oh this is hard

On being mothered

I love Kelly Rae Roberts’s post on being mothered, mothering, and becoming who we are meant to be. She writes beautifully about her own journey towards motherhood, the heartfelt progress of which I’ve enjoyed following. But the part that I’ve been thinking today is her reflection that ” i am mothered by so many people and friends in my life and that i soak in these moments as my favorite moments.” She writes about how she can’t get enough nurturing and mothering lately and that she is trying to “be present for these offerings” rather than dismissing them, as she might have in the past.

Kelly’s words summon two strong feelings for me: a familiar and tinged-with-sadness awareness that I feel a similar need for support now, and a deep gratitude for the people in my life who have provided the nurturing friendship she describes.

I relate intensely to Kelly’s description of a heightened sense of wanting to be taken care of. What I don’t understand is why.

I’ve been focusing this summer on my mothering, trying to be as engaged as I can be with my children. I’ve been trying to offer them special experiences some of which I hope will become the glittering gems of memory that stud our recollection of certain times in our lives (in this case, their childhoods). Despite all of this summer’s joyful adventures, though, I’m struggling. I ache to be nurtured, for the kind of gentle witness and patient holding that Kelly describes receiving from her friends on a weekend away. It’s easy to assume that I am tapped out from the effort of this active mothering, drained, but I know that interpretation is simplistic, and that the weather inside of me has a more complex source.

Some of this is just my baseline, and reflects both my persistent difficulty in receiving help and my discomfort with true vulnerability. But more than ever, I find myself feeling lonely, and un-seen, un-known, and I am unsure about the rising volume of this need. As I change and grow, are some of those sources of support I counted on the most falling away? Am I walking through a valley that I need to cross alone, before reentering a more comfortable, familiar world?

Though I am in a fallow period, on a lonely passage, I still feel tremendously thankful for the people in my life who do support and take care of me. My parents (and let me be clear that when I talk about being “mothered” I speak about that broadly, Mum, I am not speaking about you!), my sister, and some very special friends, the native speakers of whom I have spoken before. This small group of people, a handful or fewer, have made me feel not alone and not crazy more times than I can count. I am deeply grateful for their patience with me, who can be so difficult and dark.

I recognize this as a time of transition, so perhaps this sensation of chill is just that my native speakers are changing, new teachers emerging. My deep longing for nurturing likely has almost nothing to do with those people doing the supporting and everything to do with me. I am so very raw right now, for reasons both known and unknown to me, and I guess it makes sense that this is accompanied with a persistent sense of being alone. And I am acutely aware of the tremendous gifts that this rawness and sensitivity brings with it; I can feel them showering over me, even on my sad days.

In the midst of this ache for being known, which rises and falls from potent to vague, I still feel certain that I am headed in the right direction. Even in the darkest moments there is a shimmer of truth and of calm that is new. I am, I know, becoming who I am meant to be. I cling to this, and hold it close as evidence that this too will pass. It always does. “That is life’s greatest sorrow and greatest solace. It goes on.” (Mary Pipher, Seeking Peace)

The struggle and the beauty

“One day, in retrospect, the years of struggle will strike you as the most beautiful.”
– Sigmund Freud

Many thanks to Anthony Lawlor, from whom I found this quote on Twitter. I do believe this to be true, absolutely, though it’s so incredibly difficult to remember in the moments where the struggle seems overwhelming. The struggle which occurs for me on so many levels these days. The struggle to stop my crazy squirrel brain from frantically spinning over and over on the same questions. The struggle to remain patient and present with my lovely children who can be charming, curious, and incredibly aggravating. The struggle not to over-identify with Grace, to maintain the distance and perspective I need to parent her well. The struggle not to crush Whit’s effervescent spirit, whose enthusiastic bubbles sometimes challenge the rules and norms. The struggle to try to keep alive my professional and creative selves, as well as to have enough left over for those who need me.

“These are the day of miracle and wonder”
– Paul Simon

For some reason that lyric was in my head nonstop this weekend. My subconscious was trying to remind me of the richness of the present moment, I suspect, which can be so hard to really see.

It was a weekend with plenty of struggle as well as ample beauty. Somehow the struggle is so quick to occlude the beauty, so much more urgent and immediate, so hard to shake off. Does this make sense? It is here, on the page, and through the lens of my camera that I am more able to see the beauty. It rises more slowly, over time, asserting itself in memory rather than in the vivid moment. The beauty is in the smallest moments, infinity opening, surprising me every time, from the most infinitessimal things, like a world in the back of a wardrobe (there really are only two or three human stories, and we do go on telling them, no?). Why is it, then, that the struggles, also often small, can so quickly and utterly yank me back to the morass of misery and frustration, away from the wonders that are revealed in the flashing moments of beauty?

I wish I could change the dynamic between these two, but the beauty, fragile as it is in the moment, seems sturdier over the long arc of a life. Freud’s quote supports this, the notion that the beauty develops over time, like a print sitting in the solution for a long time, image gradually forming on the slick surface of the photo paper, slowly, haltingly hovering into being. It is, of course, the photograph that is the enduring artifact of the experience.

These are days

Yesterday Grace, Whit and I went back to Storyland. Our first visit was nothing short of magical and I wanted to experience that again. I am determined to jam this summer that I’m not working full of memories for the children. I’m anxious about what reality will look like once I go back to work, and I realize this may be a once-in-a-lifetime chance. To that end, I just made plans to take them both to Legoland (yes, in San Diego, ie almost as far as you can get from Boston within the continental US) for three days in early August. I don’t know if I’m insane. After Whit melted down at Chili’s tonight I was convinced I was. But once I caught a glimpse of his angelic sleeping face in the rearview mirror, I decided again that it was a good idea. Stay tuned.

They had another marvelous day at Storyland. We left an hour earlier than planned because it started pouring. As I pulled out of the parking lot I felt a pang of real sadness, surprised by how unhappy I was that this much-anticipated visit was over. I don’t know when we will be back, if I’ll be able to just take them here on the spur of the moment next summer, or even what next week holds.

As we sat in traffic in North Conway, the kids descended into their annoying and predictable bickering. Whit snapped at Grace, “I don’t like you, Grace. Not at all.” She surprised me by saying to him, calmly, “Whit, I know you don’t mean that. I know you care a lot about me.” Conversation closed. She turned and looked out of her window, ignoring him for a while.

After a dinner pitstop at Chili’s we drove the last hour to Boston. Whit fell asleep clutching the threadbare and treasured animal that he’s taken to calling his Beloved Monkey, a name that for some reason charms me. Grace was tired but not asleep, gazing out into the evening. It was simply a beautiful night, everything soft around the edges, the world draped in the faint pink haze of sunset. “Grace?” I spoke into the quiet stillness that had settled over the car. She nodded, caught my eye in the mirror. “I thought what you said earlier about knowing Whit loves you even when he said otherwise was really smart. Try to remember that in life. People say a lot of things they don’t mean.”

“Yes. I think sometimes people say things because they are tired, and cranky, and angry.” She lapsed into silence again and my breath caught in my throat at my daughter’s wisdom. May she hold onto this particular piece of it; I know I for one could use the reminder on an almost daily basis.

The song “These Are Days” came on the radio and about halfway through I realized I was singing along under my breath.

These are days you’ll remember …
Never before or never since, I promise,
will the whole world be warm as this.

I was startled to feel tears rolling down my face. These familiar roads, this beautiful city that I love, on the horizon, wreathed in pale pink fog, these sleepy children, these days passing faster than I can bear. Yet again of the loss that limns every single minute of my life lurched up into the foreground. My heart is so full of aches and fears right now, of feelings so big they threaten to overwhelm me. No matter how determined or desperate I am to make this summer full of warmth for Grace and Whit, of memories and joy, it will end. There is nothing I can do to change that. The keening anguish of this fact is sometimes truly more than I can bear.

I noticed that the license plate on the car in front of me was BEACON. Yes. This is my beacon, there is no question: remembering that this is all I have brings me back, over and over again, to right now. I drove through the beautiful dusk, feeling again the haunting awareness of how fleeting it all is, acknowledging reluctantly the unavoidable truth that my grasping at moments just makes them run through my fingers more quickly. Following my beacon, my eyes dazzled by the deep summer blue sky smudged with faint pink and gray clouds, and light glowing from below the horizon, I drove my children home.

Summer fever

A couple of weeks ago, Whit had a high fever all weekend.  He was listless and not himself, he threw up a couple of times, and his fever just would not come down.  Plus for three days in a row he took 2+ hour naps in the afternoon.  As delightful as his sleeping and his unusual desire for extra cuddling was, I knew something was wrong.

On Monday we went to see our beloved Dr. Rick.  Dr. Rick who is leaving practice in the fall.  Sob.  Another farewell, another changes, another factor contributing to the earthquake.  I am very, very tired of goodbyes, endings, and changes.  Have I mentioned that?

Anyway.  Whit and I sat in the waiting room.  Well, I sat.  Whit lay down (see above).  He was quiet and subdued and altogether not himself.

“Whit, do you want me to read to you?”  (I was sitting in a third chair, by his feet)

“No.”

“Are you sure”

“Yes.”  He sighed heavily and lay there, staring into space.  I reached over with my right hand and rubbed his skinny little calves, marveling at how simultaneously tiny-thin they are and how grown-up-long.  With my left hand I read my email on my iPhone.

A few minutes later I felt him sitting up.  He curled up in the chair next to me, his legs drawn up under him, and leaned his head over onto my shoulder.  I put down my phone and turned to kiss his forehead.  Against my lips his skin felt hot.

“Whitty, are you okay, baby?”  He took in breath audibly and I pulled my face back so I could study him.  I could tell he had something on his mind.  “Whit?”

“Mummy,” he began, tentatively.  “What if the doctor can’t find anything wrong with me?”  He wouldn’t look at me, staring resolutely at the edge of the receptionist’s desk across the room.

“Why does that worry you, Whitty?”

“Well because if he finds something wrong then I’ll get better faster, right?”

“Well, maybe.”

“And if he doesn’t find something wrong maybe this is just how I will feel from now on?”

My eyes filled with tears.  Isn’t this the thing we all fear?  If we can’t name, and treat, or fix, or medicate the thing that is making us feel bad, then is it simply who we are?  I remember when the children were small being very relieved at an ear infection diagnosis, for two reasons – the first being that the antibiotics would quickly kick in, improving the screaming and up-all-night situation, and the second being that if there wasn’t an ear infection then didn’t that just mean that this cranky, yelling, ornery behavior was simply my baby’s personality?

I pulled Whit against me, cupping his bony, bird-like shoulder in my hand, squeezing him, feeling the fever radiate from his forehead and the exhaustion in his sagging body.  Of course a summer fever is not an internal demon.  Of course not.  But it did remind me of the deep human fear of that which we cannot fully understand or subdue inside us, and of the various ways this makes us act out, seek comfort, dull ourselves.  I was reminded of Where the Wild Things Are, of all the ways that we cope with the fearful demons we sometimes feel raging inside of us, and of the Jung quote that “the most terrifying thing is to accept oneself completely.”


These are things that speak to me now

I am heavy and full right now, waterlogged with feeling, tired and a bit burned from exposure to the sun, both literal and figurative. The changes of the last month or two are settling in, making themselves at home, and the rhythm of this new reality (albeit an interlude for just this summer, which creates its own anxiety) is becoming familiar. I feel a bit out of words, but also as though there is a tide of them brimming up inside of me, the vague pressure slowly mounting. I hope I can ride this tide to somewhere that has meaning, and peace, and calm. I’ll let you know.

In the meantime, I seek refuge, as is my habit, in the words of others. Today, Meg Casey’s essay, These are things I know now, spoke to me. I’ve quoted Meg before, and I think she’s one of the most exquisitely honest writers out there. Her journey resonates with me and I’m touched every single time I read her words. Maybe what I’m feeling right now is surrender to my empty bowl, to the trust that something essential and life-giving will fill it.

Meg, thank you, as always, for providing solace when I feel the undertow most strongly, for when I feel storm-tossed and run aground at the same time.

These are things I know now – Meg Casey

That sometimes the most beautiful innocence can be born from deep suffering, desperation and ugliness
That nothing is ever one thing and even the most exquisite joy and breathtaking beauty can be punctuated by sadness and loss and even the most heartbreaking grief can be tinged with a rosy kindness
That laughter and silliness and ridiculousness is sometimes the only answer to heaviness
That my heart will whisper to me exactly what I must do next
That angels most certainly must exist
That I have sisters who I will walk with and they will not leave me and I will not leave them because our paths are intertwined whether we like it or not (though we mostly like it)
That love (not sappy silly love by lionness roaring love) is alchemical — it is the magic ingredient and while it sounds so trite its true
That the youngest among us are extremely powerful and hold all the wisdom that we forgot
That miracles are like tsunamis and leave disasterous messiness in their wake and it is a saint’s job to clean up what comes behind, physically hold the wounded together to sutcher their souls.
Saints also bring lemon cake and stand on chairs tip toe to hang paper hearts from the ceiling