18 Shades of You-Have-Got-to-Be-Kidding-Me

I am a bit of a reader.
In fact, I am a good reader.



Not a great reader, certainly not an epic reader...but a consistent, committed reader.
I enjoy anything well-written, most pretty-goodly-written, and a fair number of not-awfully-written.

Earlier this year, I came across this list of "100 books to read before you die". The words "books" + "die" got my attention and I counted - purely out of curiosity, mind you - to see how many I had read.


82.


82 out of the 100 listed.
That sounded impressive to me. I only needed to read 18 books and I would have all 100.

I get to read books other people recommend AND get the satisfaction of checking off a list?

I'm in!


Since there is little chance that I'll be climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro anytime soon, I challenged myself to finish this small bit of a bucket list.
This year, preferably.

I am not sure this is really something to be awfully proud of...honestly, it is not that great of list. There are places where a collection is listed (Lord of the Rings), and there are places where only some books from a series are listed (Hunger Games and Harry Potter), and I am convinced that there are books that should/should not be there...

Regardless, I promised myself I am going to finish this list and I will. I have 8 books to go after my current book.

Pre-list, I have spent the 20 years since college shamelessly only reading what I like. Although my "like" runs fairly wide and deep, it has definitive borders, and I have no problem abandoning a book that I deem "not worth it" for any reason.

Life is short and libraries large, after all...


Luckily, this list-challenge journey has been pleasant, for the most part.  I have only come across a couple that I would not have finished voluntarily.
And I have appreciated the chance to stretch myself, book-wise.




My current book on the list, though, is Outlander by Diana Gabaldon. This is a book I would have abandoned, pre-challenge. I apologize in advance if you are a fan of this book. Another confession, I am not quite done with it. I am about 78% in. I will try not to spoil the story or the book for you, but it has brought up a struggle.




What is bothering me is trying to reconcile what I am reading in the book with what I am reading about the book.


What I am reading about the book:
It has a Goodreads rating of 4.16, so there are clearly many fans of the book. The book description (on Goodreads) ends with "For here James Fraser, a gallant young Scots warrior, shows her a love so absolute that Claire becomes a woman torn between fidelity and desire".  Many reviews on Goodreads tout this as a romantic-love-story-beyond-time and openly swoon over Jamie and Claire.



What I am reading in the book:
There is this one passage that is massively incongruous with that description. (Not a spoiler) The scene involves Jamie whipping Claire...as in, beating her with a strap. It was not consensual. Claire was humiliated and physically hurting for days. She rationalized his behavior very quickly, forgave him and moved on.

...I'm not quite as forgiving.

I can rationalize his behavior (1740s Scotsman). I guess I can rationalize her behavior (Stockholm syndrome?).
But I do NOT buy that this is now an epic love story.
I'm done.
I would absolutely "tap out" of this book if I were not so heck-bent on finishing this list.





I felt betrayed when I read that passage. THIS was supposed to be the good guy?!?! A man who beat his wife and admitting to enjoying it. I was so angry.

I vented to my friend about my disbelief of so many people happily waving away that scene in the reviews and she wrote "The question is whether or not literature gives us permission to set aside our own values for the sake of connecting with a character."



That stopped me in my tracks...that is a very new idea for me.



As a reader, I have always been simply concerned with how the authors (and characters) could connect with ME. (cue "What Have You Done for Me Lately")  I assumed that it is their responsibility to build that connection.

I have never really paused to consider MY responsibility to THEM.

Do I have a responsibility?
When I pick up a book to escape to their world do I owe them complete suspension, or at least, more suspension than I usually give?
Should I be working harder to connect with characters?



I don't know...

which is why I am writing about it. :)



It is true that I would miss out on some great books if I put them down every time the hero/ine did something I disagreed with...
(Gone With the Wind, Huckleberry Finn, Crime and Punishment, to name a few...)


This seemed different, somehow.
How the abuse was written, how it was dealt with (or not), how it was rationalized by the abused and abusers...


I can accept that it happened. I cannot accept that it seemed justified, in any way, to Claire. I cannot accept the description of this as a "true love story".

But it did make me think (I am always grateful for that)...mainly about how I don't want my pre-teen daughter to think this is how love should be.




Love should not cause bruises.
Ever.








btw...
Here is my favorite (NSFW) review. (Serious bad words. Be warned.)

Very Close and Very Still

I love wildflowers.

I love accidental beauty.

There is something precious about seeing that beauty where no person intended.

I do love summer.

Summer is a teacher's respite from the crazy-ness of the semester. We need that down time. 

I know I need time to recharge, but it's not always comfortable. I struggle every year with the non-routine-ness of my summer days. 

I go from a school year of being surrounded by people each weekday to mainly hanging out alone during the day, near my children. The tribe of my closest friends is scattered, and they are all doing their own summer-things. I get a bit lonely without the day to day engagement of friends and colleagues who know me well.

During the school year, I have classes, committee meetings, workshops that fill my daytime. I do teach in the summer, but I spend very little time on campus. Although I am never bored, I have so much more...choice in the summer with my free time that it can be disconcerting.

Yesterday morning, Anthy asked me what "special thing" we were going to do that day. He was heartbroken and bitterly disappointed when I told him "nothing special."

From behind his bedroom door, I heard him proclaiming that he wanted "something special all the days!"

I understand that feeling. Every summer, I feel like I need all the days to be special. Every moment should be filled with either wild, ecstatic fun or deep, soul-healing peace. I have trouble just letting summer be.

And then I found these wildflowers...

and all I wanted to be was very close and very still with them. 

Each was beautiful and so...there...

They were covered in tiny bugs, and it was hot, and the grass was itchy, and I was all sticky and sweaty and buggy, but I didn't care about the any of those things right then because they were Real, in the Velveteen Rabbit kind of way.

I could be very close and very still and not worry about what I was or wasn't accomplishing or missing.

Sometimes I need to just sit with the discomfort created by the absence of my school busy-ness. 

Although I am tempted to fill the time-hole of my summer with more, there's a joy in being very close and very still with myself too...

I am enjoying going "to seed" and peeling away the layers of myself that are just for show.

I am not sure what's under there - it's a work in progress - but I'm sure it's Real.

And the discomfort may hurt a little, getting to those Real parts, but "When you are Real, you don't mind being hurt."

Sell the Goat

Ten years ago:

Sitting in a yoga class, I listened to this parable from one of my favorite teachers.

One day, a man went to the village guru for wisdom. The man had so many responsibilities and so little time and money. He worked long, hard hours. His wife was overwhelmed with their children and their home; his mother-in-law lived with them and nagged him incessantly. How could he find peace in the midst of all the chaos?

The wise man listened to him silently, paused to think, and declared, "buy a goat."

Not one to question a guru, the man bought a goat.

A few weeks later, he visited the teacher and complained. Things were much worse! The goat ate him out of house and home. His wife was even more upset, and now his mother-in-law complained ALL the time. 

Once again, the guru listened silently and paused to think. He then stated, "sell the goat."

Once again, the man followed the instructions. 

He visited the teacher again after a few weeks. This time he brought gifts and praise for the teacher's wisdom. His wife was calmer, the children had more food and clothes...and his mother-in-law approved of him for once! He felt peaceful.

He thanked the guru again and again for helping him find the peace he'd been seeking.

My teacher said that when she was really stressed, she would hang a sign on the refrigerator with the words "sell the goat". She said that, for her, it represented a reminder that peace is at our fingertips. That we don't actually have to change anything to reach it.

Present day:

So, we got a dog. This is Carly. We had her for two weeks...

...and then we gave her back. 

Yup. 

We're the family that cannot handle a puppy. We could not manage to find any equilibrium in the time that she was with us. As much as we loved her, we just could not make the situation work.

It was a "it's us, not you" situation. She was amazingly sweet and cute and wonderful. It truly hurt us to take her back. Sophie and I cried most of that weekend.

(Carly's story has a happy ending. She was adopted by another family within 48 hours of her return. She was happy and well-loved here. She will be happy and well-loved there.)

Our family peace is a bit more precariously balanced than we realized, it turns out. That knowledge was difficult and painful and hard-won, but worth it, really. 

We* didn't get through the experience without wounding each other. Sophie, Chris and I went through whirlwinds of emotions. There were unkind words, hurt feelings, judgmental moments. 

*Anthy stayed as far away from the dog as humanly possible while living in the same house.

My very kind friend comforted me by telling to think of Carly's time with us as her all-expense paid dog vacation. 

I think of it as our extremely tangible goat-selling. 

I wish that puppy were here. I loved her. I loved loving her. 

But...my family is calmer now. 

Our house is much more peaceful and much less "pees-full" now. 

We have the luxury of seeing each other with fresh, new, gentler eyes right at this moment.

A few nights ago, we were watching a Nova episode about pet birds that have been abandoned and need help. I said that maybe someday we could be a bird sanctuary. 

Chris' response was not G-rated.

Sell the goat, baby! ;)

Sacred Wounds

I am not what anyone would call thick-skinned even on my strongest day. Today was IEP day.

 IEP day is the day of the year that I walk around skinless.

Every other day of the year, we measure using our Anthy ruler. He is judged only by his best self. We do not worry about what he cannot do. We do not worry about where other kiddos in his class are. Every other day we take where he is and celebrate him there and push him one step more from there and love him there.

IEP day is the day of the year that we have to measure his progress by a standard ruler. We get to hear how he has grown over the year, which is joyful. We also have to hear about how far he has to go, which hurts. 

Every time. 

I hurt. 

The entire day. 

I have done this day enough times to know not try to fight the hurt. I just let myself hurt. I am his momma. I get to hurt.

I have my survival strategies. 

I send an SOS to those of my tribe that I can reach. 

I cry. 

A lot. 

In random places. 

(This year Metamora Post Office got the unique privilege of my random tears.)

And, because I am human, sometimes this hurt makes all my wounds hurt. Today is that kind of day.

And yet, I am grateful for my wounds. All of them.

In the moment of not fighting the hurt, I get a flash of how sacred these wounds are.

My wounds are sacred. They are my badges of honor. They give me a slightly deeper, longer, wider view of life - if only momentarily. They are not quite a Total Perspective Vortex*, but they are my partial perspective vortex. Each wound holds a humbling heartbreak. From the old to the new, from the small to the large, each holds a sacred lesson which I call a gift.

I am not special. My pain is not special. My pain is the everyday kind of pain.

The momma-pain

The dreams-not-come-true-pain

The loss-pain

The fear-for-those-I-love-pain

I do not mean to sound like I am glorifying pain. I don't believe it is the only way to wisdom or the sacred.

However, it would be foolhardy and disrespectful to life to deny that it is a road to wisdom, that it does hold gifts. 

Through this pain, when I am lucky and very still, I get a few knee-weakening, awakened moments of clarity into the blessedness and sacredness of feeling it all, of living it all.

*http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Technology_in_The_Hitchhiker%27s_Guide_to_the_Galaxy

What acceptance looks like right now

So, I haven't written a blog post in awhile...like two years.

As we get close to our yearly IEP meeting, I have been thinking more about this journey with this amazing kid.

This year, he is in a mainstream classroom most of the day. He still sees a speech therapist, occupational therapist and physical therapist regularly.

This year, we will do a three year re-evaluation. I am as eager for this meeting as I am dreading it. In this meeting, I hope we will determine if (and how much) he is gaining ground academically. I can read the IEP reports, but I can never quite tell how close he is to the standard.

Although I am fighting it, I feel many old fears resurfacing. I am a bit fragile and vulnerable.

Throughout the years, it's not uncommon for a fellow, well-meaning momma to tell me that parenting Anthy is no different from parenting any other child...that there are no guarantees. That each child's future is just as uncertain as Anthy's.

I have finally thought of a way to explain to everyone (or just you and the people in my head) why it's not completely accurate.

This is my perspective. I do not pretend to speak for anyone other than myself.

It's true that everyone's future is questionable. 

I know that as well as anyone. 

If you are raising a child with special needs (no matter what the special needs are), though, your question marks are bigger. Period. The more severe the needs, the bigger the question mark.

My question marks are bigger. 

It's not a competition; that's just a fact.

Those question marks get heavy sometimes. I get tired and scared and vulnerable because they get heavy. That's not a pity party; that's an explanation.

I can know that he will be ok, AND I can know that his life will be tougher because of his disability. That's not a paradox, that's life.

I can rejoice in the wondrous child he is, AND I can grieve because he's eight years old and struggles to tell any coherent story about his day.

That's not capitulation, that's acceptance...what acceptance looks like to me right now anyway.