I came home Tuesday after my brother’s funeral up in Alexandria, and nothing seemed right. It had been a 'good funeral.' A lot of people, my brother had many friends. I had cried and tried not to cry for too long, and I was tired. As for family, we were all together, but we've never been the most supportive family, we have trouble (like many families) with showing emotion and offering comfort.
That evening I had just enough energy to buy food and make dinner, mashed potatoes and roast chicken. Comfort food. I woke up Wednesday to an ache that felt like the flu. My chest hurt so bad. I chocked it up to holding little Audrey at the funeral, I gripped her like a talisman through my tears. At six months, she is a joy. She’s a handful now too, so I had to hold tight, and Wednesday I was sore. So I just mostly stayed in bed and I made it through one more day.
Thursday, I made myself get up out of bed. I’d gone to bed the night before with a horrible stomach-ache, and in the morning I mercifully puked. Still, I made myself get dressed and go to work, knowing that I’d see my therapist helped me haul out my sorry ass. No makeup, but I did brush my teeth. I felt like I never want to ever feel again. Going to work steadied me in the pain.
Through my sorrow, I made it to my kind therapist, mid downtown, on the 16th floor. He is wise and caring. His insight was to tell me this sorrow was not just about my brother, but about the comfort I never got in my family growing up. The comfort that wasn’t there at the funeral, and the ache I have for wanting it. Neither of my parents knew how to accept emotions or to comfort us in our pain. I grew up being ashamed of my tears and my need for comfort.
My therapist wondered when did I get comfort in my life? I did have some comfort in my relationship with my ex-husband, Steve. In my session, I recalled the story of being about 18 and I’d had a huge fight with my dad, and I’d run out of the house in tears. Steve and I had just started dating then, and I took the bus to the Orpheum Theatre, where Steve was assistant manager and I found him in the office.
He gave me a hug, bought me a box of popcorn, and found me a seat up in the balcony. He told me to just watch the movie and wait until he was done with work and then he’d talk with me. Later in our relationship, when I’d have a hard day and he knew he wouldn’t be able to be there; he’d tell me he wished he could keep me in his pocket.
There’s so many things we need as kids. So many needs that we humans should have met to feel safe, whole and complete. I’m making my way trying to know what I’m missing, and to fill in the gaps. I’ve surrounded myself with caring friends, and I know now why I’ve had this weird anger about life. I’ve been mad, really mad about missing out on having a family that held me, that nurtured me and supported me and my feelings.
As I left therapy, it was a comfort to remember that Steve was able to offer some small comfort, that a box of popcorn and a balcony seat seemed so huge a gesture of concern to someone so bereft of it. Comforting to remember, that in my life where love has often seemed so conditional and fragile, I’ve had moments of acceptance and comfort. Moments of feeling safe inside someone’s shirt pocket, next to their heart.
"We need enormous pockets, pockets big enough for our families and our friends, and even the people who aren't on our lists, people we've never met but still want to protect. We need pockets for boroughs and for cities, a pocket that could hold the universe."
-Jonathan Safran Foer (Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close). Which, by the way, if you haven’t read, you should read.
Postscript: Over the weekend, when I talked with my mom on the phone, she broke down in her grief and cried; and then apologized for crying. I was able to tell her, “Mom, it’s ok to have feelings.” She said, “I was brought up that its selfish to have feelings.” I replied, “Mom, I know” and gently said, “I was too.” I continued, “Mom, what’s so exciting to me to be studying emotions is that I’m learning that they are necessary, and useful, and they give us information that we need. What these tears are telling us is that we need to remember to cherish life. Our emotions are good, it’s ok, it’s ok to cry.” She said that she’d hoped that she wasn’t as harsh on us as her parents had been, and I assured her that she wasn't. I let her know it’s the best we can do as families, to make progress on what doesn’t work, and to celebrate what does. I was able to offer my mom some comfort in this sad, sad time for us.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Grateful for Tears
December 2nd, 2010
This morning I am grateful for the fact that the bathtub water is running out hot. Some days it is just warm. I don’t know what’s up with that, and living in this huge four-plex does not make me want to try to find out. In a house, you know, it’s all yours, and you can see where one thing leads to another. Not so much here.
This morning I am happy for left over half and half for my coffee, not just milk. This morning I am mourning, my brother Steve died yesterday afternoon. I was driving after work to pick Megan up from Erin and Andy’s, where once a week she’s a ‘mother’s helper.’ My cell phone rang while I was in traffic.
When my sister asked if I was at home yet, I knew. I told her, “No, I’m driving.” And we both knew. It was the call I’d known would come. The call I’d been waiting for, dreading, yet anxious for, ready for the wait to be over, for all of us. And now that it is, I am so sad, and so tired. My body is crying tears I didn’t know I’d been saving up.
I’m trying to be kind to myself as I try to go about my day. I’ll go to work, at least, and get through my day, and wait to hear about the funeral arrangements.
Last night, I was grateful to get to Erin’s to get a hug, to hold Audrey, to smile at her through my tears. I called my mom while I was there, and fortunately, my younger brother, who lives in Waconia, was already there with her. My sister and I shared making phone calls to other family.
On my drive home, I told Megan, “It was so much easier when I believed we all just went to heaven. But really, we just don’t know what happens to us after we die.” Megan philosophically replied, “But we know we go back into the earth.” And she’s right, we go into the earth, somehow, someway we contribute to however this earth keeps re-birthing. I took small comfort in that. Maybe my brother is in heaven with my dad.
Once home, I warmed up left over chili, wrapped my hand around a glass of wine, wrapped a blanket around my body and watched 3 episodes of The Office in a row, then went to bed.
This morning, I am mourning. Writing, drinking coffee, warm tears on my face.
This morning I am grateful for the fact that the bathtub water is running out hot. Some days it is just warm. I don’t know what’s up with that, and living in this huge four-plex does not make me want to try to find out. In a house, you know, it’s all yours, and you can see where one thing leads to another. Not so much here.
This morning I am happy for left over half and half for my coffee, not just milk. This morning I am mourning, my brother Steve died yesterday afternoon. I was driving after work to pick Megan up from Erin and Andy’s, where once a week she’s a ‘mother’s helper.’ My cell phone rang while I was in traffic.
When my sister asked if I was at home yet, I knew. I told her, “No, I’m driving.” And we both knew. It was the call I’d known would come. The call I’d been waiting for, dreading, yet anxious for, ready for the wait to be over, for all of us. And now that it is, I am so sad, and so tired. My body is crying tears I didn’t know I’d been saving up.
I’m trying to be kind to myself as I try to go about my day. I’ll go to work, at least, and get through my day, and wait to hear about the funeral arrangements.
Last night, I was grateful to get to Erin’s to get a hug, to hold Audrey, to smile at her through my tears. I called my mom while I was there, and fortunately, my younger brother, who lives in Waconia, was already there with her. My sister and I shared making phone calls to other family.
On my drive home, I told Megan, “It was so much easier when I believed we all just went to heaven. But really, we just don’t know what happens to us after we die.” Megan philosophically replied, “But we know we go back into the earth.” And she’s right, we go into the earth, somehow, someway we contribute to however this earth keeps re-birthing. I took small comfort in that. Maybe my brother is in heaven with my dad.
Once home, I warmed up left over chili, wrapped my hand around a glass of wine, wrapped a blanket around my body and watched 3 episodes of The Office in a row, then went to bed.
This morning, I am mourning. Writing, drinking coffee, warm tears on my face.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Crying at the Madonna
Last March I went to visit my mother in her new apartment; a few months earlier we’d moved her from her large town home, into a smaller apartment. She is near my brother now, who works from home. He is a good man and will watch over her. She moved from Owatonna, where I used to live, to Waconia, a beautiful spot west of the Twin Cities. My mom turned 85 in April.
It was hard for her to move again, the second time since my dad died 8 years ago. Even now, she still has lots of unpacking to do. She said she wanted to put her Hummel nativity set up, even though it was barely spring. I said, “Let’s do it.” This nativity set is precious to my mom for a number of reasons. Firstly, because it is very valuable. My mom likes valuable things. Secondly, because it was my dad’s Aunt Sue’s and anything that Aunt Sue had was ‘very valuable.’ And thirdly, because it's just beautiful. The colors are soft and subtle, the features of the figurines are serene and painted with care.
I am not so certain, as my mother is, of the value of things. I grew up having to be too careful of all her things, and so my relationship with things is more ambivalent. I can be grasping and greedy one minute, “Ooh, it’s pretty, I want that,” to “Oh sweetheart, this vase, do you want it? It’s just collecting dust.” I am learning to be more fluid about stuff, knowing it is often, easy come, and easy go, especially in my family. And the value of things is always negligible, we assign things their worth.
So, we unwrapped the Nativity, a simple set, just baby Jesus, Joseph, the barn, and Mary. For some reason, when my mom handed me the statue of Mary, I choked up. I looked at this little figurine in my hand and I remembered the awe I felt at the back of our Catholic church, lighting candles in front of the statue of the Virgin. I was suddenly only six or seven years old, and I remembered my dad, taking my hand as a child after Mass on Christmas morning, stooping down, saying gently, “Theresa, do you want to go up and look at baby Jesus?”
It was hard for her to move again, the second time since my dad died 8 years ago. Even now, she still has lots of unpacking to do. She said she wanted to put her Hummel nativity set up, even though it was barely spring. I said, “Let’s do it.” This nativity set is precious to my mom for a number of reasons. Firstly, because it is very valuable. My mom likes valuable things. Secondly, because it was my dad’s Aunt Sue’s and anything that Aunt Sue had was ‘very valuable.’ And thirdly, because it's just beautiful. The colors are soft and subtle, the features of the figurines are serene and painted with care.
I am not so certain, as my mother is, of the value of things. I grew up having to be too careful of all her things, and so my relationship with things is more ambivalent. I can be grasping and greedy one minute, “Ooh, it’s pretty, I want that,” to “Oh sweetheart, this vase, do you want it? It’s just collecting dust.” I am learning to be more fluid about stuff, knowing it is often, easy come, and easy go, especially in my family. And the value of things is always negligible, we assign things their worth.
So, we unwrapped the Nativity, a simple set, just baby Jesus, Joseph, the barn, and Mary. For some reason, when my mom handed me the statue of Mary, I choked up. I looked at this little figurine in my hand and I remembered the awe I felt at the back of our Catholic church, lighting candles in front of the statue of the Virgin. I was suddenly only six or seven years old, and I remembered my dad, taking my hand as a child after Mass on Christmas morning, stooping down, saying gently, “Theresa, do you want to go up and look at baby Jesus?”
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Thanksgiving 2010
It is what it is. A holiday where families, if one is so blessed, gather for traditional food, like turkey, cranberries and pumpkin pie. A holiday based on a blessed lie, that when the pilgrims came all was good. Well, maybe it wasn’t based on a lie, maybe there was some blessed moments, even in the midst of hard daily life, and people trying take other people’s land and colonize indigenous cultures. It is what it is.
If we all don’t share food, can we all share being grateful? Probably not, so this is not such a universal, or even national day, we probably will never all get on the same page on one day. It is what it is.
words on paper
babies
(mine)
Ella singing
Louie swinging
Coltrane laying it out like to die for
coffee
(with milk)
the Eiffel tower
men with kind eyes
overcoats
warm bed
new shoes
creme brulet
art & ballet
impermanence
solid ground
If we all don’t share food, can we all share being grateful? Probably not, so this is not such a universal, or even national day, we probably will never all get on the same page on one day. It is what it is.
words on paper
babies
(mine)
Ella singing
Louie swinging
Coltrane laying it out like to die for
coffee
(with milk)
the Eiffel tower
men with kind eyes
overcoats
warm bed
new shoes
creme brulet
art & ballet
impermanence
solid ground
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Missed
There was no hip hop no bebop no happening music
to play out our sad saga
There was no Chagall no Frida no color
to the palette of our lives
There was some champagne once in a while
but the bubbles all burst into thin air
Which was all that was left of our love
by the time I got there
to play out our sad saga
There was no Chagall no Frida no color
to the palette of our lives
There was some champagne once in a while
but the bubbles all burst into thin air
Which was all that was left of our love
by the time I got there
Monday, November 8, 2010
Getting to Know You: How Our Children Become Our Zen Masters
or When their journey demands your truth.
In their book Everyday Blessings: The Inner Work of Mindful Parenting, authors Myla Kabat-zinn and Jon Kabat-zin talk about how our children can become our Zen masters. This take away alone makes the book worthwhile; it’s something to think about, perhaps meditate on, as you begin or are on the parenting journey. In the book they state how getting up to take care of your children is your practice, how brushing your teeth is your practice, and how not getting to brush your teeth because there is no time for you also becomes your practice.
So, as it seems that parenting is often all about everyone else, it can also become about you. Just not about you the way you thought it would be. Not perhaps the way you thought parenting, or even life would ‘be.’ These thoughts keep getting in our way. Thoughts of parenting, thoughts of life, thoughts of what is success, what is not success, competition. I struggle with competition more now than ever. I thought I’d escaped that condition but it haunts me now, chases me down, as I compare my life to others at this point. And I wonder, will I be successful, wondering if I’ll find my dream, even as I remind myself this is my life, this is my dream, right now.
Sometimes, I think it is this same competition that fuels parenting and leads us so far astray. Trying to mimic, when we are unsure what to do, and it ends up feeling unauthentic to ourselves and is just plain confusing to our kids as we’re also teaching them values about being honest and about respecting themselves and others. So, how do we parent authentically in an imperfect world? In a world where we as parents are imperfect people, the truth is contextual, and sometimes, the truth is so painful we try not only to hide it from others, but from ourselves as well.
Over the weekend, there came a point where Kathleen’s journey in her life demanded more truth about my life, my past, with her dad and well, I needed to know “how to tell”? How much to tell? Not only did we talk about what needed to be said, but also about how do parents share painful past histories? Each family has their own painful stories in both big and small ways. And both individually and collectively.
We try to show our children and each other what we’ve come to know in wisdom and guidance for their lives, but we all step in and outside of those lines, learning other truths, harder lessons, and how do we shape them and feel free to share these harder life lessons with those we love the most, those we hope so strongly to protect from these very life lessons? I shared with Kathleen, the irony of the story of the Buddha, whose father tried so hard to protect his son, Siddhartha, from any pain of life, as do most parents! But the Buddha left his protected life looking to find his own path, and he found in suffering that truth was the middle path, and left us this wisdom. We can’t escape the pain of life, but we can hope for the middle path, a balance of pain and joy.
As a therapist, I am prepared for hard stories, for sad stories, stories of loss of esteem, loss of love, loss of fortune and more. As a parent, I parented my children through their own valleys of the shadow of death and we are all mostly more towards the top of the hill right now, but roads twist and turn, irregardless of our hopes and/or choices. So, as parents how do we deal with our inner, personal struggles becoming shared life lessons? Perhaps, this is how our children, into adulthood, continue to be our Zen masters, if we let them. We follow down the path of what’s best for them, not considering the pain we need to go through to give them truth. We open our hearts, and tell our truths with compassion for ourselves, compassion for the past, and compassion for our children, on their own journey. Then perhaps, with each step, each breath, the universe opens us, and we, before we know it, have become our child’s Zen master.
In their book Everyday Blessings: The Inner Work of Mindful Parenting, authors Myla Kabat-zinn and Jon Kabat-zin talk about how our children can become our Zen masters. This take away alone makes the book worthwhile; it’s something to think about, perhaps meditate on, as you begin or are on the parenting journey. In the book they state how getting up to take care of your children is your practice, how brushing your teeth is your practice, and how not getting to brush your teeth because there is no time for you also becomes your practice.
So, as it seems that parenting is often all about everyone else, it can also become about you. Just not about you the way you thought it would be. Not perhaps the way you thought parenting, or even life would ‘be.’ These thoughts keep getting in our way. Thoughts of parenting, thoughts of life, thoughts of what is success, what is not success, competition. I struggle with competition more now than ever. I thought I’d escaped that condition but it haunts me now, chases me down, as I compare my life to others at this point. And I wonder, will I be successful, wondering if I’ll find my dream, even as I remind myself this is my life, this is my dream, right now.
Sometimes, I think it is this same competition that fuels parenting and leads us so far astray. Trying to mimic, when we are unsure what to do, and it ends up feeling unauthentic to ourselves and is just plain confusing to our kids as we’re also teaching them values about being honest and about respecting themselves and others. So, how do we parent authentically in an imperfect world? In a world where we as parents are imperfect people, the truth is contextual, and sometimes, the truth is so painful we try not only to hide it from others, but from ourselves as well.
Over the weekend, there came a point where Kathleen’s journey in her life demanded more truth about my life, my past, with her dad and well, I needed to know “how to tell”? How much to tell? Not only did we talk about what needed to be said, but also about how do parents share painful past histories? Each family has their own painful stories in both big and small ways. And both individually and collectively.
We try to show our children and each other what we’ve come to know in wisdom and guidance for their lives, but we all step in and outside of those lines, learning other truths, harder lessons, and how do we shape them and feel free to share these harder life lessons with those we love the most, those we hope so strongly to protect from these very life lessons? I shared with Kathleen, the irony of the story of the Buddha, whose father tried so hard to protect his son, Siddhartha, from any pain of life, as do most parents! But the Buddha left his protected life looking to find his own path, and he found in suffering that truth was the middle path, and left us this wisdom. We can’t escape the pain of life, but we can hope for the middle path, a balance of pain and joy.
As a therapist, I am prepared for hard stories, for sad stories, stories of loss of esteem, loss of love, loss of fortune and more. As a parent, I parented my children through their own valleys of the shadow of death and we are all mostly more towards the top of the hill right now, but roads twist and turn, irregardless of our hopes and/or choices. So, as parents how do we deal with our inner, personal struggles becoming shared life lessons? Perhaps, this is how our children, into adulthood, continue to be our Zen masters, if we let them. We follow down the path of what’s best for them, not considering the pain we need to go through to give them truth. We open our hearts, and tell our truths with compassion for ourselves, compassion for the past, and compassion for our children, on their own journey. Then perhaps, with each step, each breath, the universe opens us, and we, before we know it, have become our child’s Zen master.
Friday, November 5, 2010
who knows where the time goes
Really, November? This is the time of the year when expectations only beat up on my reality and it’s started already. Last Sunday, after another long week, after I’d spent Saturday driving from one side of Minneapolis to the other to pick up my daughter Erin, and new baby Audrey to go visit my mom in Waconia, after I’d taken my oldest daughter Kathleen, to her dance lesson downtown and then picked her up, she asked, “Aren’t you going to go see Audrey today?” I looked puzzled, I’m sure, when she said, “To see her in her halloween costume?”
My face must have fallen, and this is where I felt like crappy Bubbe, not warm, loving, wonderful Bubbe. This added injury to the insult I must have started when I told Kathleen I’d thought of buying her boys, Elliot 13, and Max 8, some candy for her to take home, but then I over-thought it I guess, and thought, “Why would they need more candy?” And I’d told her this. I guess there are times I just over think, and I’m over cheap, but sometimes it does seem like there is just so much stuff, and so much well, hoopla over the holidays, and frankly, I’m tired of it.
Anyone who knows me knows I love my baby girls and grand-babies. I’m just not the commercial type of mom or Bubbe, and I only want to be when I see this look on Kathleen’s face. Erin and Megan seem cool with who I am, I get to be the geeky mom that only belongs to them, but Kathleen struggles with wanting me to be a different kind of mom. When she was young, she did get to be the only child for 5 years, and back then she had lots of Grandmothers and even great Grandmothers still alive. It was a culture of special holidays. My mom would bake all day for Christmas, Steve’s mom would decorate her tables with red tablecloths and crystal. My mom would bake Halloween cookies with orange sprinkles and we’d often have Thanksgiving dinner at two big houses filled with friends and family.
Was not this way as Kathleen got older, her parents got divorced, and her Grandfathers both died, and her Grandmothers were not as able to entertain. Her single again mom (me) just never quite got the hang of the holidays. Truth be told, I missed being the beloved daughter who just got to show up with her crazy kids. It’s coming on Thanksgiving again, and this is what it means for me. I will never walk through the back door of my parents house on Sheridan Avenue with my hands full of baby gear and have my dad give me a hug and tell me “Come on in, Happy Thanksgiving.” I will never smell his warm, clean smell and feel his shaved cheek, and the warm embrace of his checked flannel shirt. Walking through the kitchen, through the smell of turkey in the oven, my mom looking pretty in her apron, hearing my sibs just hanging out, waiting for a wonderful feast. Coming in from the brisk November to the warmth of someplace so good. I’m sorry Kathleen, I don’t know how to make this magic happen.
My face must have fallen, and this is where I felt like crappy Bubbe, not warm, loving, wonderful Bubbe. This added injury to the insult I must have started when I told Kathleen I’d thought of buying her boys, Elliot 13, and Max 8, some candy for her to take home, but then I over-thought it I guess, and thought, “Why would they need more candy?” And I’d told her this. I guess there are times I just over think, and I’m over cheap, but sometimes it does seem like there is just so much stuff, and so much well, hoopla over the holidays, and frankly, I’m tired of it.
Anyone who knows me knows I love my baby girls and grand-babies. I’m just not the commercial type of mom or Bubbe, and I only want to be when I see this look on Kathleen’s face. Erin and Megan seem cool with who I am, I get to be the geeky mom that only belongs to them, but Kathleen struggles with wanting me to be a different kind of mom. When she was young, she did get to be the only child for 5 years, and back then she had lots of Grandmothers and even great Grandmothers still alive. It was a culture of special holidays. My mom would bake all day for Christmas, Steve’s mom would decorate her tables with red tablecloths and crystal. My mom would bake Halloween cookies with orange sprinkles and we’d often have Thanksgiving dinner at two big houses filled with friends and family.
Was not this way as Kathleen got older, her parents got divorced, and her Grandfathers both died, and her Grandmothers were not as able to entertain. Her single again mom (me) just never quite got the hang of the holidays. Truth be told, I missed being the beloved daughter who just got to show up with her crazy kids. It’s coming on Thanksgiving again, and this is what it means for me. I will never walk through the back door of my parents house on Sheridan Avenue with my hands full of baby gear and have my dad give me a hug and tell me “Come on in, Happy Thanksgiving.” I will never smell his warm, clean smell and feel his shaved cheek, and the warm embrace of his checked flannel shirt. Walking through the kitchen, through the smell of turkey in the oven, my mom looking pretty in her apron, hearing my sibs just hanging out, waiting for a wonderful feast. Coming in from the brisk November to the warmth of someplace so good. I’m sorry Kathleen, I don’t know how to make this magic happen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
