Tag Archives: new directions

Sep21

Autobiography … What Faith Do I Claim?

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One of the homework assignments in a few of my classes has been to write and present a Spiritual Autobiography. Hmmm. It feels self-absorbed and narcissistic, in many ways, to focus inwardly and then to talk about oneself in this context. To an audience of peers and professors.

Yet it’s an important question to pose for ourselves. We need to be familiar with this story. To know why we arrived at a Divinity School to study. And what we want as the outcome of this time in graduate school. What is our connection to the Sacred?

I think it’s a question that all people pose for themselves at one time or another. What does my faith mean to me? What do I believe? What makes meaning out of the world to me? What do I hold as Holy or Sacred or bigger than myself?

As students and facilitators, we discuss milestones. Events or people or experiences or texts that shaped our faiths. Or raised questions that we’re still trying to answer.

Many of us consider our personal views of the sacred or the divine. Identify the language and images we use around those ideas. For some of us, the language might be a Trinitarian Christian concept (God-Jesus-Holy Spirit). For others it might be monotheistic Allah or Yahweh. For others it is a Boddhisatva, or a Goddess, or a different deity.

For some folks, there isn’t a specific deity or name that defines what is sacred. Maybe there’s a “Creative Force.” Or for some of my classmates, connection with the Sacred is inseparable from being human.

Some of these ideas may sound like heresy, if you are uncomfortable with the reality that people around the world follow many different religions. If you believe, or your faith tells you to believe, that there is only “one true way.”

I don’t put the idea of “one true way” into quotations to belittle that concept … just to acknowledge that not all belief systems require that people follow their way of thinking, being and doing. Not all belief systems consign everyone else in the world to Hell if they don’t convert. I’ve never been comfortable or okay with the concept that my faith is the only faith, and that everyone else is outside the circle and isn’t going to be okay, isn’t going to heaven, isn’t going to evolve to the next phase of being … I cannot reconcile that. Never could. Still can’t. Maybe it’s not my job to work out that dichotomy. I’m just admitting that I don’t embrace it.

Interestingly, many people in this era consider themselves to be spiritual, but not religious. And it’s a fair distinction.

Religion, as such, is the human-made institution that grows up around the seeds of a faith. For example, Christ and his first followers, for instance, were Jews. They were not Christians. And initially, Muhammed and his people weren’t Muslims with a capital “M.”

These Prophets didn’t necessarily believe they came to start new religions. Simply to bring a message to the world.

What evolved afterward, the codifying, the creation of a structure of authority and governance, administration and policies and laws and practices … those aren’t the original parts of any faith. Those are Religion with a capital “R.” They are systems developed and put into place by humans around the original messages brought to us by Prophets. At least, that’s my simplistic definition of it, but I think it’s a reasonable one.

I’ve learned, in the past few weeks, that saying that there’s one version of any Religion is also naïve. Is there one acknowledge and universal experience of Christianity? Christians would chuckle if you ask that. There are so many variations on what Christianity means and how it is experienced, starting with the major division between Catholic and Protestant. And you can go on from there.

The same is true of Judaism and Islam. Do you belong, for instance, to a temple that is Orthodox or reformed? Is the Judaism of a temple in Brookline, Massachusetts similar to the Judaism on a kibbutz in Israel? Unlikely.

Some contemporary scholars say that is it more accurate to acknowledge many Islam(s) rather than one Islam. Because again, these Religions, though springing from the seed of one origin, have developed within varied social, historical, ethnic, political, economic, and geographical contexts. Islam practiced in the neighborhoods of Chicago is different than Islam experienced in London or living in a nation such as Turkey. It has markedly different interpretation and practices in Afghanistan or Iran than in parts of India or Indonesia.

Some people following a specific Religion (with a capital “R”) will say there is only one true version, and all other schools that fall under that same umbrella or label are false. Not the real thing. But which version of any Religion is real? True? The only authentic one?

Those sorts of schisms and arguments are probably another reason why so many people in the world don’t want to be called Religious. For a lot of folks, technicalities lose sight of the whole point of faith. It sounds something like this. “Who cares about the semantics? Can’t we just pay attention to the original message? Can’t we get back to the bigger reason for why we worship and pray?”

Spirituality, on the other hand, seems to be a more universal impulse in humans to seek a connection with something greater than oneself. Something that some of us would call Sacred. Maybe some others would call it Nature or the Universe.

More people consider themselves to be Spiritual than to be Religious. Many people don’t want to be categorized, labeled or aligned with a particular tradition. It’s feels like a bad word or way of imposing limitations, for a lot of people.

And in a way, although I realize I am fundamentally Trinitarian (Christian), I am also connected to other practices. Yoga traditions, which can embody Christian references as well as others. Aspects of Buddhism that I have been taught. Native American beliefs that I find in poetry, art and stories. Teachings handed down from Asian origins by mentors who instruct us about spiritual practices as well as physical ones in martial arts classes such as kickboxing or karate classes. Jewish and Islamic offerings that I share during special holidays with my community. Other influences.

I don’t discount or turn away from the beauty and truths that I find in other places, other faiths. I incorporate them. I learn from them. I listen to them. Maybe I learn their practices, when those may help to offer balance or healing in my life.

Yet I am also learning not to make the mistake that all these Religions or practices are, underneath it all, the same. That’s a dangerous mistake. These are different faiths. The people who claim them also experience and view the world through a somewhat different lens.We live in a pluralistic world; that’s okay. In fact, that’s complex and amazing.

Yet we can inform and inspire each other. We can live peaceably. Build community. Share a world together.

Sep17

Partings

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Today Sarah joins her college classmates and sets off by plane for Greece. She’ll study nursing in Thessaloniki for three months. Probably visit other cities, and even other countries, while she’s there. She’s considering more travel around Europe after the semester ends.

Why not? She’s young. Relatively footloose and commitment-free. When is there a better time?

And what can substitute for life experience, when it comes to education? Books and professors are great. They give us context. Theories. Even practical ideas that we can apply in the real world.

Yet lessons often come the other way, too. Firsthand. In person. As realities that we handle and experience. Eventually, to make space in our minds and hearts for greater understanding, we must touch, see, think about and feel events, cultures, people and ideas for ourselves. We cannot fully appreciate the similarities and differences that make the world so complex — sometimes beautifully so, other times tragically so — unless we take the chance to engage it.

She’s traveling to the second-largest city in Greece, steeped in history of many cultures, ethnicities and faiths. For instance, some of its inhabitants appear in the sacred text of the New Testament in letters from the Apostle Paul; she’ll walk some of the sacred sites I’m studying in books. She’ll reside in and explore ancient ground that was holy, thousands of years before Christianity was ever born, populated by Greek deities and temples. She will live in the multicultural realities of a city that was once a bustling part of the Byzantine empire, became a sanctuary for Jews outcast from Spain for a period of about 400 years. It joined the Greek nation in the early 20th century, burned in 1917, was largely rebuilt, and was home to thousands of refugees in the wake of a ‘population exchange treaty’ between Greece and Turkey in 1923. It remains a vibrant and diversely-populated place. For more detailed information, visit www.greecetravel.com/thessaloniki/introduction.html

We’ll stay here in Boston. Say good-bye and watch her walk across a threshold. It’s a coming of age moment, as she launches herself into the world, to learn lessons from her college classrooms and other lessons on the streets or in the cafes, shops, and other hangouts around the city.

I expect, as we say good-bye, that she will continue to experience her own partings. She’s leaving behind her high school self. Her friends are all already on their college campuses. Or finding jobs and moving away from home. Or serving in the military. Beginning the next phase of their young adult lives. Sarah, too, will let go of childhood and start anew.

When she walks through the security gate and later through customs, she will be walking into a new world. And a new part of her life.

And here? Though we aren’t flying away, but staying home, we’re also beginning the “next step” in our family life. Whatever that might mean … whatever shape it takes … big house, empty rooms, long work or school days, late nights, early mornings … two of us trying to make chances to connect. Finding purpose in our adult lives, now that we have started Sarah on the path to her own life apart from us. And always, the way parents do, thinking about both of our daughters.

Somewhere, Jessie fits into this transition. We’ve said good-bye before. Farewell to Jessie was different. This day, as Sarah waves and joins her classmates, this is the good-bye you’re supposed to say to a child. It means you’re doing what you should, helping your child take steps toward adulthood and independence.

After all, it’s not permanent. It’s not forever.

Yet we also realize … the young woman who comes home again after her adventures… she will be Sarah. But she will be a new, changed, more mature and experienced Sarah.

Sure, I thought I was ready to let her go. Stoic. I knew, cognitively, what this separation meant. I talked myself through it. Rallied around its importance and symbolism. Believe it’s good and right for her to do. But there’s a difference between knowing something and feeling it. It’s easy to know something with your head, but much tougher to live through it with your heart.

So I thought it would be easy enough to get ready and say farewell, because this departure has been happening in stages for several months. Years, even.

Yet we’re all on edge. Trying to be gentle with each other, but equally prickly and moody and temperamental. Right now, we often say or do the wrong thing, as often as we make the right choices, to help each other through this good-bye.

My husband I will be different, too. All of us – humans — change. Nobody is static, fixed to one moment in time and space, unable to transition. Life and consciousness itself is a response to stimuli. All humans, even when we feel stuck, are somehow in flux, moving, transforming.

We’ll all get through it. And blossom on the other side of the transition. Yet that doesn’t make the moment of parting any easier. In order to hold the love, you must also hold the pain.

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.

Aug31

Doing It All

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Does this sound familiar to you?

You’re in the middle of a significant event. Everyone is quiet, listening intently. The entire space is hushed, leaning forward, catching the impressive, weighty, world-changing reflections of an august speaker. And then you hear a little one call out, unimpressed by all the pomp and circumstance, the most important words in her world, “Mama!”

Yesterday was an event called convocation. The new Dean of our school spoke to the incoming class. The professors processed in their caps, gowns  and colors. We listened to flute and trumpet. And a moving message from the Dean himself about the role of religion and spirituality in today’s conflicted world.

Students and faculty attended. Family attended. And as it turns out, very young children came along.

This is a small college on a large campus. It’s built around community. And that’s more obvious than ever, when students or staff bring their babies and toddlers to the formal events.

The child calling out? She put the entire experience into perspective again. It would be easy to take ourselves too seriously. Indeed, the Dean poked fun at Harvard’s view of itself as the oldest college in America, and teased all of us because he graduated from a British college that is over 600 years old. Much of his reflection (and his gift as a writer and teacher) is to humanize, with individual detail, larger issues. As a little one in her parent’s arms did for us, last night.

I believe the faculty on this campus understands that most of us are pulled in many directions, and fulfilling many roles in life. They are, too, although there’s probably an idyllic and abstract tendency among some of the them who live almost exclusively inside the academic bubble of the Harvard community. Contrarily, many gifted faculty also travel all over the world and work outside academia, too, and bring their real-world expertise back into the classroom.

I’ve been on campus all week, with n0n-stop orientation and info sessions. I’ve been so busy with these events, that I didn’t read the text on my cell phone, from my daughter in Italy. Or the one from my husband. I postponed replying to emails from clients. I couldn’t talk to friends. Yet I’m needed in all those parts of my life, too. Next week, when the schedule starts to settle down, I hope I’ll find more balance.

For now, I’m part of a small class of students with diverse backgrounds. Their average age is 26 … much younger than me. But I’ve met a handful of people in my position … returning after decades of life in the working world, with settled homes and families and careers, now going back to school for some reason. People from several nations, and all over the country, with all sorts of goals for their degrees.

It’s my experience (after a few days of orientation, so take it for what it’s worth) that the college welcomes us as complex people with multiple roles in our lives. Yes, I’m a full-time college student again. I’m also working and available to clients. I’m a mom with a college student who will need support from time to time. I’m a spouse who’d like to be present in my relationship. I’m a volunteer for several organizations. I’m a friend with connections to tend.

Andover Hall

So I was a member of the audience listening to HDS’s Dean, David Hempton, speak. Trying to catch every word, as we gathered outdoors under the tent on a bright August evening, at the close of summer and coming of fall, with Andover Hall in the background. He offered his first words addressing the school as our new dean.

And then a classmate’s child cried out, “Mama!” No one paused to frown and criticize. There wasn’t a gasp of outrage. A patient father went off to get a red plastic wagon. A mother (and student) escorted her young daughter inside, probably to the bathroom. In the rear, a baby gurgled.

Education in the context of life. The dean’s words at the front of the tent. The baby’s call for “Mama” in the back. I think they “get it” about life and equilibrium. I hope so. It’s why I believe I’m called toward this vocation. You can’t really separate these parts of self: mind, body and spirit.

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.

Aug3

Inspired by Real People (Defintely Not Saints)

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Chris and Sarah in 2011 PMC.

Bandwagon. Soapbox. Call it what you will, sometimes I journal about things that make me passionate. Issues that prompt me to want to act, to find a way to help and make a difference.

We all have causes. I know this and I honor the responses we have each made to the  challenges that have touched our lives. You have yours. I have mine. We can’t do everything, but we can choose to care and support those efforts that move us. We can donate time, talent or treasure to the causes that speak to us.

Right now you’re reading (again) about one of mine. Today I’m inspired by my family (Chris, Sarah, and Jessie) and other cyclists.

In just my town of Ipswich, 11 athletes will participate in the Pan Mass Challenge (PMC) bike ride this weekend. In total, over 5,500 cyclists will participate. They’ll start from Wellesley and Bourne in Massachusetts. Many will end in Provincetown, although there are several routes; they’ll ride between 25-110 miles over one day and 153-190 miles over two days. They come from 36 states and eight countries. There’s approximately one volunteer working to support every two riders.  The youngest riders are 13 and the eldest is 88.

The PMC is the single largest athletic fundraising event in the nation. Last year, about 230,000 individual contributions were made to support these cyclists. This year’s goal? Raise $36 million for the Dana Farber’s Jimmy Fund. This event also provides almost two-thirds of Dana Farber’s annual revenue to support groundbreaking cancer research; 100% of tax-deductible contributions go toward this effort.

As I’ve mentioned before, the research at Dana Farber is revolutionary. There are a handful of institutions around the world (most of them private and supported by fundraising initiatives such as this one) that pioneer most of the cancer knowledge base and treatment protocols used in the world today. Dana Farber is one of these leaders, and their research and treatment methods set the gold-standard of practice used in clinics and hospitals around the globe.

Their teams and their knowledge sustained our daughter and sister Jessie for six years while she lived with leukemia (the best-of-the-best kind of leukemia, if you have to get it, as we were once told). Statistically, Jessie had all the best chances to go through the traditional, effective 2-year protocol and come out a survivor. These days, about 87% of all children treated for this type of leukemia will be long-term survivors. (Even 30 years ago, that number was much lower, so Dana Farber has made tremendous improvements in survival rates.)

Yet almost from the start, Jessie was one of the kids on the rare side of the experience; she was constantly beset with infectious challenges. She almost died on day 10 after diagnosis, over a span of eight hours, as her body shut down, not from cancer alone, but from the infection that had set in. Her oncology team saved her then, by identifying the bacterial cause and treating her aggressively with the best pairing of antibiotics to stop its progression. She endured numerous complications from that interlude, had parts of her body surgically removed and altered as a result, but she lived. There were many more bouts of infections, not all of them so dangerous.

When she relapsed the first time, and we couldn’t identify a close genetic match for a donor for a bone marrow transplant (another statistical surprise for all of us), Dana Farber used an alternative protocol, much more aggressive, that lasted another two years. After she relapsed a second time, Dana Farber recommended another option for transplant; we used stem cells donated anonymously by parents from their newborn’s umbilical cord. The transplant itself was successful; Jessie’s body populated with the new healthy cells of her donor … her blood type and cellular footprint changed. Sadly, aggressive infectious complications combined with a much-compromised immune system ultimately challenged her body too much, and she died 101 days after transplant. Six years after being diagnosed with leukemia.

Age nine.

These bare paragraphs don’t begin to articulate the depth of our family’s journey. They’re just an outline of an illness, and don’t tell you about  Jessie herself. All her passions: theater, swimming, dance, karate, bike-riding, dog-care, kindergarten-first-second-and-third grade, books, card games, soccer, drawing, conversations, friends, and family. She practiced how to ride a two-wheeler, but still used training wheels. She earned an orange belt in karate. She began to read on her own just weeks before she died. She had a crush on a boy in her grade. She dressed in black biker boots and red sparkly Oz shoes. She wore flowing princess gowns, bald or not. She went on father-daughter dates with dad. With her sister Sarah, she ran the Rotary 5K Kids Course. She put up mom’s hair in crazy do’s. She earned a soccer team medal. For one birthday, she raised money and supplies for the local animal shelter. In school, she led an act of social justice in the cafeteria to prevent ostracizing of another child. She performed in a community theatrical production while on treatment. She also traveled to England while on treatment. She savored Zumi’s chai tea, black olives, sushi, spaghetti with “sprinkle cheese” and sauce on the side, chicken and lo mein noodles, pancakes with syrup, and mint-chocolate chip ice cream. She went to the top of a ski slope, rode on skimobiles and jetskis (go fast). She also had temper tantrums, threw things, swore, yelled, drew in permanent marker on furniture, hid with the dog when we looked for her, liked to win even if it required inventing new rules for the game, preferred to be the boss in most situations, preferred the limelight and the liberty of choreographing her own dances or writing her own songs, without practicing enough to know the basic steps or musical chords, teased her sister relentlessly, and sometimes “hated us.”

Let me be clear. She was a little girl, compromised by a mortal illness, but living life as boldly as possible, despite that challenge. She wasn’t a saint, an angel or a martyr. She was “just Jessie,” but that means a whole lot, if you knew her.

Most of what Jessie accomplished, she did while on treatment. Two-thirds of her life was lived on treatment. Her lifespan was meaningful and vibrant, in great part because Dana Farber’s teams found ways to keep the cancer in abeyance and also to balance out quality of life with effective treatment. Nothing stopped her. And she changed hundreds, possibly thousands, of lives, simply by “living large” despite leukemia.

Anything I say cannot fully describe our family over those years. We have changed markedly from the family who first started this journey almost eleven years ago.

Sarah grew up from a naive second-grader into a middle-schooler who’d seen almost every difficult side of human existence, even before lost her sister. She stopped being the little girl who imagined she was a horse or a puppy and grew into a soccer player, on-again/off-again theatrical participant, saxophonist, committed dancer (modern, jazz/hip-hop, ballet), Honors student and gifted singer (solo and chorus). She helped to shape our family’s foundation, Bright Happy Power, and its work at Childrens Hospital with young cancer patients. She volunteered for InterAct (high school Rotary service club) and loved the mission trips with First Church’s youth group; that’s how she connected hands-on with spirituality. She is determined to help teens in abusive dating relationships or living with other traumas. And about becoming a pediatric oncology nurse. Her life grew more, not less, complex after living through Jessie’s cancer experience.

Chris? Became a partner in his architecture firm during the years of Jessie’s original diagnosis. During the most demanding parts of Jessie’s treatment, he was Sarah’s primary caregiver (took her to school every day, and was home every night to give her dinner, do homework and  put her to bed), yet also managed to visit the hospital a few hours every day or so, and take the weekend hospital shifts, while working fulltime. He joined and remains active in the Rotary Club, a service organization that works locally, nationally and internationally on health and education issues. He’s also become an avid cyclist and serves as a youth group leader and Deacon in our church. The only thing more important than these causes? His family: we have always come first. He will set aside any other commitment to be available when he is needed; that has never changed.

These sketches make both of my daughters (and my spouse) sound all glowing and goody-two-shoes, and anyone who has known them, realizes they are each real people and far from perfect. I have certainly journaled and complained (sometimes in very gentle, politically-correct terms) about the less-than-picturesque moments inside our family. Like all of us, my family members (living and departed) are each complex, imperfect and vitally intricate in character: gifted, troubled, challenged, determined, intelligent, cranky, beautiful (okay, handsome for Chris), moody, selfish, generous, always changing and growing.

My narrations cannot really depict the many Dana Farber and Childrens Hospital care providers who made Jessie’s life so rich, because she spent so much in their care. Many of them remain close friends and are still part of our lives. We had primary teams that followed Jessie for six years. Many people  knew her from her frequent visits to their stations or services in the hospital or clinic. And some people we met just a few times, or never saw at all, although they helped us. Nurses, doctors, surgeons, oncologists, geneticists, transplant specialists, pain management specialists, infectious disease specialists, GI specialists, lung and cardiac specialists, nutrition specialists, eye doctors, dentists, clinical assistants, nursing assistants, technicians, respiratory therapists, radiologists, radiology oncologists, lab technicians, pharmacists, anesthesiologists, therapists, counselors, playroom specialists, resource room specialists, medical clown units, music therapists, art therapists, volunteers, and even a visiting dog! Can you imagine how many people were involved in her life and her care?!

Sarah and Jessie in 2007.

Surely you can understand why my husband Chris and daughter Sarah will ride this weekend. We didn’t have a happy ending, but we had a special, memorable life together. Cancer didn’t define us, though it certainly shaped much of our life as a family.

We want even more for other children, other families. We want happy endings for everyone. Actually, we’d like empty oncology units and transplant rooms and eventually we’d like to put those units of the hospital out of business, because everyone is cured, and cancer is an archaic fact.

Although Dana Farber and other research organizations have improved the odds for many children and adults, we’re not done yet. Not even close. All of us know, or will know, someone affected by cancer. It might be in our own bodies, or diagnosed within our immediate family or a close friend or colleague. It will touch your life, if it hasn’t already.

Our goal, for now, is to work toward happier endings. To tell anecdotes with more satisfying results and even greater chances of long-term remission and healthy lifespans. We have come a long way. 50 years ago, leukemia was a death sentence for virtually all children. Now their chances are amazing. The same is true for many other pediatric diagnoses, though not all forms of cancer have such good outcomes.

Regardless of how optimistic the statistics may be, it’s all or nothing when it’s a single life. Sure, the chances of survival are about over 80%. But you can’t be 85% cured. In the end, you have it or your don’t. You stay in remission, or you don’t. It’s 0% or 100%. We want 100% for everyone.

Eventually, you will be able to be vaccinated to prevent some forms of cancer. Or there will be a genetically-tailored response to your specific cancer, that will target only the bad cells and not harm the remainder of your body on a cellular level, as it arrests and eliminates the cancer. It’s begun already.

For more facts and figures, I offer you these resources:

Our town’s local weekly newspaper, the Ipswich Chronicle, interviewed our PMC participants. Movingly, they asked the question, “In one word, what emotion best captures your experience in the Pan Mass Challenge?”

The answers in our town were these:

  • Chris Doktor: Gratitude. I continue to be grateful for that I can ride in memory of my 9-year-old daughter Jessie and do so with my surviving daughter Sarah. I’m grateful that I can share this experience with her for the fourth year. I am also grateful Dana Farber kept Jessie aliveby keeping her cancer in check for six years. I am grateful research continues to expore answers to this dilemma we call cancer.
  • Bill Gram: Faith.
  • Bob Caruso: Inspiring.
  • Sarah Doktor: Challenging.
  • Diana Lannon: It’s difficult to distill down to one word what emotion best captures my experience in the Pan Mass Challenge. I actually tjought about I on my ride today. I would say the words are gratitude and love.
  • Paul Slack: Sorry but I have three – love, sadness and hope.
  • Logan: Transformational.

Here’s a link to learn more about or support Chris  and Sarah  or Ipswich riders.

Me? I’ll be there at water stops and the finish line with camera, extra water, emergency gear, and cow bells. Clang-clang! Someone has to be the crowd along the sidelines for this event. When Chris was asked by the Ipswich Chronicle reporter about his favorite part of the ride? He answered, “Seeing all the people along the route – waving, offering water, holding signs of thanks and encouragement, reaching out to touch a hand … as well as arriving at the first water stop — all the excitement and enthusiasm of the volunteers is inspiring!”

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.