Tag Archives: Beginnings

Sep24

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Yesterday I started field education. That’s an internship, so to speak, working at another church. I’ll gain valuable parish experience and perform new and familiar roles in a congregation that isn’t my home church.

The difficult part of this transition is that Chris and I spend every Sunday morning together, and we have so few chances to spend time in each other’s company, that I miss those mornings … even though we’ve only spent one Sunday apart. In addition, First Church in Ipswich is the longest I’ve ever been rooted in one faith community. We’ve belonged there for 18 years. To spend a schoolyear away from my own congregation, working elsewhere, feels as if the ground is shifting under my feet.

Along with all of the other transitions, it feels as if parts of me are being torn away.

Yes, I know intellectually, that this stretching and moving away from what’s familiar and easy, is all necessary. To work and grow in this new vocation, I must step outside my comfort zone, which in this case is my own community.

It’s what I want. That’s what I tell myself, though I miss what I must give up to be there. Even after one morning away.

So yesterday I spent my first morning in a new congregation. Spent time with both pastors, who have already welcomed me onto their staff. Met some of the congregation’s compassionate and committed lay leaders and community members. Witnessed the youth of this church presenting their summer mission trip to Maryland.

It was all quite nice. Safe. Just not my own faith community.

Finally, at the end of yesterday’s worship service, a friend of mine appeared. I hadn’t expected to see her there. She belongs to this new church where I’m working (I didn’t realize it). One of the ministers is her daughter (I didn’t know that either).

This friend of mine used to be on staff at Winthrop Elementary years ago, where both Sarah and Jessie attended school. She was especially instrumental in Jessie’s successful interludes at school. We all shared an intense journey together each time Jessie made the re-entry to Winthrop classrooms and culture. Her office was often a retreat, when Jessie needed a safe sanctuary to collect herself. They developed a special friendship independent of my connection to this woman. She represents, even now, some of the most wonderful and tempestuous experiences in our long journey with childhood cancer.

So when she appeared unexpectedly in front of me, at the new church, we leaned across the pew and hugged each other. I think I yelped with happiness.

Then I burst into tears. Held onto her much longer than the embrace of friends exchanging greetings. Hung on as if she was holding me up.

I think a knot of emotions all rose to the surface. Every loss and transition I’ve experienced in the last few weeks and months. And maybe ever years.

So much has changed. So much has fallen away. Jessie is gone. Sarah is off at school. I’m starting college again. Chris and I are struggling to find times to maintain connection. And I’m spending a lot of time away from my entire community, including the church which sustained us through everything.

My friend received that grief with a hug. And then I was laughing, overjoyed that I know someone in this new place, this new congregation with whom I’ll sojourn for the next two semesters. Growing. Reaching outside myself for something more. Connecting with something greater. Trying to remain rooted in what continues to be important to me: family and community.

When my friend greeted me in that new house of worship, suddenly I felt as if this new church could also become home.

Can you be at home in two places? Or even more places? Of course you can.

I have many homes. My house on North Main street in Ipswich is intimately familiar, though rather empty now. Ipswich is where I feel connected. First Church’s congregation has been our extended family for years. Already the Harvard graduate school campus feels comfortable.

And now this new church? When I first sat through the worship service, it felt just a little off-kilter and strange. As if I was trying to transpose my former surroundings — the place and feelings of worship among old friends — onto a new and different congregation. Perhaps I was. I * want * to feel comfortable and connected there. But as we all know, as I must remind myself, that comes with time and experience.

Then my friend reached over the pew, and held onto me while I acknowledged everything I’d lost. And everything I’m trying to reclaim. Suddenly, it began to feel more like a new home. Another circle of belonging.

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.

Sep13

Stress: The Good Kind

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I’m so busy I almost can’t breathe. I’ve added every deadline, book, project or homework assignment, class time, phone call, advisory meeting, and other school task to my calendar to keep up with it all. Getting home at midnight one day a week, and between 8-9 pm the other nights. On campus in Cambridge all day, either in classrooms, library or quiet work spaces.

And then there’s family life; that’s being “scheduled,” too, so that I can grab some time with Sarah while she’s home again before going off to her semester abroad in four more days. (I saw her Monday night between 10pm-midnight, when we picked her up at the airport, so far.) Or to make a date with my husband Chris while we’re both awake. Mostly I maintain contact with them via texts. * sigh *

Work life fits tidily into chunks of the day when I can plug in my computer. Sometimes on the train, or in the library. As emails exchanged between classes. Or on the weekdays when I’m staying on the North Shore.

Field education hasn’t started yet. That starts next week. (I’ve already had the interviews). I’ll be apprenticed or interning, so to speak, at a UCC church on the North Shore to gain professional experience in a parish other than my own home faith community. This works both as part of the educational experience at Harvard, but also toward my “discernment” process for ordination by my denomination (UCC/Congregational).

All in all, it’s a whirlwind time. I dream about school. I’m reading books about Christianity and Islam and pastoral counseling and philosophy and language, instead of suspense and science fiction novels. I pack a lunch and dinner. Carry a to-go mug for hot coffee, as well as a water bottle. Have external pockets with  easily accessible student ID, T-passes and commuter rail ticket. Wear sensible walking shoes for the hike from train station to subway station, from subway to classroom, class to library.

In a way, this rhythm is familiar. I used to make the commute in and out of Boston to an office. Rise and go before the sun came up. Come home after it set. Rarely saw the sky, except through the office windows of executives in the buildings of the large financial corporation where I once worked. Made well-intentioned goals to get outside for lunch, walk instead of eat, but usually found that I needed every work hour to complete a project, so that I could make it home to pick up children from extended hours at daycare.

Even further back, I used to work full time, then attend classes at night. Took two courses a semester, for several years, to earn a Bachelors degree with Honors from UMass / Boston. Chris was deep in studies to pass his exams for licensing as an architect. So I’d work on my thesis until 2am, and walk home across the Boston Common at odd hours of the night, to our apartment in the city.

It seems like I’ve always been juggling a lot. All of us have been.

It’s happening to Chris now. He rises at 3-4am to start his work day. Volunteers, works, and makes time for his family when we can be here to connect. Fits in a bike ride now and then.

It’s happening to our daughter Sarah as she juggles saying good-bye to the few friends who haven’t left for college already, or makes trips to see them on campus in Boston. Then packs for her own adventures through Northeastern University’s international program next week.

Yes, it’s stressful. But I want to acknowledge that this is stress we choose, and in which we willingly participate. It leads to something more. Opportunity. Open doors. Education. Vocational shift. Personal transformation. Survival. Hope. Healing. Tangible change. Something we want. There’s incentive to take on this busy schedule, instead of remaining within the status quo.

This form of stress contrasts with situations that are out of our control. Circumstances that cause stress to which we also respond, not because we want to, but because we must. I have lived inside that pressure cooker, too.

In fact, I don’t have to describe much of it to you. Many of you knew us during those times.

Living inside a hospital as the levels of acuity increased over time. First, a shared hospital room with other cancer patients and their parents. Having roommates for weeks at a time throughout the cancer journey. Transfer into private rooms on the oncology unit, which might sound like a privilege, but was too often a bad sign. It was usually due to severity of infection, contagious complications, or more life-threatening conditions (beyond cancer, as if that wasn’t enough). Later, months of life on the transplant unit, inside a single room with changeable mood lights in the ceiling as a second-best attempt at environmental stimulation instead of being allowed to live in the larger world. Life reduced to one room, inside a HEPA-filtered unit with its own air and water circulation, and airlocks to control the environment and separate it from the rest of the hospital (though strangely, you could escape to the Prouty Garden if you traveled …  you couldn’t share the elevator, wore a mask through the halls, and didn’t touch anything).

Finally, the most critical level of care. ICU. Where they have two medical rounds a day, and I woke up for each shift of consultations, regardless of the time of day or night, because events moved so quickly that even 24 hours wasn’t enough time to assess things; we only slept about 2 hours a night. Where the lights are always on, and the number of tubes and machines attached to the patients multiplies.

Through it all, Jessie just stymied everyone. If you looked at the reams of paper, she shouldn’t have appeared as perky as she did. She shouldn’t have transitioned once off the ventilator, sat up within hours to play Hangman with her primary nurses on the ICU team, and lured us all once more into hopefulness. But hey, that’s how she lived through every hour she was allowed to be awake. And even consciousness was taken away, at the end, because she needed to be sedated to stay on a ventilator. But she broke through the drugs from time to time, to try to whisper to us, to kick her feet, to squeeze our hands, to cry, to listen to books, to be part of this world and connect with us.

We have endured that other kind of stress. It escalated inexorably for years. Then months. Then weeks. Then hours. Final moments.

That accumulated stress seeped deep into muscles, bones, minds and spirits. It took years to work its way to the surface, and be released again. We’re still letting go of it, I’m sure.

So I acknowledge that these stressful circumstances may be different in every family, caused by different issues, but that many of us live with them. Unemployment. Mental health issues. Diagnoses of chronic or terminal conditions. Economic instability. Uncertainty about shelter or food: basic necessities. Lack of access to other resources. Addiction. Violence. Crime. Death or endings of many kinds. Loss. Isolation from community. Caregiving for a loved one with an extreme condition.

Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I’m seeking this vocation: pastoral care. Stress is a universal experience. With many causes. We all share it at some time or another, in one form or another.

And I believe — I hope — we all have chances to experience a different kind of stress. The “good kind.”

Although my calendar is busy —  my phone vibrates often, my computer pings with reminders and alerts and alarms to keep my use of time focused, my backpack is quite hefty with gear and books, and I’m always moving —  I don’t mind. There are other sorts of alarms and appointments, meetings and conferences, phone calls and consultations, that lead to different outcomes.

Right now, this stress leads to transformation. So I celebrate it.

Sep1

If These Walls Could Talk

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What stories would they tell?

Our daughter’s friend Shelly, who has been living with us since the spring, just moved along to college! She packed up her life in 9 hours. She’s taking some things to her mom’s place in Haverhill and others to her college residence near Boston.

Outside in the twilight, skyping by phone from Ipswich to Italy for a long distance BFF college good-bye between Shelly and Sarah.

She wanted us to see how tidy it all looked: boxes, bins and suitcases, zippered and capped, stuffed with her paraphernalia, organized into different piles depending on their destination. Then she carried down load after load of belongings. Filled a truck. She’s gone and the room is empty. Last night the street outside was filled with final hugs and reluctant good-byes.

We remain behind, as our children leave. Empty nesters? Us?

Well, there’s one empty room in our house, anyway. It has been home to several girls. It’s the same bright blue room that was once Jessie’s. (Jessie chose its colors back in 2005, when we were just moving in, right before she relapsed with leukemia for the first time.) Later it was the bedroom for two beloved Rotary exchange student host-daughters: Tina Danila from Belgium and Chicca Tizzoni from Italy. In between, it has often served as a guest room for family and friends.

Now it’s plain. Bare of any evidence of its latest occupant. Shelly’s “personality” drove away in a borrowed pickup truck … it used to be spilling off her corkboard covered in favorite mementos, a bright striped bedspread, the sprawl of her adolescent clothes and shoes and books. Now there’s silence where her music played and her voice rose and fell.

It’s a room that has known a series of comings and goings. Even when Jessie was alive, she only stayed there part of the time, because much of her life was also spent inside the hospital. We always had a suitcase handy, and the room was often the recipient of random bags stuffed with the evidence of her re-entry to home life, bringing along the detritus of hospital stays (craft projects, medical items, etc).

Over time, we have moved Jessie’s memorabilia to other parts of the house, and allowed the blue room to be a blank canvas for more recent occupants. So when they move out, it’s quite sparse.

Sarah’s room, on the other hand, is only temporarily empty of her presence. It remains filled with her “stuff.” She’s coming and going all the time. She’ll be back next week with suitcases and souvenirs from her cultural exchange in Italy. A week later, she’ll pack up and head out to her first semester in college.

In many ways, Sarah’s room won’t change drastically. We expect her to come and go for years, back home on many holidays and school breaks, using the house as her operating base, even when she’s always on the go. She can safely leave behind her overflow of gear and childhood belongings, and take only what she needs for a dorm room and college life.

For a glorious few months this summer, Sarah’s and Shelly’s friends, along with our exchange student Chicca, filled our house with their clutter, debris, noise and life. We loved it.

They made messes. Built bonfires in the back yard. Slept over in sleeping bags, in small groupings, unable to let go of each other. Generated odors from gym shoes and wet swimming gear. Cooked food for each other. Burned some of it. Moved furniture. Used computers. Ate all the snacks we put into the cupboards. Made noise late at night and early in the morning with their comings and goings. Played a concert of sounds in the house with slammed doors, shouts, chuckles, thumping footsteps on the stairs and in the hall.

They filled the house. And it’s meant to be this lively. To contain this much commotion. It’s spacious and old enough to welcome all of their activity, and not be more scarred for the experience.

I admit it. It’s lonely without all of them, even if it’s nice to have some privacy again.

Chris and I will stay here, while the girls are launched to their different destinations. Oh, the abrupt contrast between all those 18-year-olds, some so tall they had to duck to walk between rooms, filling up the space with their summer busy-ness before setting off for new adventures, and the current quiet.

The house feels too big now. In other ways, it feels as if our own lives are shrinking. Getting a little more hollow. Requiring less space … a smaller footprint.

Maybe that’s not true, but it’s part of how we experience the transition. It’s a natural and honest feeling from parents letting go.

Our house as painted by Miranda Updike in 2006.

In our town, our house is 130 years younger than the oldest homes. In other words, it was built c. 1770, but the oldest-standing residences in town go back to the 1640s.

Anyway, even if it’s only 230 years old, it’s seen a lot of life. Generations have been born, married, left home, returned and grown old within its walls.

Wherever you look, the house is full of stories of centuries of town life. It’s been a single home, it’s been wartime apartments, it’s been worker housing, it’s been multiple units with separate entrances of shared spaces, it’s been a combined doctor’s office and home, and probably seen many other configurations along the way.

It had two additions added in the early 1800s, so there are three chimneys and a total of nine hearths. The remnants of others, such as the large kitchen hearth, were largely removed during later construction along the back of the house, but nine fireplaces is plenty. Lots of cooking and warming of cold hands and feet must have taken place at these hearths.

Though its bones are solid, and were once built square and true, they have long since settled. Floors rise and fall, and some are thin enough to buckle or pitch with changes in the seasons. Walls tilt. Ceilings slope. Doors creak and latch with old cast iron hardware, but swing open mysteriously of their own accord (we often tease that Jessie is visiting, but then again, we mean it, too).

Every room and story has different details, as they have been altered over time for different uses. Soft or hardwood floors, plaster or panel walls, plaster or strap and tile ceilings, wooden trim (or not). Fireplaces are much-changed: none their original size, since all were made shallower. Chimneys lean, bricks curve unnaturally, and a few are missing.

When you leave the light on in the basement, you can see it shine up through cracks between the wide ancient wooden boards on the first floor. Some stairs lead to nowhere, or turn aside abruptly. Wallpapered rooms are still tucked up under the attic eaves, probably the former too-hot, too-cold territory of servants, household workers, or poor relatives (just guessing). Some doors don’t have a purpose anymore. Closets and cupboards were tucked into odd niches around the leftover space of the chimneys. Some rooms have been kitchens, later converted back into bedrooms or other spaces, but they retain leftover sinks, wiring or stove holes.

Despite centuries of use, we don’t think our house is haunted. Unless you consider Jessie’s visits to be that, and it doesn’t feel that way to us. She’s a lively, active presence, not a ghostly one. We never detected any other activities or presences before hers.

Like every other generation who has lived here, we have put the house to work and made it as useful as possible to us. Once upon a time, some of the rooms were used as classrooms and medical staging areas for Jessie, since she couldn’t always attend school. Some rooms have been (or remain) offices. This year, we added an accessory apartment downstairs, by restoring a wall that had been removed in the kitchen with some better plumbing and restoration of kitchen fixtures (granted through approval by the zoning board of appeals — ZBA — as a permissible use). We have a friend completing work on it. Eventually it will produce some rental income to help with college expenses.

Since our needs have changed, the house is changing with us. Sarah will continue to come and go. When she’s home, maybe her friends will land here, too. So the noise and activity level will continue to ebb and flow for a few more years. But in many ways, a long-term change in our lifestyle is setting in.

We’re (almost) empty-nesters. Aaaahhhhh!

Phew. At least we have friends from England coming to stay in October. They’ll roost in Jessie’s blue room. They’ve stayed here before, contributing their adventures to the collection of intangible experiences that fill our house.

Our family stories are being added to centuries of life that have animated this swaybacked antique house. We’re part of its old bones and skin. We’re part of its memory.

And it is part of ours.

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.

Aug24

Last Summer Wishes

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Are you ever ready? Yes, yes, some of us are muttering, “Is it time for school to start yet? Will summer ever end? I’m ready …”

But are we ready? Do we wish to give up what we have right now? Do we desire to reach for something else?

Each season seems so brief, when we look back at it.

Moon over Castle Hill during Entrain concert (image by Miriam Novogrodsky)

At the beginning of this flip of the calendar, we felt wealthy. For instance, just weeks ago, I lived inside a largesse of time and possibility. Our summer schedule seemed well-stocked with a balance of plans and freedom: days and evenings, nights and mornings, to dawdle away or jam with activities … to spend as we chose.

We blinked, and now suddenly it is almost gone. It feels as if we’ve used up our wealth of time. Or worse, let it slip away, unappreciated.

Now there’s just one week until Labor Day weekend. Counting down. Ticking away summer in our last adventures!

Our exchange student (aka, Italian host-daughter) Chicca and our own eldest child Sarah are savoring their final days in the United States, and then they travel to Italy early next week. Their last few days are filled with:

  • Evening concert at Castle Hill
  • Camping at Pawtuckaway in New Hampshire
  • Swimming
  • Friends
  • Bonfires
  • Sight-seeing in Boston
  • Whatever else fits into one last long weekend …

Many high school and college students are already deep into training for the fall sports season. School begins next week for many local public schools. College students are moving into dorms (or flying away, similar to Sarah, to their destinations around the world for global exchange).

Folks with different seasonal vocations or roles will soon (if they haven’t already) be starting new schedules and projects. Me? I expect to be indoors for the much of the remaining month. (Who planned this?!) Next week, for instance,  I’ll spend four days at orientation for grad school.

So what will be on my personal wish list for the remainder of the summer?

  • Enjoy being in Boston and Cambridge next week. (Maybe get outside and spend time in Harvard Square.) Walk along the Charles River.
  • Kayak on the Ipswich river.
  • Walk on the beach.
  • Picnic.
  • Bonfire.
  • One last late summer dinner with friends.
  • Jump off a bridge (into the river)?
  • Harvest part of the share from Appleton fields.
  • Date night with Chris.

We have one week remaining. Okay, a little longer. So pay attention. Don’t let it slip past you, unacknowledged. Grab hold of some of it. Enjoy it. Make it count.

Then perhaps we’re ready for summer’s hot sweaty rhythms to wind down. We’re able to welcome autumn’s vivid colors and crisp days into our lives.

And the goodness of what we have experienced over the past few months … and surely there are some bright, wondrous, simple interludes to be savored and remembered … will continue to provide healing and balance, long after the days grow shorter and the nights grow longer.

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.

Aug2

Cravings

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How do you know when what you want is also what you need? When they’re opposites? Want can compromise you, as much as it might entertain or satisfy you. While need is essential to survival and greater quality of life.

Work of artist Erin Hanson

Sometimes you mistake one for the other. A craving can become a force so powerful that it feels like a requirement, something you must fulfill, or else you might not make it through the day. This link will lead you to the work of artist Erin Hanson, who makes some very witty observations about this issue.

How do we tell the difference between want and need? Oh, I think we know. Sometimes we deny or ignore it. That can be part of the danger to ourselves (and others). But often enough, we know what can be most satisfying and also most damaging at the same time.

We all have soft spots. Me? I have plenty, I admit it. I know it.

Food is an old friend, and a particular weakness. I sometimes find myself by the pantry or fridge, craving a bite. Not as tempting as it once was, because I have recognized and worked hard to gain balance when I lost it, but oh, there are times when I want something … Sweet. Salty. Mmmmm. And it’s not because I’m particularly hungry. Could be stress. Boredom. Bad habits. Social routines.

Sometimes we have instants of epiphany. When we actually look at ourselves, and what’s happening, and see just how out-of-balance we’ve gotten. I’ve had my share of wake-up-and-smell-the-coffee (okay, tea for me) moments. Really, these I’m-not-in-control-and-this-has-gone-too-far insights can be as powerful as being converted to a new religion. Transformative.

Then again, sometimes someone else has to express their concerns: a loved one, friend, colleague or medical practitioner. Maybe you have to hear it from someone else to realize that there’s an issue.

Work of artist Erin Hanson

Mainly, I think, you have to be ready to listen. Then to admit that there’s an imbalance you need to pay attention to. Maybe it’s not an addiction, maybe it’s just too much of a good thing, but there’s still a message that it’s time to pause, focus, and regain equilibrium. Or perhaps it is that dangerous; you must realize that something vital is at risk. Your health. Your safety. Others’ safety. Your relationships. Your work. Your home.

That’s the start. But what comes next? The long, slow and imperfect journey of changing bad habits, and realizing the context that leads us toward the not-so-good-for-us decisions. For many behaviors and obsessions, there’s a state of mind and series of events that lets us negotiate with our own conscience, and make deals, and excuses, and half-hearted promises that we won’t keep for ourselves or anyone else. There’s a rush and a reward, short-lived as it might be, that causes us to desire this activity in the first place. Maybe there’s also a social context, among a specific group of friends or acquaintances, that reinforces this choice. Or a true payoff, some measurable value that makes it hard to offset.

Regarding behavior around food, I’ve learned to debate with myself. Have a little discussion. Test the signal from my mind that says I’m hungry. Sip some water and wait 10 minutes. Do I still have the same craving? Or did it fade away? Would a small portion be sufficient to feed the craving, or should I substitute something else, or just ignore the craving entirely? I consider these options, and try to choose the most effective one.

Work of artist Erin Hanson

There are other tools. Maybe you have to keep a journal, to make yourself accountable to yourself, and actually acknowledge, list and monitor (by quantity of time, distance, volume, servings, whatever measurement) your own patterns. Weigh the decision against its cost, such as the exercise involved to work off what you’re about to ingest. Ask yourself … really picture this … how do you feel after you nibble on that snack (or sip another drink or take extra time in front of a screen or buy another scratch ticker or spend free time sitting or lying down)? Can you stop? If the picture in your head isn’t nice (your stomach or your head is upset, you’re disappointed in yourself and diving into a loop of negative self-talk, because you indulged and then over-indulged) that’s a deterrent. Who wants to do something temporarily pleasurable, if the result is that nasty and self-loathing experience on the other side? Visualize who you want to be (maybe an image of yourself fit, happy, connected to other people, active, balanced and in control). And yes, you can pray. Ask for help from a power outside yourself.

What else can give us the same … or maybe a better … fulfillment? Depends on your longings, and what will sate them instead. Also depends on how hard the work is to overcome those cravings and desires, and find an alternative that slowly becomes your new passion. When you want a cigarette, getting on a bike might not sound tempting at first. But over time, the feel of the bike ride, the beat of your heart and lungs, the place your mind can go, will be it’s own sort of rush … it’s own form of high.

Maybe you can’t do it alone. Maybe you need support. Share your goals with your family, so they can also help you (if they’re willing to help versus sabotaging or enabling). Tell your friends, too. Work with a counselor or caregiver. Join a group. Take a class. Find a trainer or a coach, a mentor or a sponsor.

I grew up in a family filled with “isms.” Substance abuse. Mental health issues. Depression. Bipolar. Weight. Money. Physical abuse. Lots of tough stuff (though plenty of goodness, too), and most of it quietly tucked away, until it couldn’t be hidden anymore.

Based on that experience, I would say, “don’t hide it.” Don’t make it a secret that you or others must keep. When it’s possible, and there are circumstances that might make that inadvisable, but more often it’s safest to be open, you can claim it. Make it something that is part of who you are, and something you can live with, and find balance around. You are stronger for it.

Work of artist Erin Hanson

And you know what? You may slip. We’re humans. We backslide. And we have to let that be part of the process, and be kind to ourselves, but also disciplined. And expect the best. Want the most. Try to honor our bodies, our minds, our spirits, our relationships, and that spark of the sacred that is burning inside each of us.

I have named one of my own habits and temptations. But we all have them, and they can take many forms.

Challenge yourself, in the face of the old habit that might be slowly stealing away other aspects of your life. Do I need to invest more time in front of this screen, as riveting as these posts and search results seem and as tempting as that next clickable link would be, instead of doing something else like reading a book, spending time in conversation with a loved one, or going outside to do something more active? Do I need another bite of comfort food, as much as it might sound very consoling right now, rather than a glass of water or a walk? Do I need another hour of work, as simple as it would be to stay here and keep going on this project in which I’m involved, instead of putting down this labor and allowing myself to be more available? Do I need to sleep in for 27 more minutes, as cozy as it is under these covers in this bed, instead of waking up and moving? Do I need to use the car to run that errand, as quick as it would be to complete the task, when a walk downtown will take more time and use more energy and slow me down … maybe in a positive way?

When possible, our lives can be about letting go of want, and discovering how to fulfill need. Yoga. Fitness programs. Self-help education. Motivational classes. Many forms of physical-spiritual practice or faith lead us in this direction. Letting go. Desiring less. And conversely, having more.

The poet Linda Pastan wrote about this issue.

What We Want

What we want
is never simple.
We move among the things
we thought we wanted:
a face, a room, an open book
and these things bear our names–
now they want us.
But what we want appears
in dreams, wearing disguises.
We fall past,
holding out our arms
and in the morning
our arms ache.
We don’t remember the dream,
but the dream remembers us.
It is there all day
as an animal is there
under the table,
as the stars are there
even in full sun.

We are all full of goodness. And we all have passions and pastimes. Often we also have cravings or yearnings, some of which are good for us, and some of which can hurt us. There’s always a chance to shift the balance. It may not be easy. It may not be 100% consistent. But it’s possible. And it makes a difference, for ourselves and those with whom we seek connection.

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.