Solstice

"Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all barriers within yourself that you have built against it." ~Rumi

The biggest barrier I keep butting my stubborn head against is fear.


Why do I have to take many really deep breaths when Anthony gets caught in an anxiety loop?
Fear.
That this will be his Life.  
That I won't "succeed" at giving him what he needs to have the happy, wonderful Life he deserves.  
That it all comes back to me.  


Why does my anger flash so bright at Sophie when she questions why Anthony is so weird?
Fear.  
That she speaks the truth.  
That this will be HER Life.
That she will be defined by having this beautiful, challenging, challenged brother.
That her needs will slip through the cracks.
That I won't "succeed" at giving HER what she needs to be carefree and childlike.


Why do I stare at the ceiling in the middle of the night trying to solve yet another Anthony riddle?
Fear.
That I am not working enough to do the hard things in motherhood.
That I am expecting too much from him.
That I am not expecting enough from him.

Why do I have to fight the instinctual defensiveness when someone innocently asks "Why does Anthony do ________?"
Fear.
That they will see that I.don't.know.why.
That I will never know why.
That he will judge me for never figuring out why.
That the answer is right in front of me and I just can't see it.

Why do Chris and I keep nervously asking each other the magic questions. "Is it bad?"  "How bad is it?" "How long has it been this bad?"
Fear.
That there will come a day where we don't feel like a team.
That this his obsession with this week's comfort won't go away.
That something worse will replace it.
That it could always get worse.
That we won't be able to handle worse.


In the dark, quiet of the winter solstice, all the fear fades.  My deep, deep faith glows true.
Here are the things my children know:
Love.
That I adore them.
That I am honored to be their mother.
That their father is the love of my Life.
That there are no guarantees on this earth..
That it is ok to cry, but not to scream.
That there are people who love them dearly, but we will never see again.
That really sad, really scary things happen.
That we would do anything to keep them safe.
That I am willing to help them and keep helping them until we all figure it out.
That I will always listen.
That we don't need to name a problem before we try to make it better.

Happy Birthday

This is one of those "it just hurts" days.  

Today is John's birthday.  He would have been 50.  These are the few weeks of the year where he is a decade older than me, and I loved teasing him about it.    He had the same birthday as my dad, who (I think) would be 76 this year.  

One of my favorite stories from my mom was from the night she went into labor with John.  She had to go to the hospital in the middle of my dad's birthday party.  Her doctor had put her on a pretty strict diet at the end of her pregnancy because she had gained "too much" weight.  As she walked out the door, all she could think was that she could finally have a piece of dad's birthday cake when she got back from the hospital.

When, she did get home from the hospital, she walked into a house that looked exactly as it did when she walked out.  The cake (plates, food, drinks) had been left untouched.  I can imagine that my dad got an earful about that.

That's how John came into the world.  :)

I loved the thought of you in the world, John.  I knew that wherever you were, you spread love with your own brand of irreverent humor.  I knew that you made the world better.  You made my world better just by being.

And, with you gone, my world dims a little...

Small Miracles

All is still well here.  I am still balancing and healing and being a mom and teacher and wife and friend.

There are no major issues good or bad that I are handling right at this moment...  Whew...

However, Life is Life.
I hope to recognize each small miracle as it comes.
With that territory comes recognizing each small loss.


Here are just a few of the miracles:

• Sophie's face lighting up with true joy when I tell her how proud I am of her.
• Anthony calming himself down in a moment of frustration before screaming.
• Chris telling me that I have always been and will always be beautiful in his eyes. (liar...)  :)
• Bill running a marathon in John's memory.
• An anonymous gift in my mailbox (bracelet) - slightly concerned this wasn't meant for me...  Maybe for the person whose mailbox is above me?
• Sitting on my couch in my own silent night and staring at the lights on the tree
• Being challenged and inspired by Jackie to create yoga lesson plan
• Dreaming about opening a yoga studio in the (distant) future
• Remembering all the funny Christmas moments with John through the years
• Looking forward to Tom's visit this weekend
• Talking to a friend on the phone and having that "I am home" feeling
• Knowing that at any second this can all be taken away...and being ok...

A Thanksgiving Prayer

Although excitement (peppered with dread) over Thanksgiving is building, we are having another calm moment in our household. 

Anthony is...Anthony.  We continue to manage his anxiety - some days well, some days not so well.  We continue to balance his needs with...everything else as best we can everyday.  He is ok right now.  There is a good chance of getting through November and December without having to adjust anyone's medication (for once).

I know that this first holiday season without my father-in-law and without John will be difficult.  The wounds are still pretty raw.  Chris and I are managing to keep it together for our day-to-day schedule right now, but I know that the craziness of celebrating these next few weeks will amplify every emotion and memory.

This "being an adult thing" means I need to figure out how to heal without stopping every day Life.  I have to grieve while working, cooking, nurturing, lecturing about eye-rolling, band-aiding, toasting Eggos (which we should buy stock in, btw, for as many as we eat), and daily planning...

This is painful... and hard...and a blessing.  I am grateful that I am denied the opportunity to wallow, as wallowing is oft my wont (I really like that phrase).

So, my challenge is to quietly acknowledge those tough moments while remembering the fun ones.  (Remember when John stuck gummy worms up his nose at the Thanksgiving table while Mom was talking to Great-Aunt Margaret on the phone, and we all got in so much trouble? Sweet Aunt Margaret was quite deaf so Mom was screaming (she was the original screaming zen momma) her side of the conversation while shooting us daggers with her eyes.) 

I want to lovingly respect the mark these men have made on my Life (Remember how Mr. Carrico loved Planes, Trains, and Automobiles?  He could practically recite the movie by heart.  We always watched it together or called each other when we were watching it on Thanksgiving.  He giggled uncontrollably at the same place in the movie every year.)

I slipped seamlessly from Thanksgivings with John to Thanksgivings with Mr. Carrico when I got married.  They are both large parts of those seasonal traditions.  It makes me so sad to know that's gone.

However, it is important  that I celebrate the Thanksgiving in front of me.  It is the most sacred of holidays (holy days) to me; partly because almost every happy childhood memory associated with it is untainted with any guilt or loss or shame; partly because it has always been so special to my family; but mainly because thanks giving is what I feel Life comes down to.






My Thanksgiving Prayer
Look down my table 
The table at which I am sitting right now
not at the table I was last year
not at the table I wish I could be 
This one 
Right here

Look at these people
The people at whom I am looking right now
not at the people I saw last year
not at the people I miss in my heart
These people
Right here

Thank you






Now, let's eat...

Letting Go of Letting Go

I'm at that stage of grief where I feel... better. There are days where I feel...happy.

I am not crying all the time. I am not sad all the time. I am not slugging through my grief all the time.

As I write those sentences, I have this overwhelming sense of shame.
How could I possibly be happy?
What kind of sister am I?


There is this weird comfort in grief that is slightly addictive.  I have given myself lots of passes since July.  I have avoided major decisions, long-term planning, and unpleasantness in general all in the name of healing and grieving.  I need to rejoin the human race.  It is time.

...But I feel guilty...
Guilty that he died and I am still here.
Guilty that I am stress-testing and checking out my heart because he died.
Guilty that anything good can come of his dying so young.


I feel good, and I feel bad about feeling good, and not just from guilt.

There is an additional sense of loss as the worst of my grief fades.  Unconsciously, I feel myself holding on to the pain, scared I will lose that sense of closeness to John.  I find myself worried about what will be left of him in my heart when the sadness goes.


And, of course, the rational (and occasionally wise) part of me knows...  I know John would want me to live.  I know John would want me to take care of myself.  I know John would want me to be happy.

I know that deliberately prolonging my pain is no testimonial of my love for him.

I know on the other side of the River Grief is a place where I can remember him with a smile.
I know that I will never completely lose him.

Right now, I am scared and ashamed.  But I know that I am not alone.  So many people have traveled this path. I find deep comfort in knowing that.

Testing...Testing

Part I
Can you get an A on a stress test?

I am going for a stress test tomorrow. Tell a teacher she needs a test (any test) and she will try to study for it. I have been eating quite healthily the past few days and walking extra fast during exercise. I do NOT want to be the 40-year-old who passes out on the treadmill. I am not worried...really. I am not sure what I think or feel about this test. I am not sure what I want from this test. I know that my doctor thinks it is a good idea, and my husband very, very much wants me checked out. I guess my best hope is

to get to know my heart better...to respect my body by learning more about it.

I will be honest. I am not looking forward to it, but I recognize the good that can come out of it (and Chris is going with me). :)

Part II

I talked to Anthony's speech therapist today. I just wanted to check in with her to see how he is doing. She has not finished the beginning of the year tests yet, but she has some results.

When we first started with speech therapy two years ago, we had many speech concerns. One of the biggest worries was his receptive communication. On average, 3 year olds have higher receptive language than expressive language. In other words, most preschoolers understand more than they can say. In Anthony, that was not the case. His receptive language was lower than his expressive. During his first round of testing, he scored three standard deviations below the mean in receptive language. His language was less than the 5th percentile. For non-stats people, that is quite far below his age group. Right now, his receptive language is testing just ONE standard deviation below the mean. He is testing at the 40th percentile for his age group.

I was ecstatic! This is amazing news to me. I had not dared to hope that he would be catching up at this rate. He is clearly working very hard and I am so proud of him. And, of course, I am extremely relieved that he is progressing faster than he is aging...

As I was mentally cartwheeling all the way home, I realized how much motherhood has changed me. That I am a reformed grade-grubbing, score-crazy overachiever tickled pink for her son scoring in the 40th percentile. I swear this kid could win the Nobel Peace Prize and this will be the moment I remember as my proudest...


Scores...grades...tests

They are necessary. We need to know where we can improve. We should identify areas of concern. Once all the useful information is obtained, though, I find it a good idea to let them go. They are a snapshot of one aspect of myself. They do not measure anything important about who I really am.

There is no grade for Life...I think. If there is, I'm really hoping for some extra credit right before the final.

Love Your Heart

"...hear me now, love your heart. For this is the prize."
-Beloved by Toni Morrison


(heartbroken)



The walls of my mind are papered with hearts these days.

(heartsick)

My father died of a heart attack when he was 38. My mother died of lung and heart disease when she was 52. We have had an aunt and an uncle die in their 40s. And (a lifetime) 2 and 1/2 months ago, my sweet brother John's heart betrayed him.

(heartache)

I want to love my heart, but mostly I sit in the dark and listen to her beating (how many more).



I kiss my children (heart of hearts) and smile (heavy heart).
I search the faces and voices of those I love (near to my heart), desperately trying to see into their veins (get to the heart).
I keep reminding myself to focus, to care (have a heart), keep trying to be a better person (take heart).
I strive not to take my Life for granted (cross my heart).



But I have to admit that sometimes I am afraid (don't lose heart).
I still love it here (heart's content).
I want to see my children grow (pour out my heart).



And yet, I have lived an amazing Life, so full of joy and love (open-hearted) than I ever imagined when I was little (eat my heart out).
I found Chris (heart and soul), and he found me, and we saved each other in so, so many ways (heart in the right place).



I still cry easily (heart on my sleeve) and I am afraid (steel my heart), but I think I can love my heart.

Right now, I have this moment (heartbeat).
I'll take it.

Faking It...

Parenting is the greatest form of hum-a-few-bars-and-I'll-fake-it-skills.

Duma Key by Stephen King

...and fake it I do...

Today, we went to a checkup with Anthony's developmental pediatrician.  I love this guy.  I adore this guy.  I lurve this guy (Woody Allen reference).  He listens to what I am saying while looking me in the eyes.  He "gets" Anthony and cares about my boy's comfort level now and the long term view of his overall health.

Anthony has not been doing well at home the past couple of weeks.  We are back to the brittle, fragile, emotional child we had seen in the spring.  It doesn't take too much thought to come up with the reasons why.  The past two months have found us leaving him with a friend for several days, taking a week-long family trip to Michigan, taking a trip to Kentucky, and starting kindergarten.  Add that to a mommy that cries during Umi Zoomi, I think we found a reason for some anxiety.

The good news is that he is doing great at school.  He is very quiet, but will communicate.  He is not showing any abnormally anxious behavior at school.

I took that information to the doctor, and he suggested we increase the medication. I wasn't floored, but I was certainly surprised. I asked the doctor if time could make these "at-home" behaviors better, and he replied "yes, but at what cost? And how long will we have to wait for that?"

Those words helped me view this whole "medication" thing differently. I had an epiphany, as my friend Amy likes to say.

This medication is (and always has been) just a small comfort. Of course, this medication is optional. The same way a visual schedule is optional. The same way a predictable bedtime routine is optional. These are ways to help Anthony handle a world that does not make sense to him right now. Someday, he will be able to fill in these holes for himself. We thought so long and hard about medicating Anthony, that it was easy to overlook the long-term benefits of creating a childhood for him that was not completely awash in fear and confusion.

Of course I am faking it. But I realized today that every parent is faking it. None of us really have concrete answers. We show up (as my sister-in-law Rose often says), we love these little people as hard as we can, and we fake it...

The Threshing Floor

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all your laughter, and weep, but not all your tears.

The  Prophet by Kahlil Gibran

This is one of my favorite quotes. (I know.  I say that often.  I love quotes.)

I have very few items on my bucket list, save this last phrase.  I very much want to "laugh all my laughter and weep all my tears."  It is my best hope for my Life.  I have seen too many people I love shellac their hearts after loss out of fear and pain.  I can't say I don't understand.  I can't say it isn't tempting.  But I want to choose differently. (timshel)

As Hurricane Grief continues to shake my roots, I am pretty sure I am weeping all my tears.  I cry at the drop of a hat.  No yoga session is without tears.  Very few rides into work are dry-eyed.  I am so uber-sensitive to casual remarks that tears sometimes appear in my eyes before I can fight them back.  

Lately, though, the saltwater rain passes more and more quickly.  I am learning not too fight too hard.  

I am learning to just let the storm wash over me.  It means letting people see me cry in places like Wal-Mart. (Just don't tell me if you see me on the people of Wal-Mart website, please.)  It means crying in my van.  It means crying in more public places than I ever have.  Sometimes it is embarassing, but not nearly as much as I thought it would.  No one really stares (especially in Wal-Mart).

As a painful as it is, I trust myself.  I can make it through with my heart open.  My world is not seasonless...  I am so grateful to be here.

So grateful that I cry at Born This Way (I know.  I said that before.  I still cry.  Those lyrics get to me.)

So grateful that I choke up when I am with my friends that I love so much.

So grateful that I tear up when Anthony's teacher sends home a note to tell us he's been announcing the "weather report" in his class every morning over the microphone.  It justs makes me so proud that he is brave enough to talk in front of his class like that.

This process is hard.  As my sister-in-law says, "we hurt so much because we love so much.  And it is worth it. 

The Other Side of Timshel

I am not doing well.  That happens with grief sometimes.  I am going along and I am ok.
Then, suddenly, I am very much not ok.

Right now, I am not ok.

I am struggling to sleep, to act normally, to stop bursting into tears, to make sense of Life, to keep reassuring myself that this is worth it.

I know that Rilke said, "Just keep going - no feeling is final".  But the contrary part of me thinks, why?    Just keep going toward what?  More pain?  More loss?  More failure?  I know I should feel that this is all worth it, but some days I feel like such a sham.

I can speak a good game about "thou mayest", but my broken heart is screaming  "F$%# timshel".  I am sad and mad and confused.  It takes so much energy just to get out of bed the past couple of days that I don't have anything left over.

Grief kills empathy with a chainsaw.

I.just.don't.care...



I want to try to care.  The care simply costs too much sometimes.  I can't pay the price today.

When I insisted a few weeks ago "I'm ok" to a good friend, she corrected me.
"You are not ok, but you will be."
The one thing I can do today is hold that idea.
I can hold it carefully in my hands, and try not to drop it.

S.S.S.S. (not to be confused with S.S.D.D.)

I am always a big, dorky nerd during our Back to School week full of meetings. I get caught up in the Fall semester energy at the college. We have plenty of professional development opportunities, for which I am very grateful. I love working at an institution that gives me so many options for growing as a teacher.

Having said that, I do have this contrary streak. Commonly, there are "Best Practices" presentations where honored teachers are featured. I understand the spirit of the session - sharing successes. I get it, and I applaud it. However, the global declaration of "best" makes me want to argue. Who decided these practices were best? For whom were they best? When were they best? Why?

I pretty much complain about this title every time I hear it. I suggested an alternate title, but my friends told me that Some Things that Work for Some People Some of the Time and Some Reasons Why (S.S.S.S) would not be a big "faculty draw."

But the more I think about it, the more I like that title. It is one of my theories of Life. Every piece of advice really comes down to S.S.S.S. In my opinion, every baby book should come with a Some Things that Work for Some Babies Some of the Time and Some Reasons Why sticker. Every relationship advice book would sport the S.S.S.S. sticker as would EVERY weight loss program. Teaching, parenting, marriage and fitness require creativity and individual tailoring to be successful.

I comes down to my belief that no one else has my answers. I have to figure it out for myself. I love getting (and giving) advice. I benefit so much from sharing ideas. In the end, though it is me...

me, standing in front of the classroom
me, mothering my children
me, communicating with my husband
me, rolling out my yoga mat
me, drooling looking at a tray of cookies

Someone else's reasons...methods...words never feel quite right. I have to find my own.

And, eventually, I do find my own reasons to be healthy, my own authentic teaching methods, my own words to speak my joy and sorrow.

And, of course, they are always S.S.S.S.

Timshel

I am a bit of a reader. I have not read much since John died. Other people's drama just does not seem very interesting to me right now.

However, I have taken comfort lately from flipping through one of my favorite books ,East of Eden by John Steinbeck. It is an amazing book.

In one scene, two characters discuss the nature of God's edict for humans. Some Bible versions command "Thou shalt triumph over sin" and some rejoice in the predestination that "Thou surely will triumph over sin". Sam and Lee are not sure which is correct. In the story, Lee takes this question back to his elderly spiritual advisors in China, who study the question over many years. They believe they find the answer in the ancient Hebrew translation.

The original phrase is timshel. The best translation is "Thou mayest". Timshel becomes one of the main themes throughout the book.

Timshel has become one of my mantras in the past few weeks.

I think I now truly understand this idea of acceptance that I have been grasping for these last two years. Timshel...Thou mayest.

Thou mayest open your heart and heal. No one is forcing me. My friends and family do not ever judge me for talking (extensively) about my pain and fear and insecurities. But I MAY let them go. Not because I have to; not because something terrible will happen if it don't. But, because.I.may.

It is my choice to hold on or let go.

It does not mean I will not hurt when I see what every other five-year-old can do and Anthony can't. It doesn't mean it won't sting when I see another flippant comment online about how it is ridiculous to medicate a child for anxiety. I will still cry when I start to dial John's number and realize again that he is gone.

But thou mayest...

I may live with my heart open. I may parent without second guessing myself. I may love knowing I could get hurt.
I may heal. I may laugh. I may hope.

Anthony has started kindergarten this past week. Add that to a visit to Kentucky for John's memorial, and we have had some anxious nights. It will get better. Or it won't and we will go back to the pediatrician for help.

John's memorial service this past Saturday was a joyful celebration of his Life, but leaving my family behind was very painful. Life gets easier, then gets harder. That is Life.

It is all worth it. I am not voluntarily leaving this dance floor yet...not when I feel like I am finally learning some fun steps. I still gots some moves.

Timshel.

Breaking off

There is a philosophy in yoga that says we cannot lose anything that is truly ours. Our material things, jobs, relationships, even our bodies, are simply on loan from the divine. Who we are is deeper and wider than what we feel, what we do, where we go...

All the loss we have had this past year feels like a breaking off. The breaking off of parts of my heart that Mr. Carrico and John have taken with them. The breaking off of my dreams for my son Anthony. Those broken pieces feel like pieces of me... gone. Just gone. Gone are two wonderful people who loved me just as I am. Gone are the opportunities to learn from them and appreciate them. Gone are the naive assumptions that our family had reached our tragedy limit. Gone are the comforts of thinking that there will always be time later...

What is gone feels so much like parts of ME gone. I keep looking down, expecting a physical body part to be missing; surprised that I still have two hands; surprised that this body still wants to eat, sleep and work. I wonder what is left? After all of this breaking off, how much of my heart is left here?

That is how I feel...but I know that is not how Life works. When I can stop fighting the pain for a brief moment, I see a slightly different perspective.

Maybe this journey of grief is less about ME breaking off and more like layers of "not me" being pulled off. It is painful in its unfamiliarity like new skin in the sun. Maybe this shock of loss is my call to shake free from everything that keeps me from growing - guilt, fear, anger. Maybe that feeling of my heart breaking off is really peeling off its outer shell to contain more.

I still ask "what's left" and I'm still not sure. I am still so raw. I feel so sad and tired and old and sometimes scared.

But this is what I want, and this is what I will work toward - a bigger, kinder, wiser and more grateful heart. A soul that is not afraid of the sun. A woman who knows that her smile is a better testamonial of love than her tears...

My Brother John

As I sit on the couch this evening staring into the dark countryside, I offer my love up to my brother John. He died this morning in his sleep. To say that I am shocked and saddened just doesn't seem adequate. The pain of this grief is physical. My heart hurts; my skin hurts; my eyeballs hurt; I just really hurt.

There are so many stories and pieces of advice and words of encouragement that I can easily remember about John. He was so quick with kindness...and sarcasm. He had this irrepressible, irreverent sense of humor that would just shock laughter right out of me. I love so much his refusal to take himself too seriously.

My favorite story about John was one I didn't see, I just heard about it from him and his wife.
Several years ago, he was offered a job as a principal of an engineering firm. The company gave him the checkbook and told him to buy a car as his company car. The car he chose? A PT Cruiser. :)
What I love about that story is that it illustrates how John did not live his life to impress anyone. A PT Cruiser looked neat, so that is the car he bought. He was himself, no matter who happened to be looking at him at the time. He had so much intelligence and class, and absolutely no pretension.

He helped me organize my first term paper in high school.
When I was done whining to him about how big the paper had to be and how overwhelmed I was, he explained how I could break it up into more manageable pieces. (Incidentally, my brother Bill helped me type that same paper. It was the first time I ever used a computer to write a paper.) I use that same process daily and often think about that first intimidating paper.

He helped shape my work ethic.
He modeled working hard and honestly for what you want. When I passed my driver's test after failing it three times (long story), John and his wife Helen called me from San Diego and sang me a "Congratulations" song.

I called him first when I graduated with my master's degree...got my first teaching job...found out we were having a girl...

I am so grateful that I got him as my oldest brother. I am so grateful I had time with him. Every phone call started with his enthusiastic "HEY". Every phone call ended with "I'm proud of you. I love you." I can hardly bear knowing that those phone calls are gone.

I am hurting, and I know lots of us are hurting because he touched so many people. I love you, John. I will carry the best of you forward, as far as my path will go.

A Calm Moment

We are having a calm moment in our household.  It is our moment to breathe in, look around, and not deal with any crises.

I am grateful that I can enjoy it.

Our little guy has a new doctor who connects with him in a way his psychiatrist could not.  Our Zoloft journey is continuing successfully.  Each day, I see in him less anxiety and more attempts to communicate.

Our sweet girl got some much needed one-on-one time with me last week, and my husband and I celebrated our 18th anniversary yesterday.

As I take my breath, I can see how people get addicted to drama in their lives, though.  In this calm moment, I am needled by the buzzing flies of cultural and personal guilt awareness.  I see all the issues that get pushed aside during the rough spots.

• How can I give back more to my community?
• How can I decrease my carbon footprint?
• How can I eat better and exercise more?
• How can I be a better friend, sister, aunt, mother, teacher, wife, human?
• When the hell am I ever going to finish Anna Karenina?
• Are my teeth as white as they could be?
• Will I ever care about fashion or own a pair of heels?

I see how it would be easy to start complaining; how tempting it would be to look for a cause or an injustice or...any distraction. That is not what I want.   

This is my Life.  It is imperfect, messy, unfashionable, sincere, and has a carbon footprint about a mile wide.  And I will enjoy every blessed minute.

I will not squander this gift of time.  I will not invent problems out of the business of everyday living.

For all of you reading that are in my Life, I thank you from the bottom of my heart and I love you.

Slippery

I had the pleasure today to talk to another momma a little further down the path. It helps me so much to hear about someone else's journey and experiences. A topic that popped up often through the conversation was the idea of acceptance, specifically acceptance for WHO my son is.

I want that very much. I want to accept my handsome little guy for exactly who he is. In fact, I want the same for my daughter, for myself, for my marriage, for my Life...

I feel that acceptance for me is like a slippery fish. I feel like I am rooting around in murky water trying to capture this acceptance. (For the mental picture, envision "River Monsters" instead of "Hillbilly Handfishin'", please.)

I'll think I have it in my hands, holding it almost tangibly. I will be convinced I know what acceptance feels like, what it looks like, the weight of it. Then, it is gone through my fingers, and I am on the side of the road crying to "Born This Way".

I have to admit that I am not sure what the practicality of acceptance looks like...
How many occupational classes do you sign up for if you "have acceptance"?
How much do you dare hope for drastic improvement?
How much speech therapy coaching do we work on at home daily?
How much do I challenge him?
How much do I comfort him?
How much do I give him?
How much do I give in to him?
How much do I require from him?


Usually, I end the blog with my answers and my ideas.  Not this time...

In My Spirit

These past few years, I have been finally able to grow comfortable inside my body. Lately, I have felt the calling to become comfortable in my spirit.

Years ago, I was lucky enough to hear a sermon titled "Faith Is Not Belief". I will not summarize it here; there is no way I could do it justice. (If you are interested in reading its entirety, it can be found in the book Invitations to the Dance by Michael Brown). This sermon was a significant catalyst on my path. It helped me recognize that I did not need to spend so much energy searching for ways to define my beliefs. I saw that faith does not necessarily need a belief system. I spent the next few years relieved, but embarassed. I took that same energy and wasted it being defensive about my newly found "faith instead of belief". I still felt sheepish admitting to friends and that I had no church home, feeling like an errant child playing hooky. I think it is time to let that go.

The truth is that I do not know the exact nature of the Divine; I cannot map out the edges of my soul. There are mysteries of Life I fully expect to gaze at questioningly for the rest of my life.

And.I.just.don't.know.what.I.believe.

That un-knowing is NOT a tragedy to be overcome.
My un-knowledge is NOT a problem to be fixed.
These mysteries are NOT gaping holes to be filled.

I love and respect my friends and family with strong religious beliefs. I do not want to convince anyone of anything. I am just ready to accept that, although my spiritual journey might look like (and even be...who knows?) aimless wandering, this is exactly where I want to be. I am much too stubborn to be on any other path.
My un-knowledge suits me, and I suspect there is peace deep inside it.

My Week

I am a little hesitant to write about last week.
It was a painful inoculation into the world of living with mental illness.

I learned a few things that, unfortunately, many people already know too well.

• psychiatry is much more an art than a science.
• there are no quick fixes.  This is a long journey, and we need to prepare ourselves for that.
• OCD can wax and wane, even on the correct kind and amount of medicine.

It was a trying week, definitely.  We made it through.  We have a short term plan (upping my son's medication), and a long term plan (signing up for an anxiety reduction class through the local Easter Seals).

Though during the worst moments, oddly, I was most worried about leaning too much on the people around me.


I am the type of person who, whenever I get something I really want, will immediately start imagining my Life without it.  This is the first time I have had a support network of such caring, authentic friends.  Sometimes that scares me. I very much do NOT want to lose them.  And, of course, they are loyal and wonderful; listening to me while I cry...or worry...or rage...or apologize...

I want to be a good friend.  I want to enjoy the luxury of letting someone comfort me, while not crossing into the gray area of "the friend always in crisis." I also want to support my friends without crossing boundaries or being "hover-y".  This does not come naturally for me.My love for my friends is genuine, but I sometimes feel like I am faking knowing when to give my opinion and when to just listen; when to tell it like it is and when to just validate feelings; when to challenge and when to just be there.

Mainly, I very much realize how lucky I am in my Life, and I never want to take the people I love for granted.

I Surrender, part II

It is time.

I surrender to the word autistic.

I am too tired to fight anymore.  I give.

I have been running from this word as fast as possible for two years.  I realize now that I cannot outrun this word with a piece of paper from Easter Seals.  There will always be people in my son's life who label him as autistic. 

What is scarier than the word autistic, is the knowledge that no one actually knows for sure.  We just can't at this stage and age.  
He is speech-delayed; he has a fine motor delay; he has anxiety; and, I just found out yesterday, he has a gross motor delay.  Those are the facts.

The cause?  The depth? The breadth?  The future?  Those are the guesses...


I am not ready to say my child is autistic.  That may be denial.  If so, I am in good company (his pediatrician and Easter Seals among them).

...But I am tired of fighting the ghost of someone else's guess.  As of today, I will let the word autistic live in my universe.  I will not run away from it.  I will not fight it.  I will just let it sit beside me.

I Surrender, part I

I want to always be striving to be a better person. 
I want to work hard. 
I want to keep growing, and letting myself be uncomfortable. 

I do realize, though, that sometimes it is better to surrender.

I surrender to the fact that I will always be overweight according to someone's chart.

At work, we have these "health advisers" that come once a year to evaluate us.  And it is an evaluation.  We actually get grades for the answers to a questionnaire and our blood work numbers.  We do not have to participate, but we get monetary compensation for doing so. 

When my youngest was one, I decided that I wanted to (finally) get out of the overweight column. 

At the first meeting (four years ago), I weighed 139 pounds and was told that I needed to be 123 pounds in order to be a healthy weight.

The next year, I weighed 122.  I was quite shocked (and angry), when I was told that I needed to be 113 pounds in order to be a healthy weight.

I skipped a year.  I went back (last year).  I weighed 114 pounds.  I was told that I needed to be 109 pounds.  So, I have been plodding toward that goal.

So, to recap, our health adviser told me to get to 123, I did.  Then, they said, "no, you need to get to 113."  I did.  Now, I am supposed to get to 109.  Isn't this a symptom of an abusive relationship? 

I know "abusive relationship" is a bit of an exaggeration, but yesterday, if you asked me why I was still trying to lose weight (and friends have in the past few months), my answer would have been "Because that lady with [our health adviser] said I needed to."

I did talk to my doctor.  She said that although she wouldn't tell me I shouldn't lose weight, I was at the point where I would no longer be losing weight for health reasons.  But the fact that some person at some company would give my health a "C" grade because of the number on the scale still bugs me.

...I know...that's messed up...

So, as of right now, I surrender.  I will stop trying to change my Life and my body to gain approval from a stranger. 

Now...where'd I put those cookies?

Pit Stop

On my journey toward inner peace, I had a pit stop today at "sobbing behind my van out of the line of sight of my son"...not a fun place.  We had just left the psychiatrists's office, and I had gotten a shock.

I had thought that the Easter Seals' Autistic Diagnostic screening was irrefutable.  I carried around the piece of paper saying that he was not on the spectrum much longer than a healthy  person should.  The doctor disagrees with the team at Easter Seals.  She thinks he is on the spectrum as PDD-NOS (Pervasive Developmental Disorder - No Other Specified). 

I felt like I had been sucker punched.  I am still reeling really.  It was not even a possibility I had imagined.  I keep waiting for this situation (someone telling me he is autistic) to not hurt so much or to not scare me so badly.

Clearly, in the words of Aragorn, that day is not today.  I am not sure when it will be, but I am sure it will come.  My son's challenges are just that...challenges.  I know that to view his particular struggles as a tragedy would be disrespectful to him and to Life.  I have to have faith that we can handle what comes our way because I NEED to have faith that he can handle anything that comes his.

Hell and Back

As the spring semester comes to a close, it is my habit to look back at the year and evaluate it.

The past few days have been really emotional as I have done just that.  I am not usually a proponent of trotting out my laundry list of challenges, but I think that at this moment it might be useful.

Here are the most difficult challenges of my school year and what I've learned:

• My son's speech - We started the school year having our little guy evaluated for Autism Spectrum Disorder.  It turned out that he is not on the spectrum.  He has been in a local Bright Beginnings program this past school year, and I am tempted to call them miracle workers.  They are (of course) underpaid, devoted, professional, caring, and brilliant.  He has blossomed under their care, and I am so deeply grateful to these women.  I have learned in the past year that this kiddo will probably have many speech (and occupational) therapists throughout his Life, but he'll only have one mother.  My energy is best spent working at being a better mother, and letting some of the speech therapy go.
  
• My son's anxiety - For the first time since he was two, we have entire car rides with no screaming.  He wakes up the morning happy and looking forward to the day.  I can clearly see what a change this had made in his Life, but I had not fathomed what a change that it would make in my Life.  To not be screamed at is a lovely, luxurious feeling.  It makes me sad for our family that we lived through years of this before we found some relief.  The decision to put him on medication was the most excruciating decision I have made as a parent, and my heart goes out to parents that have to make those kind of tough, high stakes choices often.  I have learned that I am stronger than I tell myself.  I can handle what comes... I think.
• My father-in-law's death - My father-in-law died on December 23rd.  He was a thoughtful, haunted man who I loved very much.   I re-learned what an amazing man my husband is.  He has crawled through his grief and has never taken the easy way out of his pain.  He has faced each horrendous moment of this awful Journey with bravery and love.  He is my hero.  I cannot imagine my Life without him.

When I was discussing with my husband last night how much I am processing what we've been through, I mentioned that I feel like our family has been to Hell and back.  He responded "you never really get back."
Maybe he's right.   Maybe we never get all the way back.  Maybe I'm just resting on a park bench in purgatory.  I'll take it, and be thankful.

IS Vanity Fair?

I turned 40 this year, and have noticed what everyone notices at some point. My body is not the same as it was 20 years ago. As ridiculously obvious as this sounds, there are still moments of wonder at this fact. Thoughts like "Why does that hurt?" and "When did those lines appear?" are sprinkled throughout my day more and more.

I do care about my appearance. I can say all I want that I am exercising for my heart, but it is not my arteries I see sagging. I can insist that I want to age gracefully...all the way to my hair color appointment. Having two small children and a full time job DOES ensure my efficiency in getting ready. So, I don't really question the amount of time spent in front of the mirror.

I DO question the amount of thought that goes into how I look. If the intention behind the thought was simply self-respect and respect for the people forced to look at me throughout the day, that would be admirable. That would be aligned with my path to inner peace. Since I have seen myself after a few days "in" (vacation, spring break, etc.), without the subtle social pressure to groom, I would have to say that mere self-respect is not a realistic answer.

So, what's a 40-year-old girl to do? Let myself go to seed in my search for Nirvana? Viewing this question as if coming from a friend, I would say balance is a good first step. Balancing acceptance of who and what I am with the discipline with always striving to be better would create the space in my Life to appear presentable without becoming one of those annoying women who bemoans every second of Life because she's getting o..l..d..

Ok. That sounds good. Balance...yup, just strive for balance... Now, off to find some "balanced" anti-wrinkle cream...

Our Zoloft Journey 2

My little guy is three weeks in taking anti-anxiety medication, and the people closest to him have noticed a marked difference.

He is noticeably more talkative and less cautious at school. He has significantly less anxious behavior at home. He has become more independent, vocal, and sassy. His most obsessive OCD actions are fading a bit.

I should be happy, right? I am relieved that it is helping. However, I still am afraid.

I can't find any long term studies on this drug for children (other than the Zoloft website). I can't find any other momma out there giving it to a little one (which is one reason I started this blog).

I just want to make sure this really is in his best interest. I want to make sure our observations are accurate and not viewed through the screen of self-justification. As for now, I am convinced.

I also want to make sure all this vigilance doesn't keep me from enjoying the good moments with him. That's not too much to ask, right? I will let you know when I get good at doing those at the same time...

Impeccable...or just peccable?

"The first agreement is to be impeccable with your word." ~The Four Agreements

I am addicted to words.  I am constantly searching for the perfect word, the best phrase.  I analyze everyone's words during conversations.  It is common for me to amend, clarify, or apologize for my own words well after the person who heard them has forgotten everything I've said.  Even my living is made primarily by words.

I cannot help myself.  I keep the illusion that the right words can make anything better.

I think my obsession partly stems from being very nosy about other people's minds, and studying their words is more polite than asking personal questions.  I also believe sometimes I use words as a defensive screen - worrying over my words stands in for worrying over my Life.  Trying to phrase my thoughts carefully masks my vulnerability and fear that I have to say the right thing or I won't be heard...respected...loved...

Meanwhile, my personal indisputable proof of a divine sense of humor is the fact that my sweet son cannot understand words easily.  This means that searching for the right word to tell him is often a waste of energy.  So, I am learning to shut up.  That lesson is an uncomfortable and treasured gift.

I am great at filling the void with words...carefully chosen words.  However, I am developing the ability to sit in companionable silence with someone else.  At some point, I hope to have the gift of recognizing when an impeccable word is simply not necessary.

Accidental Meditations

I love meditation.

I love talking about meditation.  I love thinking about meditation.  I love the idea behind meditation.  I love the history behind meditation.

I love my meditation clothes.  I love my meditation space.  I really love the meditation timer app on my phone.

I love everything about meditation... except the part where I have to sit quietly and clear my mind.

I am not so good at that part.  Inevitably, I come to the conclusion that if this is the only way to inner peace I am in deep trouble.

I keep trying, though.  I make the time, I clear my space, I monitor my intention.  And every time, I accomplish more for my to-do list than for my soul.  In almost every clearly constructed session, there are flashing seconds of peace wrapped in a sea of whirling thoughts.

Those seconds keep me coming back.  They also keep me humble.  These tiny glimpses of the path to the well help me clearly see how far I have come, and how far I have to go.  Because when I am honest with myself, I must admit to being petty and egotistical.  I keep thinking that meditation will "cure" me somehow.  Through meditation, I believe I can be wiser, calmer, more creative (and thinner).

When the gong goes off, I realize I am still me.  My problems are still there, and just as painful and complicated as 30 minutes ago.

However...

 Often, later, unbidden and unexpected, that familiar peace will wash over me.  That moment I release (just a bit) my death-grip on the reins of my Life, I see the well.  For just a second.  It is enough.

What the Mother?

"Maybe we're all like that with our mothers.  They seem ordinary until one day they're extraordinary."  ~Shanghai Girls


I have been thinking about my mother often lately.  She died in 1994; I was 22.

I am lonely for a momma.  These past years I have learned how to mother myself pretty well.  It sometimes hurts, though, not having the comfort of someone a little further down the path, someone who can warn me about common mistakes and tell me she knows everything is going to be fine because she made it through.

My mother was extraordinary, and it was her best secret.  She taught me to stand on my own and never lose my sense of humor.

 She also was a cautionary tale illustrating everything you can lose when you refuse to feel the brunt of self-reflection.  I have never known anyone so brilliant and so brittle.  So understanding and wise, and so critical and defeated.

Like everyone's mother, she looms large over my Life. Like everyone's mother, she represents so much more than her human form.  I miss her so much; I am so grateful I knew her as well as I did.

Ironically, it is in mothering my own children that I have healed the most.  Being a mother, I know how much she loved us; how hard she tried; how scared she must have been raising us all alone.  Those doubts and regrets from the days right after her death melt in the laughter of my children.

I am not sure what I believe about an afterlife, but this is what I hope.  I hope she has found a bridge table, with lots of Coke, and a partner who finally knows what a bid of 1 no trump means.

I love you, Mom.

What parenting books don't tell you

I have read many parenting books. I am a classic pseudo-intellectual who is convinced all answers must lie in a book (or link) somewhere.

Turns out, as much as I love to read, there are no books with any of the answers to my Life that really matter. So, here is a list of the things that motherhood has taught me that I never found in a book.

1) These little people are supposed to break my heart a little. There is no scenario that is not at least a little bittersweet. My daughter stomping off to her room is both a rejection of my opinion and a healthy demonstration of independence. My son finally mastering some communication milestone makes me want to jump for joy, but also highlights how far he has to go before he catches up to his age group.

2) My children make me yearn daily to be a better person. I am all too aware that I am modeling everything - being a marriage partner, member of the community, professional, friend, sister, aunt. Everything I do takes on this second meaning of "what does this teach my children as they watch me". It is like living inside 1984 (without the rats...I hope).

3) That I am so glad I didn't know how hard this was going to be, because there is no way anyone could have convinced a younger, "so sure of the world" me of how happy this very difficult job makes me.

4) That every child needs a different set of parents. I laugh now at our hubris when our daughter was 2 and we thought "we got this! Let's have another!" What worked for our daughter hardly ever works for our son.

5) That I very much owe my mother thanks...and an apology.

Our Zoloft Journey

So, we've decided to medicate our child.

It has been an excruciating, lengthy decision. We have this bright, beautiful boy whose anxiety and nervousness are palpable. We have tried everything we could think of to try - predictable schedules and relaxation techniques among them. After a particularly tough evening, we made the decision to ask our pediatrician's help. We knew the implications; we knew exactly what she would suggest.

So,here we are. With a Zoloft prescription. And hoping. And I question the decision daily.

What is the price that my son will have to pay? Any? How will we know when to quit? Will it ever get better without medication? What does that mean for his future? Will he resent this,our intrusion into his brain? Will he ever know with how much love and fear and regret and hope I force this into him?

Does every mother in this position feel like a failure? I take every side effect (bad taste, loose stools) personally. Rationally, I know this is the best option for him right now. I am grateful we do have this choice. Without it, we would all be pretty desperate here.

We are at the beginning of our Zoloft journey; no measurable changes yet... Here's to hoping.

Where is the zen in screaming?

Where is the zen in screaming?

I ask myself that sometimes. I realize that I am in charge of my inner peace. I realize that the only thing I can control is my reaction. Then, my precious, complicated, anxious five-year old son starts screaming his frustrations at me. He is severely speech delayed, but his only diagnosis(so far) is social phobia. His anxiety level is often quite high.

And though he is mostly inarticulate during the screaming, all I hear from him is that he needs something that I cannot give him. Every molecule in my body gets drawn into that place with him. No matter how I work at trying to stay calm...stay calm...stay calm...

I feel my desperation rise and burst into tears. And I think "where is the zen" And I then hold him until he calms down, and wonder what he is thinking, what he needs, will this ever get better. I love him so much. He is so worth it.

In the good moments, I feel the deep peace of being his mother. In the happy moments, I have faith he will be ok. In the bad moments, I wonder how I can ever be good enough to give him what he needs. In the scary moments, I worry how he will ever make it in kindergarten if he refuses to talk. Most moments, I try to guess my way through motherhood and hope for best, trusting the peace is still there just waiting for us.