Don't Forget to Call Your Mamma... *
NOTE: This entry was written Saturday, 29 August 2015. In the wee hours of Monday morning, 31 August 2015, my mother died peacefully. I am so grateful for all of the readers - friends and those who don't know us - who honor her and my family by reading this.
My mother has been one of my greatest teachers throughout my entire life. For years, since I got my first email account, twenty-five years ago as a college freshman, my mother and I had a nearly daily (and sometimes multiple times a day) email correspondence. In time, this became a sharing of struggles and mutual support. Always, she shared insights -- about her life, the lives of people we know, and life in general -- that helped me to grow and change inside. Nearly three years ago, that correspondence, and our ability to talk on the phone (we definitely needed bulk long distance in the days before cell phones), disappeared in an instant. She was in the hospital, I called to talk and comfort her, she picked up the phone, and -- with my dad and the doctor in the room there, she suddenly couldn't speak.
Since then, despite her inability to speak, my mother has continued to teach me, day in and day out, about the strength and will to continue to live, to always strive to move forward, to get back up on one's feet literally and figuratively.
And so it breaks my heart that this past Thursday my dad and I finally had to be the ones to say "it's time to let go." She knew, too. I'm sure she did. In her last conscious moments, she looked deeply at each of us gathered in the room. My dad**, my brother, my husband, me.
We continue to watch vigilantly, as her body pulses on.
"If I have done anything to harm you in the past year, please forgive me." My mother taught me to always ask these words out loud, each year in season of Awe. We have usually asked between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.
"Repent one day before you die," taught Rabbi Eliezer (Avot). There is no time like the present. I don't expect my mother to live to see Rosh Hashanah, two weeks from now. Right now it is Elul, the month preceding these days -- and a time of preparation for those upcoming days of awe.
Last night I sat by my mother's bed and asked her forgiveness. This is the hardest year, yet. Did I imagine the slight raise of eyebrows, or a minute squeeze from her hand?
I sang to her from Psalms:
עשה עיני אל ההרים מעין יבוא עזרי
I will lift my eyes to the mountains from whence my help comes.
(among others)
and also from the prayers of forgiveness:
סלח לנו מחל לנו כפר לנו
Forgive us, pardon us, grant us atonement.
(among others)
My mother has taught me to live tradition, not just to know it, by living it herself.
Any sins I commit, by omission, by neglect, or by intent, are my own. And I have plenty.
It occurred to me last night when I returned home, and was trying to find sleep, that there is another way in which my mother has lived that I have not fully lived up to.
I have never once heard my mother say "I don't want to...."
(There is one exception, and it is only in the past year when she has been entirely dependent on other people for nearly every aspect of her life from access to food and entertainment to personal hygiene, and I do not count this as a lapse, but rather as a part of her ongoing desire to have some control and sense of safety in her fragile life during this time.)
I know that I regularly feel that "I don't want to." When I would express this as a kid, my mother would make me do things anyway -- but she always stood behind me, sometimes literally, as I did them. A silly memory of this is when I went to get my driver's permit. I was nervous, it was a new thing, I didn't know what to ask or how. She coached me, but she wouldn't go up to the desk for me and ask for the paperwork -- she made me do it. Nearly thirty years later, I still remember that moment, and am grateful for it. Her coaching from way back continues to guide me when I encounter new things.
But I can be stubborn, and sometimes it takes me a long time to go up to that desk, to step up to the plate as it were.
As my mother lies unconscious, as we watch her body wither, I cannot help but think how I have already missed in the past few years since she lost her ability to speak and write, and how greatly I will miss, her coaching, her conversation, her stamina.
In my mother's honor, I want to strive harder against the "I don't wanna" feeling in my life.
Don't forget to call, talk with, write to, connect with your loved ones. Don't forget to call your Mamma! I'll be sitting by my mother's side as long as I can. I love her more than anything in the world!
Notes:
* Don't Forget to Call Your Mamma...I Wish I Could Call Mine is the title of a book by Lewis Grizzard.I once had all of Grizzard's books, collections of his syndicated newspaper humor column. I laughed heartily through my late teens and my twenties to his work. This is the only book I have kept through the years, though I haven't reread it in at least a dozen.
** For family, and others who wonder or know, he is my step-dad. See my father's day post from this year.
Saturday, August 29, 2015
Sunday, August 16, 2015
Wake Up, Elul is Here! -- with Writing Prompts
רבי אליעזר אומר, יהי כבוד חברך חביב עליך כשלך, ואל תהי נוח לכעוס, ושוב יום אחד לפני מיתתך
Rabbi Eliezer would say: The honor of your fellow should be as precious to you as your own, and do not be easy to anger. Repent one day before your death. (Sayings of the Fathers (Avot) ch.2)
Asked his disciples: Does a man know on which day he will die? Said he to them: So being the case, he should repent today, for perhaps tomorrow he will die; hence, all his days are passed in a state of repentance. (bShabbat 153a)
Mindfulness is a hot ticket word in contemporary American culture. It goes along with meditation, yoga, contemplative practices. Some of us may roll our eyes at the term, others may say, "yeah, I do that!" and still others — perhaps most of us — have a desire to increase our mindfulness.
In the ancient wisdom of Rabbi Eliezer we find the call to be first of all mindful in our relationships. Hold the honor of our fellows high, and try not to get angry. And, knowing we will err, as surely all humans do, Rabbi Eliezer offers a way out: repent. Now.
But don't we all get caught up in the rush of daily life? Don't we sometimes rush to grumble about the person in front of us on the road, or in a grocery store? Don't we sometimes yell at our children out of exasperation even when we know it won't help anything (I did that the other day at the park, and I'm still thinking how ridiculous I must have looked to all those — one of my less pretty parenting moments)? Aren't we all sometimes selfish, sometimes abrupt, sometimes hot, sometimes judgmental? Haven't we all acted before thinking?
The blasts of the shofar, from this first day of Elul into the coming new year, call us to wake up, to check in with ourselves and see, just how mindful are we? Just how aware are we in our daily lives?
Even if we have a daily practice of self-reflection and self-improvement — even if that practice has us turning to those we have been angry at, or have judged poorly, in the process of our daily lives — even so, very few of us don't need a reminder.
Elul gives us a month to reflect on the last year and to renew our mindfulness in preparation for the new year, and another ten days to seek forgiveness before we rehearse our death at Yom Kippur.
Wake Up! shouts the shofar. Pay attention. How are you being in the world?
One of my spiritual teachers regularly asks the question How be you? Sometimes this sets my inner grammar police wriggling uncomfortably. But just now, I'm hearing it differently. "How are you feeling" is not the question she is asking me. Rather, I am sure, she is asking How are you being in the world? How be you?
And this is the question I offer to you. How are you being in the world?
WRITING PROMPT: If you don't have a journal, find some blank paper. Write down the question, How am I being in the world? How was I in my interactions with people today? Now spend 18 minutes (my timer is set there, but chose your amount of time) reflecting on one or more encounters you had with other people today. Focus on how you were in those interactions; let go of how they were, only judging them with honor.
And this is the question I offer to you. How are you being in the world?
WRITING PROMPT: If you don't have a journal, find some blank paper. Write down the question, How am I being in the world? How was I in my interactions with people today? Now spend 18 minutes (my timer is set there, but chose your amount of time) reflecting on one or more encounters you had with other people today. Focus on how you were in those interactions; let go of how they were, only judging them with honor.
Repeat this exercise throughout the week. If there are days when you feel like you don't have much to say, reflect backward; is there an experience from the last week, month, year that you are still thinking about, that is still bothering you in some way? Reflect!
Sunday, August 9, 2015
Re'eh: Reaping Blessing Through Letting Go
When you do set [your slave] free, do not feel aggrieved; for in the six years s/he has given you double the service of a hired man. Moreover, the Lord your God will bless you in all you do.
(Deut. 15:18)
I don't keep human slaves, and I don't believe in such keeping, but I do keep material slaves. Beyond the things I have in my life that I put to good use on a daily, weekly, or even annual basis, I keep things far beyond their function to me.
When we moved across the country last summer, I gave away an incredible amount of what my mother taught me to call "junque" when I was a kid, a term she placed on the box of things that didn't fit in any good category but which I refused to part with. Apparently, I have accumulated a lot of junque. Last year I finally got rid of piles of books about topics I have no longer study or work with, furniture and clothing that I rarely or never used, tchatchkes (trinkets - pick your word) that my inner child had forced me to hold onto, and many broken things I kept promising myself I would fix.
I kept a desk. It's a perfectly good desk - a solid top over four sturdy legs, with a single small drawer big enough for a few pencils, a small stapler, and a packet of stamps.
I acquired this desk one summer when someone paid me to clean out and paint their basement. "Get rid of the desk." I brought it home. After all, I was a poor college student, applying at the time for graduate school, and sure to both be poverty stricken and in need of a desk for years to come.
The irony -- which came to me as an epiphany the other day when I read Stephen King's words On Writing, "It starts with this: put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remind yourself why it isn't in the middle of the room" -- is that I don't use a desk. King uses a desk, and his belongs in the corner, not the middle or the room (he also had an epiphany). My writing space, my working space, is a chair or a couch or often enough sitting up in bed. I use a desk when I have to - at work - but not on my own time.
I didn't know this, though, and I moved the desk from my Ohio undergraduate apartment to my Indiana grad student house, then on to Pennsylvania for rabbinical school. I cannot remember where the desk was in our Philly apartment -- it's possible I stored it those years, because there I acquired an IKEA desk with more drawer space. I took both desks with me to New Hampshire, and the old one had an honored spot in our sunroom, where it rarely accumulated too many stacks, and where my husband frequently sat. I sat next to it in the chaise, as I had the other desk in Philly. And then I moved both desks to Connecticut, where the newer one became a desk I sat at a handful of times, and the old one became my son's changing table. When we moved to Seattle, the IKEA desk went to the curb in the great purge, but this old desk came with, still sturdy and, I thought, functional.
Currently, this desk sits in my living room gathering stacks of things. I have sat at it maybe twice in the year we have been here. At Hanukkah it held our various menorahs. But mostly it has stacks of things that get put there, then buried, deeper and deeper until I am forced into an archaeological dig either by avalanche or by a need to find something.
Still, I haven't decided if or how to get it out of my house. We don't have storage space, and besides, storing it for some theoretical use in some unknown time in the future feels absurd. I know if I put it out on the curb or put a note up on my local "buy-nothing" page, it will be gone in short order, and to someone who will surely put it to good use.
Why is it so hard? This week's Parasha reminds us that the difficulty of letting go is common, but that to do so honors the place that thing, idea, or yes, person, has had in our lives. I am also convinced that letting go makes room in our lives for things, ideas, and people we can't anticipate.
Yep, the desk I have held onto for more than twenty years, still with names and phone numbers penned on it by the previous owner, is all but gone.
(Deut. 15:18)
I don't keep human slaves, and I don't believe in such keeping, but I do keep material slaves. Beyond the things I have in my life that I put to good use on a daily, weekly, or even annual basis, I keep things far beyond their function to me.
When we moved across the country last summer, I gave away an incredible amount of what my mother taught me to call "junque" when I was a kid, a term she placed on the box of things that didn't fit in any good category but which I refused to part with. Apparently, I have accumulated a lot of junque. Last year I finally got rid of piles of books about topics I have no longer study or work with, furniture and clothing that I rarely or never used, tchatchkes (trinkets - pick your word) that my inner child had forced me to hold onto, and many broken things I kept promising myself I would fix.
I acquired this desk one summer when someone paid me to clean out and paint their basement. "Get rid of the desk." I brought it home. After all, I was a poor college student, applying at the time for graduate school, and sure to both be poverty stricken and in need of a desk for years to come.
The irony -- which came to me as an epiphany the other day when I read Stephen King's words On Writing, "It starts with this: put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remind yourself why it isn't in the middle of the room" -- is that I don't use a desk. King uses a desk, and his belongs in the corner, not the middle or the room (he also had an epiphany). My writing space, my working space, is a chair or a couch or often enough sitting up in bed. I use a desk when I have to - at work - but not on my own time.
I didn't know this, though, and I moved the desk from my Ohio undergraduate apartment to my Indiana grad student house, then on to Pennsylvania for rabbinical school. I cannot remember where the desk was in our Philly apartment -- it's possible I stored it those years, because there I acquired an IKEA desk with more drawer space. I took both desks with me to New Hampshire, and the old one had an honored spot in our sunroom, where it rarely accumulated too many stacks, and where my husband frequently sat. I sat next to it in the chaise, as I had the other desk in Philly. And then I moved both desks to Connecticut, where the newer one became a desk I sat at a handful of times, and the old one became my son's changing table. When we moved to Seattle, the IKEA desk went to the curb in the great purge, but this old desk came with, still sturdy and, I thought, functional.
Currently, this desk sits in my living room gathering stacks of things. I have sat at it maybe twice in the year we have been here. At Hanukkah it held our various menorahs. But mostly it has stacks of things that get put there, then buried, deeper and deeper until I am forced into an archaeological dig either by avalanche or by a need to find something.
Still, I haven't decided if or how to get it out of my house. We don't have storage space, and besides, storing it for some theoretical use in some unknown time in the future feels absurd. I know if I put it out on the curb or put a note up on my local "buy-nothing" page, it will be gone in short order, and to someone who will surely put it to good use.
Why is it so hard? This week's Parasha reminds us that the difficulty of letting go is common, but that to do so honors the place that thing, idea, or yes, person, has had in our lives. I am also convinced that letting go makes room in our lives for things, ideas, and people we can't anticipate.
Yep, the desk I have held onto for more than twenty years, still with names and phone numbers penned on it by the previous owner, is all but gone.
Wednesday, July 22, 2015
Devarim: Shaking Up Routines
וַנֵּפֶן וַנִּסַּע הַמִּדְבָּרָה
"And we turned and journeyed to the wilderness"
(Deut. 2:1)
This morning I parked in a different place, took the wrong elevator up, then a different (but right) elevator down, got off at the wrong floor, walked back up, used a different restroom, then missed my usual turn. All of which led me to a hug from my dad. And in the end I needed to sit and process, so I stopped at a favorite coffee house I don't ordinarily pass.
In this week's Parashah, Devarim, Moses begins to recount for the Israelites where they have been and what they have done. They have arrived at the border of the Promised Land a second time, nearly 40 years after the first time, and in truth the people who were there, and the actions Moses is referring to, all occurred when those present were either children or not yet born - all except Caleb, Joshua, and Moses himself.
What strikes me here is not so much the place or the people, or even the history lecture from Moses, but the quick recount of the wandering itself. A map of the wandering looks a little like a maze that crosses in and over itself. And the return to the edge of promise comes not after a relatively direct journey from Mitzrayim by way of Sinai, but rather from this loopy roundabout journey.
Just as I have seen my day differently, my mind jogged by my unusual morning route, I am sure this new generation of Israelite adults must have seen their approach to the promise of what lay beyond the Jordan differently than their parents and grandparents had.
Being fully aware sometimes requires a little interruption of routine. My routine this one morning a week has been quite comfortable, in its way, for nearly a year, now - I leave the house early, drive in usually quiet traffic, park in the garage, have breakfast with my mother, read out loud to her, then leave to go to work. Never mind that I have changed jobs, and maybe twice have had to skip a breakfast, it has been very regular routine. This morning, I got a hug from my dad, whom I don't ordinarily see on these early mornings. This morning, I learned a couple of things I didn't know, and I am now thinking of possible support for something. This morning, my transition from breakfast to work was more mindful.
Whether or not the Israelites that stood on the precipice in Deuteronomy were literally a new generation, I can only imagine that they stood there with new eyes, with a new perspective, because of their circuitous journey through the wilderness. Perhaps more than that they would no longer remember slavery personally, which might be a valuable difference, their journey had given them something valuable - had set them up for positive interactions with their neighbors by giving them a tour of the area as a free people.
I am grateful for the periodic diversion from the direct route, for the jog to my mindfulness that comes from shaking up--or being shaken from--my routines. Although I admit - forty years of such diversions might have me throwing up my hands and begging to set down roots. Indeed, while I have traveled across our country, lived in many states, and journeyed internationally - I am so very ready to stay in one place for a very long time. And the timing of this could not be more apt, as we near the first anniversary of my having returned to my "homeland," the city in which I was born and raised, after 24 years of wandering.
"And we turned and journeyed to the wilderness"
(Deut. 2:1)
This morning I parked in a different place, took the wrong elevator up, then a different (but right) elevator down, got off at the wrong floor, walked back up, used a different restroom, then missed my usual turn. All of which led me to a hug from my dad. And in the end I needed to sit and process, so I stopped at a favorite coffee house I don't ordinarily pass.
In this week's Parashah, Devarim, Moses begins to recount for the Israelites where they have been and what they have done. They have arrived at the border of the Promised Land a second time, nearly 40 years after the first time, and in truth the people who were there, and the actions Moses is referring to, all occurred when those present were either children or not yet born - all except Caleb, Joshua, and Moses himself.
What strikes me here is not so much the place or the people, or even the history lecture from Moses, but the quick recount of the wandering itself. A map of the wandering looks a little like a maze that crosses in and over itself. And the return to the edge of promise comes not after a relatively direct journey from Mitzrayim by way of Sinai, but rather from this loopy roundabout journey.
Just as I have seen my day differently, my mind jogged by my unusual morning route, I am sure this new generation of Israelite adults must have seen their approach to the promise of what lay beyond the Jordan differently than their parents and grandparents had.
Being fully aware sometimes requires a little interruption of routine. My routine this one morning a week has been quite comfortable, in its way, for nearly a year, now - I leave the house early, drive in usually quiet traffic, park in the garage, have breakfast with my mother, read out loud to her, then leave to go to work. Never mind that I have changed jobs, and maybe twice have had to skip a breakfast, it has been very regular routine. This morning, I got a hug from my dad, whom I don't ordinarily see on these early mornings. This morning, I learned a couple of things I didn't know, and I am now thinking of possible support for something. This morning, my transition from breakfast to work was more mindful.
Whether or not the Israelites that stood on the precipice in Deuteronomy were literally a new generation, I can only imagine that they stood there with new eyes, with a new perspective, because of their circuitous journey through the wilderness. Perhaps more than that they would no longer remember slavery personally, which might be a valuable difference, their journey had given them something valuable - had set them up for positive interactions with their neighbors by giving them a tour of the area as a free people.
I am grateful for the periodic diversion from the direct route, for the jog to my mindfulness that comes from shaking up--or being shaken from--my routines. Although I admit - forty years of such diversions might have me throwing up my hands and begging to set down roots. Indeed, while I have traveled across our country, lived in many states, and journeyed internationally - I am so very ready to stay in one place for a very long time. And the timing of this could not be more apt, as we near the first anniversary of my having returned to my "homeland," the city in which I was born and raised, after 24 years of wandering.
Sunday, July 12, 2015
Matot-Masei: On Vows and Vowing
Oh, how we try to wriggle out of vows.
I do it as a parent: "If you don't stop, I'm going to take away x." And then I feel guilty, or like it was a harsh punishment, and I find myself backing off. Another parent recently reminded me, "the trick is never to promise or threaten anything you don't intend to follow through on."
I do it as a partner: "I promise I will be better about a." And then I try to narrow the circumstances where a actually applies.
I do it to myself: "I promise to give my body the chance at a full night's sleep." And here I am staying up past my bedtime to write a blog post.
This week's Parashah, the combined Matot-Masei, opens with "If a man makes a vow to God...he shall not break his pledge." (Never mind that it then diminishes a woman's vow, saying her father or husband can negate it, or allow it to stand. I'm going to assume we all agree that men and women are equal, and thus nobody owns the vow of another.)
Torah has plenty to say about vows. Indeed, it is pretty serious about them, especially those in which we obligate ourselves to actions directed at God or in God's name, but also those in which we obligate ourselves to our neighbors, our planet, even ourselves.
Later Jewish custom wriggles, just like we (I) do in everyday life.
Kol nidre (All Vows) - the title prayer of the service that kicks off Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement) - asks that our vows be annulled, that every serious oath we have taken be wiped out, that we not be held accountable.
No, Judaism doesn't say we can get out of our obligations so simply. Indeed, there were early concerns about the notion of annulling vows. The Jewish Encyclopedia discusses a medieval change in the prayer:
What I fear (and I am not alone in this fear) is that we lose the meaning of vows, and even smaller promises - to God and to people - when we assume we are free because of a prayer recited months ago.
I see this diminishing vow-lue -- in the person who goes into a marriage saying, "well, if it doesn't work out, we can always get a divorce," and in my own practices of self-care, be it what I feed myself or my lack of exercise.
The Kol Nidre prayer does not, in fact, ensure us freedom from our vows. Even with the prayer, we must still be careful with our promises, and we must nonetheless atone for our failures before we can expect forgiveness.
A vow is a weighty thing - and it should be. Whether we are promising something to a friend or to God, we should feel the obligation of the relationship. We should not enter in expecting that we can simply wriggle out from under that weight easily, lightly. Still, it's nice to know that, if we make a promise and cannot fulfill it, we can be forgiven, even if it takes some emotional, spiritual, even physical work on our part to get there.
I do it as a parent: "If you don't stop, I'm going to take away x." And then I feel guilty, or like it was a harsh punishment, and I find myself backing off. Another parent recently reminded me, "the trick is never to promise or threaten anything you don't intend to follow through on."
I do it as a partner: "I promise I will be better about a." And then I try to narrow the circumstances where a actually applies.
I do it to myself: "I promise to give my body the chance at a full night's sleep." And here I am staying up past my bedtime to write a blog post.
This week's Parashah, the combined Matot-Masei, opens with "If a man makes a vow to God...he shall not break his pledge." (Never mind that it then diminishes a woman's vow, saying her father or husband can negate it, or allow it to stand. I'm going to assume we all agree that men and women are equal, and thus nobody owns the vow of another.)
Torah has plenty to say about vows. Indeed, it is pretty serious about them, especially those in which we obligate ourselves to actions directed at God or in God's name, but also those in which we obligate ourselves to our neighbors, our planet, even ourselves.
Later Jewish custom wriggles, just like we (I) do in everyday life.
Kol nidre (All Vows) - the title prayer of the service that kicks off Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement) - asks that our vows be annulled, that every serious oath we have taken be wiped out, that we not be held accountable.
No, Judaism doesn't say we can get out of our obligations so simply. Indeed, there were early concerns about the notion of annulling vows. The Jewish Encyclopedia discusses a medieval change in the prayer:
"An important alteration in the wording of the "Kol Nidre" was made by Rashi's son-in-law, Meïr ben Samuel, who changed the original phrase "from the last Day of Atonement until this one" to "from this Day of Atonement until the next."The implication in this change is that we shouldn't be making vows to God in the first place, because we are sure to falter. But while this might be a relief (since we might make vows in the heat of a situation), it does effectively wriggle us out ahead of any actual vow-making. And we might therefore think that we can go ahead and make those heat-of-the-moment vows, and other vows, and not really worry about the consequences.
What I fear (and I am not alone in this fear) is that we lose the meaning of vows, and even smaller promises - to God and to people - when we assume we are free because of a prayer recited months ago.
I see this diminishing vow-lue -- in the person who goes into a marriage saying, "well, if it doesn't work out, we can always get a divorce," and in my own practices of self-care, be it what I feed myself or my lack of exercise.
The Kol Nidre prayer does not, in fact, ensure us freedom from our vows. Even with the prayer, we must still be careful with our promises, and we must nonetheless atone for our failures before we can expect forgiveness.
A vow is a weighty thing - and it should be. Whether we are promising something to a friend or to God, we should feel the obligation of the relationship. We should not enter in expecting that we can simply wriggle out from under that weight easily, lightly. Still, it's nice to know that, if we make a promise and cannot fulfill it, we can be forgiven, even if it takes some emotional, spiritual, even physical work on our part to get there.
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
WSP: Writing as Spiritual Practice (1)
Something happens when I write. Actually, a lot of things happen when I write - to varying degrees depending on what, when, even how I am writing.
There are so many categories of writing, and categories within categories. Journal or diary writing varies based on time-of-day as well as what intention (processing, projecting, reporting, etc.) I put into it. Then there is expository writing with the purpose of showing or teaching others about what I am thinking, reading, focused on in life - taking a variety of forms depending on topic and intended audience (call this blog post that sort of writing). And there are all the little bits of writing - email queries and responses, marketing materials, lists, reminders, notes to self or spouse or coworker. And, on the side, I do a little creative, spiritual fiction.
Writing in the morning or evening is very different, in ways partly but not entirely specific to the of the type of writing I am doing. I am very definitely a morning person - I am at my most creative, typically, when the day is barely begun. In the evening, I'm more likely to reflect backwards - and if I'm writing fiction, just as when I'm writing in my journal, that produces a different voice than my morning writing. I can force myself to process in the morning, or to think creatively forward in the evening, but it's far less natural.
Writing by hand is by far my preferred mode. I use it for journaling, for first drafts of sermons and other expository writing, for fiction and creative nonfiction, and still sometimes for letters (I miss formal letter writing - and receiving). I think differently - more slowly (by force), but also in ways I can't quite describe - when I am writing by hand rather than typing. Interestingly, most of my blog posts are written strictly on the computer, and I wonder about that sometimes.
All of these - the what I write, the when I write, and the how I write - move me. Whether journaling in the morning about something I hope to have happen, or creating a fictional scene, writing transforms me in much the same way that reading transports me - I find myself experiencing the world differently than when I don't write. I connect with the world outside of myself, I see myself in the larger picture, I discover how relationships connect or divide.
Writing is a spiritual practice for me, no matter what I am writing. Over the past couple of years, writing has been essential in my journey, offering a place to process and engage change as it has come my way, and providing inspiration to make meaningful transitions - mindfully.
There are so many categories of writing, and categories within categories. Journal or diary writing varies based on time-of-day as well as what intention (processing, projecting, reporting, etc.) I put into it. Then there is expository writing with the purpose of showing or teaching others about what I am thinking, reading, focused on in life - taking a variety of forms depending on topic and intended audience (call this blog post that sort of writing). And there are all the little bits of writing - email queries and responses, marketing materials, lists, reminders, notes to self or spouse or coworker. And, on the side, I do a little creative, spiritual fiction.
Writing in the morning or evening is very different, in ways partly but not entirely specific to the of the type of writing I am doing. I am very definitely a morning person - I am at my most creative, typically, when the day is barely begun. In the evening, I'm more likely to reflect backwards - and if I'm writing fiction, just as when I'm writing in my journal, that produces a different voice than my morning writing. I can force myself to process in the morning, or to think creatively forward in the evening, but it's far less natural.
Writing by hand is by far my preferred mode. I use it for journaling, for first drafts of sermons and other expository writing, for fiction and creative nonfiction, and still sometimes for letters (I miss formal letter writing - and receiving). I think differently - more slowly (by force), but also in ways I can't quite describe - when I am writing by hand rather than typing. Interestingly, most of my blog posts are written strictly on the computer, and I wonder about that sometimes.
All of these - the what I write, the when I write, and the how I write - move me. Whether journaling in the morning about something I hope to have happen, or creating a fictional scene, writing transforms me in much the same way that reading transports me - I find myself experiencing the world differently than when I don't write. I connect with the world outside of myself, I see myself in the larger picture, I discover how relationships connect or divide.
Writing is a spiritual practice for me, no matter what I am writing. Over the past couple of years, writing has been essential in my journey, offering a place to process and engage change as it has come my way, and providing inspiration to make meaningful transitions - mindfully.
Sunday, June 21, 2015
Father's Day Isn't All Happy (but it isn't all sad, either): A Personal Story
Happy Father's Day!
It's all over ads in my email inbox - it's impossible to get away from. My Facebook status update even says, "It's Father's Day, what's on your mind?" and wants me to add a cute little handholding graphic to my update.
And I don't say I want to get away from it. But maybe, a little bit, I do...and if you do, too, I hope you will read through the happy beginning that comes next. Because:
I wish a very Happy Father's Day to my stepfather, who has truly been a Dad to me, throughout most of my life, through thick and think. He has indulged in all the right fatherly moments, and he has been fiercely loving when I needed it - and always. He has stood by my mom in sickness and in health - his love for her is steadfast, and has taught me how I want, how I deserve to be loved in this world. He has loved her, and me, through both storm and sunshine.
I wish a very Happy Father's Day to my husband. It is awesome watching him be Dad to our son, even (or maybe especially) in the moments where we aren't completely on the same page about parenting styles. I am glad for him and for our son that he has had the flexibility in these first few years of parenting to really be available throughout the week, to pick him up after school and take him to the park or other play places. I see father and son learning the world together, teaching each other, playing and reading and snuggling - and it is more beautiful than I could imagine.
And then.
And then, on Father's Day, I inevitably think about my father, the man whose DNA is in mine, who was married to my mother the first handful of years of my life, who lived within spitting distance my entire childhood, whom I saw in the old-fashioned custody arrangement of every other weekend (and who seemed at other hours of the week to be unapproachable).
Somehow, in my childhood, he made me uncomfortable growing into a woman. He left me with vulnerabilities I am still patching over. As an adult, I tried reconciling a couple of times, and each time he, unintentionally I am (fairly) certain, ripped open wounds I thought I had healed, leaving me feeling stupid and insecure. During one of these reconciliation periods he seemed really to want to get to know me - so much that I felt others in my life weren't listening as well as he. And then.
And then.
And then, I forgive and I move on with my life. But I do so without him in it.
And then, I think maybe I should wish him a Happy Father's Day. After all, I really don't think he ever intended to alienate me. I don't think he set out to hurt me or to open up those vulnerabilities that are so fragile in me to this day. I don't think he ever wanted me to feel uncomfortable being a woman in this world, though his actions contributed greatly to my awareness of and distaste for the deep-rooted misogyny in our society.
And then, I wonder how on earth I can wish this man a Happy Father's Day. How could it possibly be happy, even to hear from me? Perhaps he can go on blindly, and not wonder about a possible relationship with me, his daughter, or not grieve my brother, z"l, dead now nearly twenty years, who would have been 48 tomorrow. Perhaps his stepdaughters will wish him a happy father's day, as I will to my stepfather - and perhaps that will bring him joy; I really don't know his relationship with them, as I have had none for more than 30 years. Perhaps. And it really isn't fair for me to imagine him dwelling on what could have been, though I inevitably return to it year after year.
Would it make him happy to hear from me, even if I don't intend more than three words? Does it even make sense to send those three words - "Happy Father's Day" - in an email to a man I don't even know anymore (if I ever did)?
And so - if you, the man I called Dad through my childhood, are reading this - I do think of you, and I sometimes wonder how things could be different. I don't know, after all these years, if it is possible to change the way things are, given the way things have been. As I know you wished me no harm, even when you managed to say and do things that left me very hurt - I wish you no harm, no pain, even though I know simply by not being in your life I must leave you with vulnerabilities. For that, I am sorry.
And so - to all out there who have stories that make Father's Day (or Mother's Day, or any other days like this) difficult, or not particularly "happy" (thanks, Hallmark, for telling us we ought to feel a particular way) - I hope you find strength and support.
And also - to all who have read this all the way through despite having wonderful and deep relationships with your fathers and stepfathers - or despite being incredible fathers or stepfathers who are making your children feel safe and secure - thank you for reading, and most of all, Happy Father's Day.
And to everyone - a very happy Solstice - may this day of long daylight shine light and love and healing throughout our imperfect and sometimes awfully broken world.
It's all over ads in my email inbox - it's impossible to get away from. My Facebook status update even says, "It's Father's Day, what's on your mind?" and wants me to add a cute little handholding graphic to my update.
And I don't say I want to get away from it. But maybe, a little bit, I do...and if you do, too, I hope you will read through the happy beginning that comes next. Because:
I wish a very Happy Father's Day to my stepfather, who has truly been a Dad to me, throughout most of my life, through thick and think. He has indulged in all the right fatherly moments, and he has been fiercely loving when I needed it - and always. He has stood by my mom in sickness and in health - his love for her is steadfast, and has taught me how I want, how I deserve to be loved in this world. He has loved her, and me, through both storm and sunshine.
I wish a very Happy Father's Day to my husband. It is awesome watching him be Dad to our son, even (or maybe especially) in the moments where we aren't completely on the same page about parenting styles. I am glad for him and for our son that he has had the flexibility in these first few years of parenting to really be available throughout the week, to pick him up after school and take him to the park or other play places. I see father and son learning the world together, teaching each other, playing and reading and snuggling - and it is more beautiful than I could imagine.
And then.
And then, on Father's Day, I inevitably think about my father, the man whose DNA is in mine, who was married to my mother the first handful of years of my life, who lived within spitting distance my entire childhood, whom I saw in the old-fashioned custody arrangement of every other weekend (and who seemed at other hours of the week to be unapproachable).
Somehow, in my childhood, he made me uncomfortable growing into a woman. He left me with vulnerabilities I am still patching over. As an adult, I tried reconciling a couple of times, and each time he, unintentionally I am (fairly) certain, ripped open wounds I thought I had healed, leaving me feeling stupid and insecure. During one of these reconciliation periods he seemed really to want to get to know me - so much that I felt others in my life weren't listening as well as he. And then.
And then.
And then, I forgive and I move on with my life. But I do so without him in it.
And then, I think maybe I should wish him a Happy Father's Day. After all, I really don't think he ever intended to alienate me. I don't think he set out to hurt me or to open up those vulnerabilities that are so fragile in me to this day. I don't think he ever wanted me to feel uncomfortable being a woman in this world, though his actions contributed greatly to my awareness of and distaste for the deep-rooted misogyny in our society.
And then, I wonder how on earth I can wish this man a Happy Father's Day. How could it possibly be happy, even to hear from me? Perhaps he can go on blindly, and not wonder about a possible relationship with me, his daughter, or not grieve my brother, z"l, dead now nearly twenty years, who would have been 48 tomorrow. Perhaps his stepdaughters will wish him a happy father's day, as I will to my stepfather - and perhaps that will bring him joy; I really don't know his relationship with them, as I have had none for more than 30 years. Perhaps. And it really isn't fair for me to imagine him dwelling on what could have been, though I inevitably return to it year after year.
Would it make him happy to hear from me, even if I don't intend more than three words? Does it even make sense to send those three words - "Happy Father's Day" - in an email to a man I don't even know anymore (if I ever did)?
And so - if you, the man I called Dad through my childhood, are reading this - I do think of you, and I sometimes wonder how things could be different. I don't know, after all these years, if it is possible to change the way things are, given the way things have been. As I know you wished me no harm, even when you managed to say and do things that left me very hurt - I wish you no harm, no pain, even though I know simply by not being in your life I must leave you with vulnerabilities. For that, I am sorry.
And so - to all out there who have stories that make Father's Day (or Mother's Day, or any other days like this) difficult, or not particularly "happy" (thanks, Hallmark, for telling us we ought to feel a particular way) - I hope you find strength and support.
And also - to all who have read this all the way through despite having wonderful and deep relationships with your fathers and stepfathers - or despite being incredible fathers or stepfathers who are making your children feel safe and secure - thank you for reading, and most of all, Happy Father's Day.
And to everyone - a very happy Solstice - may this day of long daylight shine light and love and healing throughout our imperfect and sometimes awfully broken world.
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