcome these situations. Even when people offer strength and help to each other, we act in sacred ways. Maybe we find relief through a song that inspires us or a shower of 10,000 paper cranes. Perhaps acting through a doctor’s quick insight and action or a nurse’s gentle teaching. Playfully lifting us up through a counselor’s silly games or a playmate’s challenge to a feisty competition. Or in the tasty delivery of a homemade meal or steaming beverage. In many small and big ways, the Creator’s presence comes to us as compassion and healing.

Empathy and mending, grace and tenacity, laughter and honesty: these still come to us, in other ways, though that chapter of our lives is over. If you ever listen to my daughter Sarah sing Hallelujah, you will know that prayer continues to be part of our lives.

Yes, I believe in all prayers.

In times of urgency, we ask for help or rescue.

  • That’s often when we’re most likely to bother praying. We’re in need. In crisis. Seeking a miracle, even
  • When our need is extreme, sometimes it makes sense to be specific, and ask for exactly what you need. During cancer treatment, we used to ask for Jessie’s healthy blood counts, protection from infection, remission, and stability. Yes, we also asked for broader blessings, but they could be interpreted many ways: hope, courage, fortitude, healing. These days, we ask for continued emotional connection and healing within our family, and for grace and growth during new adventures.
  • You can imagine, even now, that I grapple with a gut-level reaction that specific prayers weren’t answered. I’m sure you have those feelings, too. Years ago, we requested Jessie’s survival. We have all had those moments, those specific requests we made, that didn’t turn out as we hoped. Over time, I have come to a reconciliation between what I asked for and what occurred. For instance, maybe the only possible resolution, the only form of peace and dignity that remained for my youngest child, was the one that came to her. Letting go and moving on to the next part of her journey, because it was … finally … time. And what kindness remained, in holding her here, in the conditions under which she lived?

When you pray as part of a regular routine …

  • … such as at bedtime every day, prayers can be like an entry in a diary. Or a one-sided conversation. Gentle. Sometimes formulaic. Reciprocal, though the other party is silent, but listening in. “Guess what happened today? Did you hear? I’m thinking of these people … be with them. Know what I’m planning next? Be with me as I take this step.”

At times, we experience Book of Job moments.

  • Like Job, I have cried out, “No! Why?!” Screams of rage or defiance, desolation or confusion. These primal screams are also forms of prayer. Communication with our Creator. Healthy ones, I think, because a real relationship can sustain moments of doubt and anger, fear and despair … these are how relationships grow. Even relationships with Yahweh.
  • After Jessie passed, I thought nothing more, nothing worse, could happen to our family. Yet there have been additional times when my loved ones have been vulnerable, hurt or compromised. All over again!
  • I have called out, at those times, demanding, “Couldn’t we just keep a loved one safe? Haven’t we been through enough?” No, it seems. We are all human and vulnerable, and life will continue, the world will keep spinning, and experiences will accumulate apace, not sparing us either the best or worst of existence, just because we feel time should stand still … give us a respite …. since we have endured so much already. Life isn’t like that. There’s not really a 10-minute intermission between acts. It just keeps going. Sigh.

Happily, we sometimes pray out of gratitude. Celebration. Hallelujah.

  • We pause and reflect, acknowledge a special experience or blessing.
  • Maybe we notice a silent, awesome, profound moment. We give thanks when we feel particularly moved or connected.
  • Or we honor  something special  — extraordinary — such as a milestone. Graduation, anniversary, promotion, birthday, or other landmarks.
  • Sometimes it comes in a moment of laughter and humor. When your perceptions shifts, and a situation strikes you as funny, and you regain balance and connection.
  • It’s a healing practice, to remember to say thank you. To count blessings. To name our gifts and their Source. With praise. Exultation.
  • Because the Creator is in these moments –  the quiet-wow-introspective-soulful ones, and the wild-happy-loud-rowdy-dancing-singing-clapping-hoorah ones — as surely as in the darkest ones.

Sometimes, we’re taught to turn over our situation to the Creator’s consideration, and say, “Thy will be done.” That has always been a tough lesson for me.

Really? Relinquish control, or my idea of what the best outcome would be?  As I’ve said before, and as Reverend Rebecca Pugh reminded us again on Sunday at church, sometimes the answer we receive to prayer isn’t the one we expected. It may surprise us. Alarm us. Challenge us. We may not even realize, until later, that we received an answer at all.

Of course, some folks don’t have a specific religious affiliation. And even if you believe in a divine force or Creator, you may not credit that Someone is listening or intervening on our behalf. That a divine Being is stirring up the pot of events in this world to change fate at the request — on behalf of — of fragile, finite human beings.

I have my own view, based on personal anecdotes and experiences, that causes me to believe that I am connected to a Creator who cares and actually interacts with us. But that’s me. I honor other viewpoints, too.

The cancer mom Jane Roper, who is new to this journey, is receiving many prayers, too. She is eloquent and honest, in this excerpt from her blog:

“… while I respect and appreciate the fact
that other people like to pray, I’m not really a pray-er myself.

Or maybe I am. I certainly engage in prayer-like activities sometimes.
I will silently ask for strength or courage or patience or peace,
either for myself or for others. Last weekend when we found out Clio was sick,
I did a whole lot of desperate, tearful praying
that she’d be OK, and that we wouldn’t lose her.

But I’m not entirely sure who I’m addressing in these prayers.
I don’t believe in “God” in the classic, personified sense
so much as I believe in a sort of force / energy that connects us all,
and is maybe somehow responsible for the incredible
and beautiful creation that is our world (dude).

… But I do believe that people’s
thoughts / prayers / vibes / whatever
can have a positive effect on how
we handle adversity and experience joy.

I mean, I think I do. I’m not sure.

… So. Is it weird that I like other people’s prayers
even though I’m skeptical of my own?”

People are moved to pray at certain times. Even if you’re not sure. If you have doubts. Or you don’t believe in it, not really. Motivated by joy. Or desperation.

As I have said before, I find comfort and personal growth in the habit of prayer. Yet I’m not rigorous about the form that prayer takes for me. I grab hold of opportunities as they present themselves. There’s Sunday prayer in church as a community. There’s meditation in my yoga class in the morning. There’s picking herbs at Appleton. Sipping a hot drink. Paddling in a kayak. Listening to my daughter. Touching my husband. Walking through sunlight and shadow. Playing with a dog. Writing in a journal. Serving others. Singing. Sitting still, noticing the world.

Prayer can be individual or communal. Silent or aloud. Action or words. Directed toward the deity of a specific faith, or simply to the sacred universe. And throughout our lives, we will learn new ways to pray.

Prayer is a tool. A practice. An opportunity. However and whenever you do it, it’s a chance to connect and communicate with something bigger than yourself.

Every syllable, every thought, every vision, every hope, every wish, every intention … it all has potency. And when it is directed toward goodness and healing, wellbeing and peacemaking, stability and humor … when it is aimed at building connections … then such prayers, regardless of origin, must be working for the same cause. So I hope. So I believe.

Namaste.

Jul14

Not About Me, Not About You

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When you watch someone begin a journey that you have also enjoyed or endured, it can be either exhilarating or heartbreaking. It’s tempting … easy, really … to identify with what you’re witnessing. To believe you understand another person’s path … to predict what’s coming next, or assume you can imagine what they’re feeling and thinking. To personalize and color your perception of someone else’s experience with your own recollections and reactions.

That’s human. It’s what gives us empathy for each other. It often helps us connect.

Other times, it can get in the way of supporting someone in a journey that is completely new and specific to that person. As one wise mother reminded other parents of new college students yesterday at the Northeastern University orientation, “It may feel like it’s happening to you, but it’s not. It’s happening to them.”

  • I watched my daughter Sarah disappear among the crowd of other incoming college freshmen on Friday. Before she left, she handed off her new black NU Huskies sweatshirt and other extra “stuff” to us, stepping away with a lightened load. Freeing her hands, heart and mind to receive new resources and experiences during her two-day experience at Northeastern.

    We carried away the bulkiness of her one-too-many layers and some extra papers, bringing them home. To hold for her. She’ll be back to retrieve them.To clarify, Sarah’s participating in an international study experience for her first semester, so the orientation is a pre-departure workshop to cover travel and transitional logistics for families and students. Her overnight departure with other students brought a shared grin and head nod with my husband Chris.

    Yay! We want her to immerse herself in every step of this launch into her future. She’s taking flight, wing beat by wing beat, milestone by milestone. That’s the natural course of events. It’s new to us as parents, but we remember being new college students.

    We each recall our own paths of leaving home and entering undergraduate programs. Both of us had transformative experiences in college, and we believe Sarah will, too. I remember the long car ride to school, arguments with my siblings along the way, my mother’s reluctance to leave me, my eagerness to unpack and decorate my room and spend time with my new roommate. I remember phone calls home, with the wish list of things I’d forgotten and desperately needed on campus, in order to feel settled. I remember holding on and letting go. I remember.

    I think I can relate to my daughter. Imagine the emotions and thoughts going on inside her 18-year old skin. I think so. But it’s not my job to assume that I know what she feels or thinks.

    I remind myself what the speaker coached us to keep in mind. “It’s not happening to you. They’re the ones sleeping in a new bed for the first time, in a new country, at a new school, maybe speaking a new language.”

    It’s my role to give her space. To listen. To ask questions and be interested. But to let her tell us about what’s going on. What’s important. What’s meaningful.

    She’ll speak up if she has any anxieties. She’ll also share her enthusiasm. (The NU staff told us, over and over, that if a student has concerns, she’ll usually turn first to parents.)

    And as we were also reminded, it’s natural to be stressed and worried about change (both us, as parents, and Sarah as a student abroad). To find that things are different and uncomfortable. It’s how we grow as individuals. How we mature and prepare for life.

    She will be okay. She really will. Even if some parts of the journey ahead are tough.

    Much as we want to protect our children, we can’t absorb all of the difficult moments that await. She has to live through them herself. Learn and grow from them.

    So yes, I can empathize. I’m her mom. I’m connected to her. Maybe I can even predict some parts that will be hard for her to handle, and some parts that she’ll love the most.

    Yet it’s my daughter’s life. Her path. Her adventure. She’ll let me know how it’s all going.

    I will ask questions. Listen. And let her tell the story.

  • Reading the words of Jane, a mother of twins, whose little daughter was just diagnosed with leukemia, and is being treated at Children’s Floating Hospital in Boston? My throat aches. My fists clench.

    I remember diagnosis and transition into the hospital. Flashes so vivid, every sensory response rises to the surface all over again. Adrenaline. Quickened heartbeat. Numbness. Rush of feelings. Whirl of confusion. Unable to process everything at once. Requiring words and phrases to be repeated. Wanting immediate answers, and learning that much of treatment is about waiting and seeing, looking backward across weeks and months at patterns to find answers.This mother has heard the same speech. It’s like being inducted into a cult. Brain-washed, in a kind way, so you have a new framework for measuring the world and evaluating what’s good or bad. “She has the best kind of cancer. The best of the best. You’re lucky. She’s lucky.”

    Mind you, this woman — this new cancer mom — is a stranger to me. Connected as a friend of a friend, her experiences made accessible by her willingness to publicly blog and post Facebook entries about what’s going on.

    I also feel as if I know Jane, because of what we now share. The childhood cancer journey. But do I know her? No. Not really.

    We sent her family a care package of books and resources a few days after their diagnosis. Over a week ago. Oh, God. So early in the process, and so much yet to come.

    We provided them with the leading reference guide for childhood leukemia by Nancy Keene. Other books to read with your young child about mood swings and feelings and bodies. Some bed-safe activities for a little girl who doesn’t feel good. And a sister who needs love and attention, too.

    Again, I remind myself what the mother at the Northeastern University orientation said. “It’s not happening to you. It’s happening to them. It’s their experience.”

    Trust me, every other parent of a child diagnosed with cancer probably has words of wisdom for Jane. It’s like a pregnant woman hearing everyone else’s labor and delivery and new-mom stories. We all feel compelled to share and impart our wisdom. Unasked for.

    Yet some of us are also silenced … a little … by our own memories and anxieties. By what else we know about this journey, that no one ever wants to hear or learn. Knowing what I know about the cancer journey? Imagining where my family has gone?

    Some of my feedback wouldn’t help a mother and child, a father and daughter, just starting out on the cancer journey. They need hope. Support.

    So we edit ourselves. Provide words of encouragement. Keep quiet about the other stuff.

    Jane will become the expert in advocacy for her newly-diagnosed child and for her well child, too. They will have their own scary times and detours, their own dark places and ah-hah moments. Years of treatment ahead. Their own journey.

    My role, as a stranger, is self-appointed. They didn’t ask for my help, and they probably don’t need it.

    Yet I choose to do this, for Jane and her family, as a mom who has walked a similar, but different, path. To cheer. To believe … along with them … in the best possible outcome for their little girl. Occasionally to give Jane and her family some positive reflections and energy, or send some more useful resources.

    It’s not about me. This is their journey. They will write their own story.

Yes, I’m filled with emotions in response to what I’m privileged to share. To vigil, from afar, with a family living with cancer. To watch the unfurled wings and unfolding steps of my grown, surviving daughter’s transition to college abroad.

I have gut reactions. Twisted stomach. Fluttering pulse. Closed throat. Furrowed brow. Wide smile. Clenched fists. Open palms.

I also have a compulsion to fill silence with sound. To talk. To share. To comment. Give advice. Narrate.

My other first reaction is to act. To offer help, whether it’s been requested or not. To rescue, in some small way. To ease the hard parts for someone else. Yet that’s not my role. Nor is it something I’m able to do in these scenarios.

Instead, the lesson for me is to be quiet. To listen. To watch. To ask a few specific questions, and maybe offer specific forms of support, when those are identified and within my capability.

We are connected by the human ability to have empathy for what someone else is experiencing. In both cases, though, it’s not about me. It’s not about what I already know, what I would say or do. Instead, it’s happening to Jane. To her family. To my daughter Sarah.

As many of you once did for our family, I now bear witness to the paths that other people walk. Their stories are just beginning.

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.

Jul4

New Vision, Old Eyes

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Every so often I try to slip away with Chris or a girlfriend to see a place we haven’t been before. Often these are historical houses or museum exhibits or occasional hikes in unfamiliar, but well-marked terrain.

Though I’ve lived on the North Shore for … I think it’s about 19 years now … there are plenty of places … some secret and some quite public … that I’m just now discovering. Along the way, I learn more about history — and if I’m lucky — I’m exposed to interesting personalities or enlightening art collections or inspiring artifacts or fascinating ecosystems.

by Fitz Henry Lane

This week, our brief escape included a visit to a few of the galleries at the Cape Ann Museum in Gloucester. It’s a cultural treasure which I hadn’t yet visited. By the way, if you visit, check out the passes at your local public library, and bring quarters to pay for parking meters. And drop by the Pleasant Street Tea Company for any sort of caffeine.

Wandering the bright rooms of the Cape Ann Museum, I admired the work of modern artists, an entire room dedicated to the 19th century painter Fitz Henry Lane (revered for his maritime works), the creations of artists from Folly Cove, educational exhibits about granite quarrying and local history, sculptures and so many other fine and decorative arts.

One exhibit was focused on works portraying Dogtown by artist and poet Marsden Hartley (1877-1943). He documented, in words and modernist images, this landscape. It is an expanse of land, thousands of acres, abandoned decades ago by any residents, which has returned to its wild state, though the remains of old homesteads are still visible, situated in the heart of Cape Ann. As highlighted in the Boston Globe‘s review of this exhibit, Hartley said of Dogtown, that it was  “… almost hostile to the common eye … like a cross between Easter Island and Stonehenge — essentially druidic in appearance.”

I cannot always say that I understand or connect with every artist whose work I studied there. Some speak to me. Others remain mute or unreadable. I cannot even say that the words of the artist match their visual work, or that both move me equally.

Yet part of the experience is simply to be willing to explore. To sample new ways of seeing the world. Or to appreciate old ways of seeing the world, forms of vision and expression that were fresh and unconventional at the time of their emergence. Many genres of art that seem classical now, were revolutionary in their time. Not so long ago.

I try to follow where the artist goes. Or to take my own journey, inspired by the starting point of the artist’s observation or visual statement.

by Marsden Hartley

As I’ve mentioned, I’m a word person. And so, I was delighted to learn more about Marsden Hartley. His words are spiritual. He even named one painting of granite boulders a Doxology. To him, Dogtown was a sacred place that revealed something immutable, more enduring than its fleeting human inhabitants, though we left our traces for him to include in his works.

On the eve of Independence Day, I appreciate that my mind was liberated for a few hours by the reflections and brush strokes of different creative individuals, across several centuries. And that I walked away with a new viewpoint about the North Shore, which I have called my home for almost two decades, the longest I have ever lived anywhere in my life (as of yet).

Our artists are free to make statements about culture, history, religion, politics or the environment. They can romanticize it or exaggerate and distort it. They can say whatever they want. And we can agree or dissent, remain unmoved or become impassioned by their work.

We are free. To express what we feel and how we think. To debate. To converse. To provoke. To inspire. To remain the same. To be changed.

Such freedom of mind and voice is a great reason to celebrate the 4th of July: the birth and development of our nation. To exercise our independence by setting the mind and imagination free – to rest and to grow – this week.

The words I brought home aren’t new, except to me. They aren’t a revelation to anyone familiar with  Hartley’s work. But they offered me a fresh persepctive. A gift. A way of seeing a place that I love, with new eyes, in a different voice, and from an expanded heart. Even though they were written decades ago, they speak across the boundary between two centuries, and many generations.

Below, just imagine a white flash of seabird on wing, newly launched, stitching the connection between land and sky, stone and branch, earth and heaven.

Return of the Native

Rock, juniper, and wind,
And a sea gull sitting still –
All these of one mind.
He who finds will
To come home
Will surely find old faith
Made new again,
And lavish welcome.

Old things breaketh
New, when heart and soul
Lose no whit of old refrain;
It is a smiling festival
When rock, juniper, and wind
Are of one mind;
A sea gull signs the bond
Makes what was broken, whole.

By Marsden Hartley