boundaries that bind
29 Jul 2012 Leave a comment
in Uncategorized Tags: adoption, Child, Family, Foster care, gratitude, Home, Mathematics, Mental health, Parent, parenthood, Reading (process), Thought
There are times that the phrase “It is what it is”, angers me to no end. True, there is an element of release and freedom in that, but there also remain a certain resignation to it. Does something have to be what it is? I realize this may be a way existential question for the early morning, but since I am still “Waiting for Godot”, I assume some will let me play with that pun.
I was in a situation recently where i watched an argument ensue over something petty and silly. I watched and I listened and I recalled all the moments I might have engaged in a similar fashion. Watching this from a removed position provided me a bit of clarity. “This argument would be happening whether I was present or not. These people would be tossing around angry words and frustration no matter the circumstance or who happened to be standing there.” How liberating for me! How sad for them.
I wanted to jump in and rescue the conversation, to somehow fix the situation and smooth over the tension. It was not my place. That is a difficult moment of understanding, it makes me think of why I would be motivated to fix it. Are my motives pure? Do I really want to ease the tension or do I simply want to feel better in this moment? Would my assistance make the situation better or worse, and for whom? Again, these are hard questions with which I wrestle, and I am not sure to what end.
I will say that watching that interaction provided my first AHA moment in a long time. I remembered thinking that if this would be happening with or without me, then maybe much of what I based my perceptions on were false. Yowch. Could it be that what I took on as blame had absolutely nothing to do with me? If that is true, what do I do with my recent discovery?
A little over a year ago I sat with my full adoption report from the state where I was adopted. I saw all the narratives about my early months, know all the information about my biological parents, saw the reports surrounding my birth, life, and placement in a foster family, and finally–my adoption. To say that this was the hardest read in my life would be an understatement. I looked at it in the first week that I had it and have not referred to it since then. There is a section in it that describes what an adoptive family would want in a baby, more specifically, the baby they would want to adopt. I smile as I read the wishes and hopes…and then my smile faded as I realize the baby that was described was the opposite of me. The traits and personalities desired did not match up with what I was told was true of me. The wishes would never realized in and through me. I was and am not a calm and quietly complacent person with a lily-white past from biological parents who were simply not able to care for a baby at the time. In fact, the opposite is true. I remember reading that description and feeling ashamed–feeling like I had let down the family who did decide to adopt me, guilty that I could never be a pocketful of wishes that any parent would want. I am what I am, I was what I was, and I can’t change that.
Reading those words hurt like so many knives in my chest, knowing what parents wanted and what I was and the fact they would never match is quite burdensome. the questions bombarded my head. Did I waste 37 years trying to be something or someone I could never be? Probably. Did I push and push and push myself to fit a mold that was never cut for me? Definitely. Would my adoptive family looked and treated one another differently had I been more of some and less of other? More than likely. Can I change it now? Not for all the money in the world. Would I change it if I could? Quite possibly. Does the answer to the last question hurt worse after admitting it? Most assuredly.
The moment of that fight mentioned earlier and the descriptions I read a year ago play into each other. They both could serve to further bind and weigh me down, or I could look at them from the inverse. ( think all your training on inverse fractions here) Could I turn the concept on its opposite end and embrace a different answer? I admit, I loathe math with every fiber of my being….but once I learned inverse fractions and grasped the ease of flipping at least one element, it sure made solving the problem 100% easier. I could actually solve the problem instead of banging my head against my math book. Once I learned them, I got along happily with them and enjoyed working the problems. NOT that I would embrace pages of them today, however.
That long diatribe on inverse fractions is to say that I am beginning to toy with the inverse of reactions. Do I need to continue to punish myself for what I could not be–do I ignore the fighting that had nothing to do with me? Am I ready to consider new boundaries that allow me room to move without guilt and shame? Am I ready to embrace a blanket of health that covers function rather than dysfunction? Although the latter feels safer and more what I recall, the inverse provides more room. Am i ready to clip the ties of bound guilt and fear? Only my reactions will tell.
Shalom dear ones,
cahl.
In(Humanity?)
22 Jul 2012 Leave a comment
in Uncategorized Tags: Aurora, Books, compassion, Crime, Health, Human, Idealism, Philosophy
There are days I dislike people and being part of the human race. This last week is one of those moments. Sometimes I am peeved beyond belief at the audacity which we will go to in order to tear one another apart and destroy lives. Watching the impact of Aurora, CO and knowing the peace that was shattered enrages me. I want to know why, I seek to understand, I yearn to eliminate such behavior from taking place again. Yet, I know that I am one person and the inner workings of other people’s lives are so much more complex and complicated than I could ever imagine. Still, I am one of those idealists who believes that with enough grace and compassion, the tide will change.
I am beginning to wonder if my idealism reeks of naiveté or immaturity or where the motivation lies. The truth is, I cannot change a cotton-pickin thing. I can only control my reactions and my emotions–the rest is up to each person to do as they deem necessary. That leaves me in a place that feels uncomfortable, wondering if my desire to make an impact will ultimately end in vain.
The area in which I live will perform another execution in the coming weeks; the result of a crime committed over 20 years ago. I heard the victim’s mother on the phone to reporters the other day as she exclaimed her joy at the decision to execute–the hope that the criminal “rots in hell”. I cringe. I inwardly recoil at such a comment, and yet, I wonder if my reaction would be any different. Were it one of my children murdered at someone’s hands, cruelly, with no regard for their life or their family, would I be any less bent on revenge? Would I be able to look at the person who so wronged me and embrace them as a person, deserving of love and compassion as I am? I am not so sure that I would be able to do that. I tell myself a pretty story of love and forgiveness, that I am willing to accept much done to me and my loved ones. Maybe the fact is, I blow a ton of smoke and I have no concept of forgiveness and compassion than anyone else. Maybe I know nothing.
I graduated seminary a little over 2 months ago and somehow the feeling that “I have arrived” runs in my head. I’ve done the time, the work, the thinking and reactions….now LET ME GO do SOMETHING! Let me go take the world on and be part of something real and full of impact and make a difference. 90% of the time, it’s my fear that limits what I think I can do, then I make excuses for not venturing forth. The fact is, I want to be part of something that eliminates situations like Aurora, CO from happening. I desire to be part of something that shakes people from complacency to action and leaves the social climate a better and safer place for my children and for generations to come. I yearn to see real change, a shift toward HUMANE treatment of all people, animals, and environment, yet I feel at a loss as to how to accomplish. I feel like I am constantly chomping at the bit, watching and listening, keeping the vast majority of my opinions to myself and waiting for permission or direction. Ah, the impatience of me.
A friend and colleague asked me the other day if one of my job considerations was my “fight” is it at my gut the place where I would sacrifice all that I am and all that I have to fight that fight, irregardless if I win or not. I could safely say that that consideration is not my fight and I am more ok with that than I thought I would be. It does beg the incessant question…What is my fight?
Is my fight to play nice, fit a mold, and behave myself, content to watch the world devolve and revolve? Is my fight to quietly wish and hope for something different and pray that someone else picks up the fight and does the work? Is my fight to raise awareness or to content myself with 8-5 M-Friday work weeks, pleased to come home at night, spend time being normal and then enjoy my weekends–wash, rinse, and repeat? That sounds like a prison sentence to me. Forgive my bluntness on that. I do not want normal (whatever that means)… I do not want to exist…I want to LIVE!!! to “suck the marrow from life” Thank you Dead Poet’s Society….( you motivate me more times than I can count) Argh, I don’t know what I am saying.
I want more–simple as that. I want more compassion, more passion, more REAL LIFE, and more humanity. I want more awareness, education, change, and tolerance of ideas and situations. I want less stupidity. I want less anger, hatred, revenge, busyness, ignorance, and violence. I want less complacency and blame. I want to take responsibility for what is mine, reconcile what needs healing, and embrace transformation. Ah….the idealist rears her ugly head yet again. I want the idealist to win…I want to believe that fighting the good fight is right and good and pure, and will make an impact and at the end of the end of the day I want to be able to breathe a sigh of relief and know I did my best with what I had.
Well, dear ones, I have no idea what I just wrote or if it makes any sense. No flowery commentary, no solutions, just verbal spew. Take it for what it is or is not. That is all she wrote–for now at least.
Shalom dear ones,
cahl.
To BE SEEN, HEARD, and LOVED.
08 Jul 2012 Leave a comment
in Uncategorized Tags: community, compassion, God, grace, gratitude, heard, Jacob, Jesu, Jew, John, loved, Samaria, Samaritan, Samaritan woman at the well, SEEN
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Sapplings
01 Jul 2012 3 Comments
in Uncategorized Tags: Garden, Plant, shel silverstein, Tree, Water
I remembered my childhood today. No, it was not so far removed that I cannot recall my formative years out at the lake.
I was out watering plants this morning…I have quite a few little spots growing and with the heat and lack of breeze today, the air is positively stifling. To rescue my poor tomatoes and peppers, I know I have to water in the morning, despite the fact it is Sunday morning and my body should be in church with my two sons. More often than not, worship has taken on new meaning as we have worked in the garden together, planted vegetables, pulled weeds, and watered the growth. This morning we are also watching our neighbor’s dog, so my sons understand that caring for others is more important than focusing on our own needs. I rally this concept in my sons. They are growing up to embrace community is more than the place that we live, it is a way of life. If we have something and someone else can use it, my sons are more than happy to make it available. When my neighbor asked if we could watch their beloved animal for a week–well we wag a tail in response….PUN INTENDED!
I thought of this as I carried buckets to the plants I have growing…The place where I grew up has more than 20 trees throughout the 2 acre property. They are huge and strong oak trees now, but they were not when I was a young girl of seven. It was my job about 4 times a week to bring water to those sapplings….to make sure they had water. If one of my brothers or my father ran over them with the riding lawn mower–well, that I could not control.
At first I started with 1 gal. buckets and learned quickly that took too long. So, I decided that 5 gal. buckets were a better option, then I got even smarter….I took the wagon, loaded my Red Flyer wagon with two 5 gal. buckets and used the smaller ones to water the trees.
It was hard, hard work. We had no hose hooked up to the house, so I had to maneuver my wagon to the lake’s edge, fill my buckets (just enough so they didn’t slosh), load them in the wagon, and begin the long incline to the trees. OF COURSE the trees line the driveway, the furthest distance from the lake, and my father ordered that each tree receive at least a gallon of water.
Back and forth, back and forth, I trudged–hating every minute of it. It was hot and hard work. Yet, something happened in those hours with the trees. The trees grew–they stood up taller, grew branches, forged their roots deeper into the soil, and reinforced their place. So did I.
I had no one to talk to during those trips to the lake front, no one praised the watering job, in fact, often my father would come home and demand to know if I had indeed watered that day. Most of the time, I wanted to look at him and say, “Uh, Duh….go look at the ground around the trees. If it’s wet, I watered..” I knew better than that. So, I would bop my head up and down and know that the next day I would water again. Something happened in my spirit and mind that summer. I grew.
Now, I have always been short. Yet, my arms and legs lengthened with muscle, and I was able to lug the 5 gal. buckets one in each hand instead of using my wagon. It was much quicker and I felt a certain sense of accomplishment at that. I knew I was strong. Being out in nature also spoke to my soul. I talked to myself, sang songs, composed poetry that I have never written, and dreamed dreams. I knew I was contributing to something bigger than me, yet I could not put it into words.
This past Memorial Day, I went out to visit my parents and stood amongst the trees. Gone are the tiny buds of leaves…replaced by full-grown foliage that turn brilliant colors in the fall. No longer are they the small toothpick trunks vulnerable to a mower blade…in its place are strong and wide bases that support years of weather. Would that they could talk, the stories they could utter. I look at those trees now with a sense of pride, knowing that I had a hand in their creation. I could not mandate that they grow…did not provide the elements of nature for their survival….but I helped the cycle of life.
Water, in its clear and refreshing manner combined with soil, temperature, light, and the CREATOR to instigate beautiful strength. Wow, who knew a tree could give so much? I did, and those that have read the GIVING TREE understand exactly of that which I speak.