When Believing is Seeing

Annie Dillard wrote an essay called "Seeing" in which she talks about how difficult it is to see the things right before us. She describes a time she couldn't see the hundreds of blackbirds in a nearby tree until they flew off in a flapping frenzy. It reminds me of countless vacations where somebody saw something - an animal, a shooting star - and tried to point it out to someone else to no avail. Whales, in fact, are perfect sources of this sort of frustration, when everyone else seems to see them blowing water or breaching and I never seem to be looking in the right direction.

This also reminds me, though, that sometimes we have to really believe in something in order to see it, because we are preoccupied in seeing that which we are programmed to see. This is especially true in our children. We have hundreds of parenting books telling us how to raise our children, and a competitive society where children are compared with one another from toddler-time on, and an education and employment system that rewards overachievers and ignores the rest of the bunch. I've spent seventeen maternal years looking for things that I didn't find in my own children, while unexpected things popped out at me, and I've had to adjust my focus every time this has happened. And, as my kids became teens, this re-focusing became the norm.

What I wish I'd done, what I wish I'd known and been strong enough to do, was to see what I believed deep down was there, and what deep down was important, rather than to see the superficial things that society told me to watch for, to search for those things that were supposed to be there, according (once again) to society.

I saw lackluster grades. I saw defiance.I saw priorities that didn't match up to mine. I saw a lot of things that weren't on my original agenda, that weren't in the "perfect parenting" books, that weren't showing up in the lives of my neighbors' kids.

I didn't believe, enough, in my kids to see what was underneath all that. And I didn't believe, enough, in my own convictions to turn my back on society's ideas and look for what I should have been looking for all along.



On a recent trip to Utah, we were looking for pictographs in the red rock. Every shadow, every marking, seemed to represent something to me but not to anyone else.

"Come on, let's get going," they'd say to me. But I'd stand and stare at those rocks just a few minutes more because I believed something was there that we'd missed. Something important; maybe not as important as reservations or meeting times or other societal things, but important to me. And eventually what I'd believed in became clear. The images on those rock walls were really there, and although it might not matter to 99% of the population, it made a difference to me and, more importantly, to the individuals that created the artwork in the first place.

With all the pressures on us today, it's hard to know what to believe in. But what I've learned is that deep down I do know, and I have to trust myself to believe in order to see what really needs to be seen. My hope is that it's not too late.

Robbed!

You are going about your daily life, with all your dreams and hopes and plans, and you walk into your home and go about your business. But then something starts to feel wrong, and you can't quite figure out what it is, so you go about your business but with an impending sense of dread, and finally you realize what's happened: you've been robbed! First there is the pure surprise, followed by some mixture of disbelief and anger and grief, depending on what it was that was taken and what its value might have been. And then you call the authorities and report it. If you're lucky, the culprit is caught and your posessions returned and justice served.

But what happens when it's not material posessions that are stolen? What if the theft involves those very dreams and hopes and plans that were part of your daily life yesterday and are gone today?

I know women who have been robbed of their lives through cancer and women who have been robbed of their security through abuse and women who have been robbed of their self-esteem through, well, all kinds of society's flailings. These women had also been going about their daily lives when one day the bottom fell out. And then there are the moms.

Almost every mom I know once had a plan to watch her baby walk his first steps and bat his first baseball and learn how to swim and go on school field trips and go to school dances and graduate from high school to go on to college and have a job and maybe even get married and have a family. Whether deliberately or subconsciously she prepared for those events when she picked up his dirty socks and packed his lunches and reminded him, by text of course, of his orthodontist appointment. She went about her daily life organizing those plans and hopes and dreams the same way she stacked the clean dishes in one cabinet, separated the spoons from the forks in the silverware drawer, and filed pictures in photo albums and scrapbooks.

But some moms are robbed. It's not just that some things don't go according to plan. It's that things go terribly awry: the proverbial train wreck. Her train, and her child's train, are derailed. There's horrible damage, and much pain and injury, and, in the chaos and looting that follow, her plans and hopes and dreams are stolen as onlookers turn away .

At first she doesn't even know what happened, but as things become clearer and she senses the loss she also knows it won't be forever. She's always been able to kiss the knee and make it all better, so things will get better this time too. Right? After all, everyone else seems fine, their plans still intact. Her pain will heal, her losses resolve. She clings to hope.

But things don't improve and one day the hope is shaken by anger..the anger that reminds her how she spent years preparing for a day that may now never happen. The hope wobbles ever more, but she still clings to it until finally grief settles in. Grief for her child and eventually grief for herself. Grief for the hopes and plans and dreams that she cannot seem to forget. And grief for no longer belonging to the club of families on track.

And then one day she finally realizes what has happened. A crime has been committed: she and her child have been robbed. Their foundation has been broken and their futures stolen away. And it is a horrifying discovery for her because, in this crime, there are no authorities to call. No report to be filed. No culprit to imprison because this culprit is an elusive one; it might look like death or disease, depression or defiance. It snuck into her life like a slippery shadow and has by now moved on with destruction in its wake. It may not even have a name, and it most certainly can't be caught. This is a theft with no justice and a thief that cannot be contained by any one jurisdiction.

It' a crime that happens far too often in a society too blind to see it coming, too busy to stop it from happening, and too self-absorbed to really care.

Peace

I've been looking for peace.

For years, I thought peace was an environmental condition, like clear skies and quiet rooms, and I figured that living in a household with a husband and three rambunctious boys meant that peace was way beyond my reach. I found lots of other things: smashed Cheerios, dirty underwear, ABC gum, and other stuff in all kinds of dark, dusty places, but I never found one scrap of peace.

More recently, probably because I keep getting older, I've decided to look for inner peace. But it, too, is a slippery and elusive sort of beast. It disguises itself as dreams and ambitions and some form of spirituality, and I find myself running off in one direction or another, thinking I'm chasing peace...but then discovering the path I'm on has steered me off course from what I'm most in search of.

But then peace drops little hints along the way like ET and his Reese's pieces. Like reading Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love which was interminably long but started niggling at me anyway about smiling meditation. Or a nugget from a woman in one of my workshops who shared a quote from Sue Monk Kidd and Ann Kidd Taylor's book Traveling with Pomegranites, about how the soul represents "the deepest impulse [of the psyche] to create wholeness." And a comment from a woman I interviewed today, in which she distinguished between peace of mind and peace of heart.

I know all sorts of people who are looking for wholeness and peace through diet and exercise and religion and acupuncture. And some who look for peace in their big paychecks and houses. Some find peace when their kids make the honor roll or win college scholarships. Some define peace as resting at the end of the day with a clean house and an extra gallon of milk in the fridge. Some think peace means having a loving family and friends, or giving back to the community. Some would say God's love is peace.

All that's good stuff, don't get me wrong. But something's still missing. None of those qualify as peace, at least for me. Peace, I've come to think, is that feeling on the inside, that feeling of absolute wholeness in the mind, and yes also in the heart, but maybe most of all in the gut, where one no longer needs to understand anything but at the same time understands everything, at least everything that matters, which as it turns out is quite simple. So simple that kids get it, and dogs get it, but is usually too hard for us grownups to get. What matters, and therefore what opens us up to peace, is pure, unselfishish love.

That is peace. Love. Love is peace.

Why Ask Why

I spend a lot of time asking why.

Why does my cat act the way she does?

Why do my kids do what they do?

Why can't I stop doing the things I shouldn't?

People tell me to stop asking. It doesn't matter why, they say. What matters is what comes next. Focus on the future, they say.

I get that. No sense dwelling in the past, for sure. But there are some very good reasons to ask why.

One is sheer curiousity about the world. If you stop wondering, then either you've ascended to a divine omnisicient state of being, or you've shriveled into vegetative dormancy. What's wrong with wondering what goes on in the mind of a feline behind those dilated pupils?

Another reason is more of a scientific, theory of causality, sort of thing. A get-your-head-out-of-the-sand sort of thing. If you understand what caused a problem in the past you might be able to avoid the recurrence. In other words, what parenting mistakes did I make with Number One that I can avoid or rectify with Numbers Two and Three?

And third, asking why is part of the process of retelling your story and ultimately having a deeper self-understanding. Reinekke Lengelle and Frans Meijers' article in the June 2009 edition of Journal of Poetry Therapy suggests four cognitive stages in retelling your story: sensing, sifting, focusing, and understanding. I like this.

I sense there are several reasons for choices I make or reactions I have. By asking why, I begin to sift through the layers of reasons until I find one that strikes a chord. I focus on that, spend some time with it, and eventually understand better why I made the choice I did. Why I lashed out at a loved one. Why I ate all that popcorn. Why I keep avoiding the novel I am supposedly writing.

Does understanding then lead to changed behavior? Maybe, maybe not. Does it lead to a heightened state of inner peace? I believe that sometimes it does.

Or does it drive you deeper into the pit of insanity? In other words, does asking why heal the wound or does it actually intensify the pain? I guess it could go either way.

And why, I wonder, might that be?

PS (One more why: why I can't get this blogpost to show breaks between my paragraphs?)

The First Time

One of my sons told me it's been scientifically proven: the first time you experience something, it's the most intense. I started to wonder if that's really true so I thought back to some random experiences in my life.

1. The first time I got lost? Yes, intense. It was downtown Chicago, I was age four. I can't think of a worse time I've been lost.

2. The first time I picked an apple? Yes, because I bit into it and found a tooth and fresh blood. It also happened to be the first time I lost a baby tooth.

3. The first time I went skiing? No. It was intense (especially that cackling laughter of some moron on the sidelines watching us all fall down on the bunny slope) but it wasn't the most intense. There have been plenty more memorable times on the slopes, like the time I got stuck in a racing rut (how embarassing) or the time I was paralyzed in fear on an icy, steep slope (all alone) or the times my son made me go places I didn't want to go...and then patiently waited to be sure I made it down safely.

4. The first time I made out: yes, pretty intense.

5. The first time I had sex: not going there, not in this domain.

6. The first time I was in the company of wild bears: yes, which explains all the flailing and running and screaming, which no doubt perplexed the creatures beyond measure.

7. The first time I made a pie: yeah, I guess so. The blackberries were freshly picked from the back 40; you can't beat that.

8. The first time I got married: yes, definitely. But the second one was pretty nice, too. :)

9. The first time I held my kids in my arms? Well, that's a tough one. They were all incredibly emotional and intense but yes, I suppose the first time was probably the most intense time of all, one of the most intense (and precious) moments of my entire life.

10. The first time a loved one died: yes, losing Dad was horrible. But at this point I have no way of knowing if losing him will always be the most intense experience of grief and loss.

11. The first time I loved someone deeply? I honestly don't know about this one either. Love is so different in each situation, each relationship. We love in so many ways. If it's love, it's by definition intense. I don't think it can be ranked and rated and measured against another love. So I don't think this theory applies to love.

12. The first time I watched a sunset? I think sunsets are a lot like love.

The bottom line: I disagree with the theory, and I'd like to know who these scientists think they are.

Perfect Little Teeth

People are like teeth.

Teeth grow whichever which way feels right to the individual mouth, and then at some point they get rearranged. With some study and some pain, they're shifted and sometimes even re-shaped, and eventually they're expected to line up and behave. Most of the time they do, until sometime in midlife when they decide they want to go back the way they once were. That's what my dentist told me is happening to my lower teeth, and now I'm looking at orthodontic work decades after my first round of braces came off.

We tell our kids they need braces just as we tell them they need to go to school and follow rules. We say it's for functionality but we also know it's because that's what society expects, and that's what will make others like you. People with crooked teeth are judged more quickly and more harshly than those with a Pepsodent smile, and so are people who don't fit the mold in personality, interests, and actions.

Fitting the mold makes life a lot easier. But sometimes, in midlife, something happens inside. It's often referred to as midlife crisis, and normally it's associated with extramarital affairs and fancy cars. But this midlife shift can be something much more personal and pervasive than that. It's subtle, and sometimes it takes a long time before even the slightest movement occurs, but eventually there's a part of you that says what the heck, I think I might want to go back to the way I was, even if it was a little crooked.

And then your dentist comes along and tells you to fix it once again.

High School Seekers

Some things never change. High school kids wore rolled up jeans in the 50's and bell bottoms in the 60's and they're wearing saggy (or skinny) jeans now. But they're all doing the same thing: searching for their identities. And for the most part they're searching in the same places: school hallways, athletic fields, parties.

What's even more interesting is that the identity profiles are also the same. There's the tall, athletic guy, for example, who's seeking fame and glory with his power shot. There's the kid who's just looking for popularity by hanging out with the "right kids". There's the kid who's aiming for a prestigious college, sitting in the front row and spending after-school time with his nose in the books. And there's the loner who can't seem to fit in with all those others and is left behind feeling like his pockets have been emptied.

It doesn't matter whether we're talking about boys or girls, straights or gays, stoners or jocks or whatever. It's the same in all the groups. It's not about gender or sexual preference or outward appearance, it's about the inner quest for identity. And while some of these kids can find that identity independently, needing only their own mirrors for validation, there are others who need a peer group to reflect back to them who they are so they know which path to follow.

Unfortunately, those peers are so busy seeking for themselves that they can't, or won't, help the ones standing alone back there.

I wouldn't want to be in high school again if you paid me. Partly because I wouldn't want to have to go through all that as a teen all over again. But also partly because I know that the search for identity and those high school seeker profiles don't go away when the diplomas are handed out.

In fact, those diplomas are really tickets to proceed with the rest of the identity journey, a journey along which we continue to find the same profiles even decades later: those who seek fame and glory, those who need to be in the center of the circle, those who strive for success, and those who - because of sensitivities or insecurities or countless other reasons - are left behind.

My hope for those who are left behind is that they inspect those empty pockets and therein find hope. In time, hope can lead them to the right path, the one that leads to inner acceptance and peace. From there, they can watch their peers amble and scramble along all those other paths. From there, the left-behinders (at any age) will have the view and see, perhaps even before their peers do, where all those other paths really lead.

When the Nest Empties Early

I wonder what happens when nature's course takes an unexpected twist. What happens when the nest empties early?

Whether a chick flies of its own will, or falls from the nest, or is snatched from it by some giant unforeseen talons, what do the parents do? Do they hobble around on broken twigs and strands of forgotten hair, peering over the edge to look for morbid remains? Do they immediately take flight in search of their lost offspring? Do they tuck their feathered little bird brains under wing and wait?

These parents had instinctively prepared for that empty nest, had known pretty much when it would come about. They had set aside their lives of fun and freedom during those chick-rearing times to devote their energies, even their entire souls, to the wellbeing of those little darlings. They had known that someday it would change, maybe even abruptly, but until that day came they knew what they had to do. But then! That day came so soon, when they were least expecting it, and what had once been their cozy little home suddenly looks like an ugly bin of collected junk. It is empty, cold, and barren. Do they celebrate their premature freedom, these aviary parents? Do they wallow in confused despair? Do they peck at each other and wonder what went wrong? Or do they simply hope?

Top 15 Reasons for Lost Sleep

15. Too much screen
14. Too much food
13. Too much wine
12. Too much fun
11. Too much sun
10. Not enough sun
9. Kids
8. Broken things
7. Broken relationships
6. Being broke
5. Menopause
4. Men
3. Adolescence
2. Adolescents
1. Love

When the Shoe Doesn't Fit

Carl and Raylene Worthington had criminal felony charges brought against them for failing to care for their sick daughter. Raylene was acquitted, and Carl was found guilty of criminal mistreatment in the death of 15-month-old Ava. When I'd first heard of the case, I figured the parents were obviously bad parents and that there'd be no question as to guilt. But as I followed the case over the past few days, I realized (as with most things in life) that's it's just not that simple.

The questions involve faith, familial hierarchy, and parenting: three issues many adults struggle with all their lives.

"Leave it in God's hands." It's a message I've heard over and over in the Christian world. A friend of mine recently confided that she leaves her family issues in God's hands, and a pastor last Sunday encouraged his congregation to do the same with their troubles. My husband and I discussed this on the way home from church. I'm sorry, but I have a hard time giving up my parenting rights and responsibilities and giving it all over to God. Without even thinking of the Worthington case on Sunday, I commented that such behavior sounds like an easy cop out. Acutally, I think it reeks of neglect. I can pray, but I can't just give my kids' lives up to God and dust responsibility from my hands. Faith should be a strengthening element in one's life, not an excuse to give up. But when you hear that message about letting go and giving your problems up to the Lord often enough, as I suspect Raylene and Carl did, there are times you start to wonder.

And then there's the question of family hierarchy. One of the jurors reportedly said, after the trial, that most people are partners in a marriage. In an ideal world, that might be true. But I wonder how many Christian families she surveyed before making that statement. Members of the Worthington's church said that, in their faith, the husband is the leader. Sadly, that belief isn't unusual. In fact, this has been taught through the ages in many churches and many households, often attributing this "wisdom" to the apostle Paul. I have heard plenty of friends say that their husbands are the leaders of their homes, and I have often deferred to my husband over the years because this belief, whether traditional or religious, has been pounded into my head. It didn't always feel right, but it can be downright frightening to risk harmony and go head to head with your husband. One of my kids used to remind me that "Dad's not the boss of you." If only I'd listened to that youthful advice more often I might feel more at peace right now. Fortunately, one of the good things about growing older is having the strength (or stubbornness) to stand up for what you believe, even against the people upon whom you depend most. But Raylene is much younger than me, and I suspect she would have struggled immensely had she argued with Carl, shaking the security of her home. Does that make her decision to withhold treatment from Ava excusable? No, I don't think it does. But I do think I understand, a little, how family dynamics may have influenced her.

And finally there's the issue of good parenting. I don't condone what the Worthingtons did. Based on what I've read, I'm pretty sure I would have had my child at the doctor long before the symptoms became life threatening. But nobody can say for sure what decision he or she would have made because nobody wore the Worthington shoes. Thankfully most of us don't need to face a court of law with our parenting decisions, but we do have to face the informal jury of our peers every day. Ever watched a temper tantrum in a store and judged the mother's reaction? Ever heard of a dad losing his temper and shaking your head in disgust? I have felt cold eyes watch me throughout my parenting years, evaluating whether I made the right school choice for my kids, or whether I delivered the right consequences, or whether it was wise to let them take certain risks that some parents wouldn't have allowed. Wasn't rock climbing awfully dangerous? How could you let him jump off that waterfall? How could you let him drink so much soda? Watch that movie? Fly on a plane alone, or stay home alone, or spend time on the computer alone? Spend time with a girl alone? Every child is different, and every family is different, and every moment is different. Most parents make the best decision possible at any given time. We love our kids, and we want the best for them. But that sometimes involves making hard decisions that others won't agree with, and a parent needs to wear a full coat of armor as protection from a society that seems free, perhaps even invited, to pass judgment whenever it chooses.

I am sorry for Ava's short life, and I am sorry for the Worthington family's loss. But I am especially sorry that I passed judgment on their decision without having all the facts - which of course I'll never have, because I am not wearing their shoes, and never will.

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

People have been lying forever, and although there was a famous study that suggested that Koko the Gorilla blamed a cat for the damage she caused with a temper tantrum, I maintain that lying is one of those traits that separates us from other species. Ravens and coyotes might be tricksters; the fox might be cunning; the bird might deceive predators in order to protect her offspring. But the human is the one that out and out lies, often only for small personal gain.

People lie for money, they lie to save face. They lie to cover up mistakes or to avoid having to work. Sometimes people lie to protect others from harm. Sometimes they lie for pleasure. The little guy lies and the big guy lies. Sometimes it seems that everybody lies although I know for a fact that that's not true.

Philosophers from long ago contemplated the reasons for, and implications of, lying. Some asserted that lying was wrong because it's a perversion of the gift of speech. Others suggested that lying undermines trust in society. Nietzsche said that the only people who don't lie are those who find it too hard to maintain a lie.

I recently witnessed an adult lying in the presence of his child and mine. The outcome was that he saved a couple of dollars, and in the grand scheme of life it wasn't the worst transgression possible. But I worry about the effect that all of our little lies have on our children, when taken together. It's the same concern I have about people who bend the law when driving, or songs with inappropriate content. A little here and there might not seem all that bad, and I'll be the first to admit that I'm no saint in a lot of respects, but I've got a thing about lying. I don't like to lie. And when I see a child observe a lot of lies over his or her lifetime, I've got to think it has an impact. It's bound to.

So what? So what if our children grow up to be liars? They could earn money by lying -- or they could lose it. They could earn fame -- or notoriety. Lying could keep them out of jail -- but it could also buy them a ticket to jail.

Lying could help them build relationships, I suppose, but -- in my opinion --lying is ultimately poisonous to relationships, and relationships are the foundation of society. Fame and money and power and all that stuff you can get by lying are not what bring you happiness in the end. It's relationships that matter. I agree with the philosopher (I think it may have been Thomas Aquinas) who said that lying undermines truth in society, but I'd take it one step further. Lying undermines society.

Ann Landers said the naked truth is always better than the best-dressed lie. Pearl Bailey said you never find yourself until you face the truth. And another famous pearl of wisdom was spoken by Pearl S. Buck, who said that truth is always exciting, and that life is dull without it. So why lie?

Children know when they're quite young that lying is wrong, even if they don't understand the philosophical reasons why, and that's why they so readily chastise one another when a lie is discovered. As adults, it's our moral obligation to uphold that instinctive value that children have by telling the truth and by refusing to let the liars go without consequence.

And that's the truth about how I feel about lying.