What was he thinking? Was he thinking it sucked to be sick again? Was he afraid for his life? Did he think about dying? Upset, shocked, defeated most definitely. Was he worried about his kids? His wife? (In that order?) Did the numbers cross his mind? Numbers like 30%, the pieces of paper that were electric and rent bills, days of life lived, 1 year of marriage, 6 months of remission cross the desktop of his mind in a flash before his eyes? It's no wonder I balled my eyes out listening to "Seasons of Love" at the broadway performance of "Rent" in the city less than a month after his hospital release. It was our first post-hospital date. F-- rights: Measure your life in love.
He was only 23. He turned 24 in the hospital. Following the news we received that one fateful night, we didn't talk much. Dialogue was refrained and minimal for the most part. Maybe because we knew there wasn't much that could be said. Maybe because we were too scared to. It's hard to say, even after all this time. A lot was exchanged through knowing looks and reading body language. For the words that were exchanged, it was tactical communication--make sure arrangements were made and that we knew of our own arrangements. That's all.
After leaving the northern town we hardly had time to attach to, the 8-hour ride a blur, we sat in the hospital admissions waiting area. My father-in-law was there, I think my mother-in-law, and our two children. I was still nursing at the time and wondered when the baby would get hungry while praying that I could keep my toddler occupied. By miracle and by grace, she didn't fuss once. At least I don't remember if she did. I think we waited around 4 hours to get through admissions.
The last time we were there was the prior week, being led through a series of halls and waiting rooms before the critical moment of seeing the doctor. For the first time in a long time, I didn't have my girls under my arms while my mother-in-law held them and we followed the nurse into an exam room. It is a room I will never forget.
There was no point in dramatics, no point in questioning. The look on the doctor's face said it all. I wanted answers. I was thinking about my girls in the waiting room, the maddening inconvenience of it all, my poor husband whose legs were dangling over the exam table, desperately needing to throw blame somewhere. I was feeling an absolute loss of control over every single facet of my life. I felt the swelling of heat and anger rise in my throat, the urge to cry and then to scream because no amount of purging would release the knot in my chest, which I would learn was not to go away for a very long time. I opened my mouth to start the barrage, but something of a feeble muttering fell out instead. I was so surprised to hear how weak my own voice sounded.
Being the daughter of a nurse, I knew a fair share of technical vocabulary, how not to be a pushover, and that it was important to ask questions, but it didn't make a very solid bravado. Words and numbers and procedures blurred together. The doctor had done this before. He delivered each stage without sugarcoating the facts but knew that it was not the time to let his years of having to tell patients and families the same devastating news steel his interior and be removed from compassion.
Consultation. Hmph. That's a word for going to the boutique and getting the girl behind the counter to give you make-up suggestions. That's a word you use when you are building a house and considering a loan. It's a word that suggests advice and a choice to follow or agree to that advice, or not. What we got was not advice. It was a professional, life-threatening ultimatum.
We would take the challenge. We would be a family no matter what. And I would show him that he made the right choice in a wife. I ignored the thought that made me think of the damning, cruel twist of it all--of being married so young, being acosted by life so hard, and wishing to flee. I hunkered down, I found my resolve, choked my tears, and braced myself for war. I would cry later. I had a husband who needed me.
05 March 2011
04 March 2011
The third time
Just a short time after the special area groups conference concluded and all the northern province teachers were back in class, the oncologist called. For the first time in our fledgling marriage, we were just getting settled into our first home, a small apartment. My husband's first year teaching school was off to a promising start. Our 18-month-old was adapting to being the older sister, and our baby girl was already displaying personality up the wazoo.
I came into the living room just in time to see his face change. I didn't know who was on the phone. A week had gone by since the conference and also his 6-month checkup. His doctor was in the city down south, but he had gotten his job in the north, so it became prudent to do both at the same time. I waited until he could talk.
I don't remember my exact reaction.
I just remember being angry. I remember crying. I remember there being a swirl, I couldn't get my thoughts together. I think I remember giving him a hug. I wanted to hold him more than anything.
I remember the fallen look on his face, the margin of defeat, as though a thief had just come and robbed him blind and then set his house on fire.
I remember storming back and forth, down the hall to the laundry room, making trips with our clothes, angrier every time I came back through our apartment door. It wasn't fair. I was angry. Hurt somehow. Confused. I tried to push my love through those screens to comfort my husband, give him support, but it was a thwarted, minimal endeavor when I just wanted to scream. I slammed the basket down harder every time I returned, throwing laundry into drawers or on the couch, some folded, some unfolded. Being a fairly health woman my whole life, I surprised myself by getting so worked up I felt major body ache while climbing into bed.
Then came the consultation, for which we had to travel back down south for, confirm the news with the oncologist, see a small presentation about the treatment and procedure they would do on my husband's cancer, and return home only to get hit with the reality that we would not be able to keep our apartment or even sublet it. At all. We had one week.
The treatment was to be in-hospital. Chemotherapies- yes, multiple -were going to be administered via a PICC line (what was that?) An autologus bone marrow transplant. T cells. Blood counts. IVs. Plasma. Visiting procedures. There was much information to take in. In the room where a few rectangle tables were pushed together to form a "U" in front of a television on a rollcart, the air was somber. All my mother-in-law and I could do was look at each other with a number bouncing off our heads: 30%. It was all the doctor could give us for success of cure. It was a number that hung in the air worse than second-hand smoke in a bar. We had a week to come back and get my husband moved into the cancer ward at Health Sciences.
Into people's basements, garages and school staffrooms went our stuff. All of our belongings were thrown into boxes. I could barely think straight. I hadn't even had time to think about post-partum anything, writing a budget for our new lives with new income, or get out of my poutine-eating, cookie-dough-eating slob self before being hurled into a world that meant entire uncertainty. Where would I live with my girls, what were the most important items to bring, what was I supposed to do? What would happen to our belongings? Why did I feel like we were refugees fleeing in fright?
My mother-in-law was not happy with my half-done packing job when she came up north to help us. The friends who ultimately agreed to take us in came to help, too. They also lived down south. After hundreds of trips up and down the stairs with boxes and furniture, a trip to the ER after my husband slipped on the stairs and busted a lamp into his palm, and a scoop of the girls, the place was empty.
I came into the living room just in time to see his face change. I didn't know who was on the phone. A week had gone by since the conference and also his 6-month checkup. His doctor was in the city down south, but he had gotten his job in the north, so it became prudent to do both at the same time. I waited until he could talk.
I don't remember my exact reaction.
I just remember being angry. I remember crying. I remember there being a swirl, I couldn't get my thoughts together. I think I remember giving him a hug. I wanted to hold him more than anything.
I remember the fallen look on his face, the margin of defeat, as though a thief had just come and robbed him blind and then set his house on fire.
I remember storming back and forth, down the hall to the laundry room, making trips with our clothes, angrier every time I came back through our apartment door. It wasn't fair. I was angry. Hurt somehow. Confused. I tried to push my love through those screens to comfort my husband, give him support, but it was a thwarted, minimal endeavor when I just wanted to scream. I slammed the basket down harder every time I returned, throwing laundry into drawers or on the couch, some folded, some unfolded. Being a fairly health woman my whole life, I surprised myself by getting so worked up I felt major body ache while climbing into bed.
Then came the consultation, for which we had to travel back down south for, confirm the news with the oncologist, see a small presentation about the treatment and procedure they would do on my husband's cancer, and return home only to get hit with the reality that we would not be able to keep our apartment or even sublet it. At all. We had one week.
The treatment was to be in-hospital. Chemotherapies- yes, multiple -were going to be administered via a PICC line (what was that?) An autologus bone marrow transplant. T cells. Blood counts. IVs. Plasma. Visiting procedures. There was much information to take in. In the room where a few rectangle tables were pushed together to form a "U" in front of a television on a rollcart, the air was somber. All my mother-in-law and I could do was look at each other with a number bouncing off our heads: 30%. It was all the doctor could give us for success of cure. It was a number that hung in the air worse than second-hand smoke in a bar. We had a week to come back and get my husband moved into the cancer ward at Health Sciences.
Into people's basements, garages and school staffrooms went our stuff. All of our belongings were thrown into boxes. I could barely think straight. I hadn't even had time to think about post-partum anything, writing a budget for our new lives with new income, or get out of my poutine-eating, cookie-dough-eating slob self before being hurled into a world that meant entire uncertainty. Where would I live with my girls, what were the most important items to bring, what was I supposed to do? What would happen to our belongings? Why did I feel like we were refugees fleeing in fright?
My mother-in-law was not happy with my half-done packing job when she came up north to help us. The friends who ultimately agreed to take us in came to help, too. They also lived down south. After hundreds of trips up and down the stairs with boxes and furniture, a trip to the ER after my husband slipped on the stairs and busted a lamp into his palm, and a scoop of the girls, the place was empty.
28 February 2011
The raw things
So it's like this. No one will hear this. No one will read it. And if they do, they probably wouldn't care. But that's okay. This needs to be told.
When I was 20 years old, I got married. I got married to a man who was a real sweetheart. But he got cancer. I didn't know him for very long before getting married, so him getting diagnosed was a real shock and an even bigger tragedy. I had planned to spend the entire rest of my life getting to know him, having fun exploring the nitty-gritty hardships, and feeling like it was in our power to overcome anything. I had not expected such a hard test so soon, though, that much I can say.
My daughter was 18 months old when we got married. When my husband was my boyfriend, he was so sweet with my daughter, talking with her, playing games with her, and even babysitting her for free when I had to go to work. I had already known a lot of stress in my life by then, having been a single mother who could not afford to pay rent, so finding someone who was caring and loving of both me and my daughter was not only soothing, it was all I needed for proof that surely this man must be the one. She even called him "daddy" before I was ready for it!
He wrote me a poem once, using words like "starry night" and admitted that he loved me and my daughter, because she was an extension of me. Somewhere in the eight months from date number one to our law office vows, he wrote this poem and said a lot of nice things to me, which I'm sure he meant, but those were the only memories we'd have to work from after cancer...
We had already been preparing to move to Canada at the same time we learned his cancer had come back. Yes, he had been sick with it once before, in the July of that eight-month stint we called "dating," but it had been operated on and removed. This time, instead of the remaining testicle, the cancer "metastasized" into his lung.
He was treated, went into remission for a few months, then got it again. Only this time, this very third and awful time, the diagnosis was bad and we had just had our second daughter (for he considered my girl his first.)
It was bad. It was so bad. I can't even tell you how bad it was. So bad that after he went into remission and we got to resume our lives, I cried for months without tears inside my chest. I never tore any boxes down, for fear of settling into our new apartment too much. But funny thing, just when I thought I'd get to tell my story, no one listened, so I just learned to shut up about it.
I learned to shut up about many things. I learned to shut up because I learned no one gave a shit about what you did, they only cared about how things were going in their own lives. So I trained myself to not think about the aunt that took advantage of us while living with her, the constant prison I was in having no immigration status, having no friends nearby, no family, no car, and absolutely fuckall to do or to resource while my husband was in the hospital; because, you see, all those things happened when he was in the hospital, and more. No one knew how much I was suffering because no one called me and I didn't call anyone.
But I was supposed to be strong. No place and no time to be a ninny. I've just kind of always had the sense to know people weren't listening anymore, and I've just about never been surrounded by the kinds of people who would listen. I knew they didn't exist. No one had the capacity to understand how scared I was, how nervous, how sad, angry, trapped, stressed (oh my sweet Lord stressed), lonely, isolated, unforgiven, pressured, forgotten, lost, and stupefied I was. I was just expected to do... what? I don't know. I was expected to do or be something that meant understanding no one in the world would be there for me or come to my aid; and if I wasn't, no one surely told me. I was too overwhelmed to think. I was overwhelmed to a screaming degree ALL. The. Time.
Between Cancer No.1 and Cancer No.2, we got engaged, were in a horrible automobile accident (rollover), got married, went to Nevada for Christmas, found out I was pregnant, and moved to Canada.
Between Cancer No.2 and Cancer No.3, we lived off of his two, minimum-wage jobs in his dad's house, found him a teaching job up north, had our baby, moved 800 kilometers north with a 2-week old infant and two year old toddler, and just barely settled into our shoddy apartment.
The amount of time between our first date and Cancer No.3: 1 year, 8 months
While my husband was in the hospital for No.3, I lived in two places back down south because we had to give up our apartment for his hospitalization. In the first, it was with friends who had grown tired of my presence there and offered to kick me out. In the second, it was with my mother-in-law's brother and wife, who stabbed me with raising my rent every month and tried threatening to get my children taken away, talking to everyone under the sun about it before talking to me. Turns out she was baby crazy and a 'little' mentally unstable, but I didn't know that. All I knew is that she lived in the same city where my husband was laying in hospital and offered to let me and my girls live there. I have forgiven her, but I never talked to her again.
While I was trying to suffer this aunt to remain close to the girls' daddy, I was also at the hospital every day, watching our daily mix of "Northern Exposure," "Three's Company," and "Golden Girls" while making him toast, helping him sit up, watching nurses fix his lines, asking questions, learning about stem cells and T cells, and trying to make his room as un-hospital-like as possible. Also things I did: wake up on the cot in the middle of the night to the sound of him cough-gurgle-puking; accompany him to the lower floors to make sure his pants stayed up in the halls; wash his soiled pants; sponge-bathe; clean his PIC line; hold his hand; bring the girls occassionally; meet his cancer friends; brave the death ward every day for four, very long months; and watch him sleep.
Do you know the color of a person's skin after being chemoed to death? Yellow. Sometimes bluish. Splotchy. Gray. It's the color of life going away. His eyes were so dark and sunken that with the loss of his eyelashes, I could see the whites of his eyes almost all around the whole eye. He looked liked this almost immediately and I was terrified. This was the man I married? What?
Between the house of the aunt and my days at the hospital, my life was hell. How did I get so irreversibly stuck in the bowels of life? I was filled with resentment and desperation more and more each day. Luckily, my girls made me laugh and smile. They kept me going. I had to keep it together for them.
Resuming our lives to some capacity (by which I mean being a family of four in a home and my husband resuming his teaching job,) involved transition of living with his dad for a few months to remain close to the hospital. He was not allowed to be outdoors very long and not allowed to breath or be around freshly cut lawns because asparallagus was a mold that came from cut grass and could get trapped in his freshly chemoed-to-shit lungs. He could not move around too much or he would risk opening the sutures of his freshly removed lung lobe (the upper part, about 20% of his lungs). There was no cuddling.
I waited for him to see that I was right beside him, that we could figure things out, that I stayed beside him the whole time, but he didn't say anything. I was hoping he could tell me before we got back up north how much I meant to him. But he didn't, and I figured it was because he was so ill. Poor guy. I didn't want to be making wifely demands for affection just yet.
I waited some more. I waited for him to look at me in some moment of stillness and quiet and utter grateful, sweet words of appreciation. Words that would melt all of the pain from the whispers off his lips, but I would wait until he was feeling better.
I would be waiting a long time.
One morning, after we did get back north, I was sitting on the floor with my daughters, playing with them, relieved to the point of tears, to be in my own home, with my own things, safe. But the relief was to be short lived, because after the school year started, my husband came home with a pulled groin muscle that actually turned into 5 more years of playing wait-and-see of crumbling, deteriorating bone joints.
Nobody I know understands what it's like to live with and 80-year-old 26-year-old. As the doctors struggled to diagnose and subsequently replace the joints, which were full of dead bone tissue and grinding together bone-against-bone due to the steroids he was given in-hospital, we had to deal with about a million doctor appointments, 1600 kilometers a pop (sometimes by car, mostly, thankfully, by plane), and having to "say good-bye to Daddy" every 3 weeks or so at the airport.
Some people know that. Some don't. But no one has an ever-lovin' clue of what my life consisted of after he was finally confined to a wheel chair in a town where there was no, absolutely none, handicap-friendly buildings; having to take the wheelchair out of the trunk and put it back in to go anywhere plus two small children in carseats; building the muscle to lift the chair with him in it to avoid potholes in parking lots; having to squeeze past people when you just don't want to intrude in busy places, tiny restaurants, church; taking out the trash, chopping the wood, carrying the groceries in, doing the heavy lifting, getting the tots in the house, plus all of the rest of the work women in isolated northern towns do: cooking, cleaning, washing, folding, sorting, checking over school work, putting the children (my precious, precious daughters) to bed, getting them to brush their teeth; and making the occassional batch of actual, real, homemade, from-scratch bread just to make the house smell good.
I just wanted to be appreciated by the man I loved. Before there was the realization that we, too, were crumbling from the inside out, I did more than just talk about loyalty and devotion. I lived it.
When I was 20 years old, I got married. I got married to a man who was a real sweetheart. But he got cancer. I didn't know him for very long before getting married, so him getting diagnosed was a real shock and an even bigger tragedy. I had planned to spend the entire rest of my life getting to know him, having fun exploring the nitty-gritty hardships, and feeling like it was in our power to overcome anything. I had not expected such a hard test so soon, though, that much I can say.
My daughter was 18 months old when we got married. When my husband was my boyfriend, he was so sweet with my daughter, talking with her, playing games with her, and even babysitting her for free when I had to go to work. I had already known a lot of stress in my life by then, having been a single mother who could not afford to pay rent, so finding someone who was caring and loving of both me and my daughter was not only soothing, it was all I needed for proof that surely this man must be the one. She even called him "daddy" before I was ready for it!
He wrote me a poem once, using words like "starry night" and admitted that he loved me and my daughter, because she was an extension of me. Somewhere in the eight months from date number one to our law office vows, he wrote this poem and said a lot of nice things to me, which I'm sure he meant, but those were the only memories we'd have to work from after cancer...
We had already been preparing to move to Canada at the same time we learned his cancer had come back. Yes, he had been sick with it once before, in the July of that eight-month stint we called "dating," but it had been operated on and removed. This time, instead of the remaining testicle, the cancer "metastasized" into his lung.
He was treated, went into remission for a few months, then got it again. Only this time, this very third and awful time, the diagnosis was bad and we had just had our second daughter (for he considered my girl his first.)
It was bad. It was so bad. I can't even tell you how bad it was. So bad that after he went into remission and we got to resume our lives, I cried for months without tears inside my chest. I never tore any boxes down, for fear of settling into our new apartment too much. But funny thing, just when I thought I'd get to tell my story, no one listened, so I just learned to shut up about it.
I learned to shut up about many things. I learned to shut up because I learned no one gave a shit about what you did, they only cared about how things were going in their own lives. So I trained myself to not think about the aunt that took advantage of us while living with her, the constant prison I was in having no immigration status, having no friends nearby, no family, no car, and absolutely fuckall to do or to resource while my husband was in the hospital; because, you see, all those things happened when he was in the hospital, and more. No one knew how much I was suffering because no one called me and I didn't call anyone.
But I was supposed to be strong. No place and no time to be a ninny. I've just kind of always had the sense to know people weren't listening anymore, and I've just about never been surrounded by the kinds of people who would listen. I knew they didn't exist. No one had the capacity to understand how scared I was, how nervous, how sad, angry, trapped, stressed (oh my sweet Lord stressed), lonely, isolated, unforgiven, pressured, forgotten, lost, and stupefied I was. I was just expected to do... what? I don't know. I was expected to do or be something that meant understanding no one in the world would be there for me or come to my aid; and if I wasn't, no one surely told me. I was too overwhelmed to think. I was overwhelmed to a screaming degree ALL. The. Time.
Between Cancer No.1 and Cancer No.2, we got engaged, were in a horrible automobile accident (rollover), got married, went to Nevada for Christmas, found out I was pregnant, and moved to Canada.
Between Cancer No.2 and Cancer No.3, we lived off of his two, minimum-wage jobs in his dad's house, found him a teaching job up north, had our baby, moved 800 kilometers north with a 2-week old infant and two year old toddler, and just barely settled into our shoddy apartment.
The amount of time between our first date and Cancer No.3: 1 year, 8 months
While my husband was in the hospital for No.3, I lived in two places back down south because we had to give up our apartment for his hospitalization. In the first, it was with friends who had grown tired of my presence there and offered to kick me out. In the second, it was with my mother-in-law's brother and wife, who stabbed me with raising my rent every month and tried threatening to get my children taken away, talking to everyone under the sun about it before talking to me. Turns out she was baby crazy and a 'little' mentally unstable, but I didn't know that. All I knew is that she lived in the same city where my husband was laying in hospital and offered to let me and my girls live there. I have forgiven her, but I never talked to her again.
While I was trying to suffer this aunt to remain close to the girls' daddy, I was also at the hospital every day, watching our daily mix of "Northern Exposure," "Three's Company," and "Golden Girls" while making him toast, helping him sit up, watching nurses fix his lines, asking questions, learning about stem cells and T cells, and trying to make his room as un-hospital-like as possible. Also things I did: wake up on the cot in the middle of the night to the sound of him cough-gurgle-puking; accompany him to the lower floors to make sure his pants stayed up in the halls; wash his soiled pants; sponge-bathe; clean his PIC line; hold his hand; bring the girls occassionally; meet his cancer friends; brave the death ward every day for four, very long months; and watch him sleep.
Do you know the color of a person's skin after being chemoed to death? Yellow. Sometimes bluish. Splotchy. Gray. It's the color of life going away. His eyes were so dark and sunken that with the loss of his eyelashes, I could see the whites of his eyes almost all around the whole eye. He looked liked this almost immediately and I was terrified. This was the man I married? What?
Between the house of the aunt and my days at the hospital, my life was hell. How did I get so irreversibly stuck in the bowels of life? I was filled with resentment and desperation more and more each day. Luckily, my girls made me laugh and smile. They kept me going. I had to keep it together for them.
Resuming our lives to some capacity (by which I mean being a family of four in a home and my husband resuming his teaching job,) involved transition of living with his dad for a few months to remain close to the hospital. He was not allowed to be outdoors very long and not allowed to breath or be around freshly cut lawns because asparallagus was a mold that came from cut grass and could get trapped in his freshly chemoed-to-shit lungs. He could not move around too much or he would risk opening the sutures of his freshly removed lung lobe (the upper part, about 20% of his lungs). There was no cuddling.
I waited for him to see that I was right beside him, that we could figure things out, that I stayed beside him the whole time, but he didn't say anything. I was hoping he could tell me before we got back up north how much I meant to him. But he didn't, and I figured it was because he was so ill. Poor guy. I didn't want to be making wifely demands for affection just yet.
I waited some more. I waited for him to look at me in some moment of stillness and quiet and utter grateful, sweet words of appreciation. Words that would melt all of the pain from the whispers off his lips, but I would wait until he was feeling better.
I would be waiting a long time.
One morning, after we did get back north, I was sitting on the floor with my daughters, playing with them, relieved to the point of tears, to be in my own home, with my own things, safe. But the relief was to be short lived, because after the school year started, my husband came home with a pulled groin muscle that actually turned into 5 more years of playing wait-and-see of crumbling, deteriorating bone joints.
Nobody I know understands what it's like to live with and 80-year-old 26-year-old. As the doctors struggled to diagnose and subsequently replace the joints, which were full of dead bone tissue and grinding together bone-against-bone due to the steroids he was given in-hospital, we had to deal with about a million doctor appointments, 1600 kilometers a pop (sometimes by car, mostly, thankfully, by plane), and having to "say good-bye to Daddy" every 3 weeks or so at the airport.
Some people know that. Some don't. But no one has an ever-lovin' clue of what my life consisted of after he was finally confined to a wheel chair in a town where there was no, absolutely none, handicap-friendly buildings; having to take the wheelchair out of the trunk and put it back in to go anywhere plus two small children in carseats; building the muscle to lift the chair with him in it to avoid potholes in parking lots; having to squeeze past people when you just don't want to intrude in busy places, tiny restaurants, church; taking out the trash, chopping the wood, carrying the groceries in, doing the heavy lifting, getting the tots in the house, plus all of the rest of the work women in isolated northern towns do: cooking, cleaning, washing, folding, sorting, checking over school work, putting the children (my precious, precious daughters) to bed, getting them to brush their teeth; and making the occassional batch of actual, real, homemade, from-scratch bread just to make the house smell good.
I just wanted to be appreciated by the man I loved. Before there was the realization that we, too, were crumbling from the inside out, I did more than just talk about loyalty and devotion. I lived it.
19 February 2011
Curses!!
I just spend the last two hours or so working on a blog entry that I thought would be of some interest, but thanks to the faulty power cord of this computer and the power cord to my computer completely fried (along with my battery,) I lost it all! I am especially angry that I had, yes, been saving my work as I went along, knowing full well that the laptop could be powered off instantly with just the slightest wrong movement, the touchy bitch, been powered off twice when I went to shift my legs a few times while writing, restored my session with Firefox, HAD my work saved and appear when I restarted, only to find the last and final time, everything had disappeared.
Worse yet is when I went to navigate away from the page trying to be smart and checking to see if the older, fuller draft was still saved as I left it, I accidentally used the Save shortcut trying to paste the text I did have on the page in front of me to a notebook document, instead of the Copy shortcut (Control + S versus Control + C), which automatically saved the draft in front of me, rather than have any hope that the old draft was still there. No go, fool. Epic fail.
So, instead of that post, you get this one. I just wanted something big, and impressive, insightful and thought-provoking, but no, you get my blunder, all of which I might have been able to avoid. Argh! See ya 'round, punks!
Worse yet is when I went to navigate away from the page trying to be smart and checking to see if the older, fuller draft was still saved as I left it, I accidentally used the Save shortcut trying to paste the text I did have on the page in front of me to a notebook document, instead of the Copy shortcut (Control + S versus Control + C), which automatically saved the draft in front of me, rather than have any hope that the old draft was still there. No go, fool. Epic fail.
So, instead of that post, you get this one. I just wanted something big, and impressive, insightful and thought-provoking, but no, you get my blunder, all of which I might have been able to avoid. Argh! See ya 'round, punks!
09 December 2010
Intelligence Squared: Is the Catholic Church a force for good in the world
I just had to re-post this...
December 7, 2009
Hmm. I think I'm too worked up to sort it out before going to bed, but it's worth considering, worth blogging, even at this late hour. I might mention that I feel compelled to be thorough, so this won't be short-lived.
I just watched a five-segment debate as done by BBC World (and posted on YouTube) that featured four panelists (two for the motion, two against) debating on whether or not the Catholic Church is a force for good in the world. I have to say I was immensely disappointed.
The two panelists for the motion were the Archbishop of Anuja, Nigeria, John Onaiyekan and Ann Widdecombe, a British MP who converted to Catholicism after protesting the ordination of female priests in the Church of England. The two panelists against the motion were Christopher Hitchens, who writes for Vanity-freaking-Fair, and Stephen Fry, an accomplished British TV personality and actor.
Let me reiterate. The two panelists for the motion were a well-known (to Africa) clergyman, an archbishop of the Catholic Church, THE Archbishop of Abuja, Nigeria, and at a glance the hope of an entire church to sufficiently and masterfully represent the church in its entire complex, gruesome and blessed history; and a stuffy, old British female politician staunchly rooted (or self-embedded, as it were) in staunchly traditional Catholicism (by which I mean personally [to her] fundamentalist principles.)
And the two panelists against the motion were an extremely well-articulated and accomplished writer, well known for his radical views, and frequent contributor to a haute couture magazine, among several other publications; and a perky, cheeky, left-wing television/radio personality who, to add to the controversy (or the ratings of said debate), is also homosexual.
Why could they not have chosen more articulated spokespeople for the pro side? Better yet, why did they not seek out as equally eloquent and vocal representatives for that side of the argument? It's an argument you at least know is going to heated, and at most will require adequate (matched) artillery, why not give both sides a real, running, gunning go?
Yes, I'm saying the side against the motion far outweighed the side for the motion! They did so by what appeared to be leaps and bounds. What's more is that I am personally a huge proponent of the motion that the church CAN be (and has been) a force for good in the world and was holding onto my breath waiting to hear what the rest of the world was (in theory) waiting to hear.
The sheer lack and disregard for a 'fair fight' by all those involved in assembling the debate notwithstanding, the debate itself began with the Archbishop at the podium, trying in what seems to be all earnestness to open up the doors to all the watching eyes of the world by delivering a dutiful opening statement that quickly dissolves into the all-too-familiar rhetoric by the Church. And then followed by Chris Hitchens, against the motion, back to Ann Widdecombe, who was for, and then closed by Stephen Fry.
The opening statements by both speakers opposing the motion were precisely articulated, clear and concise, eloquent. The points brought up were emotional, appealing, and spoke for a secular truth in the world. Raw emotions were brought up here.
But the opening statements of the two supporting the motion were not. They were the very stereotypical rhetoric by which the Catholic Church has been grievously known for and is perceived in current times, which only adds insult to injury in the eyes of a waiting world and, more namely, this believer. Especially when there have been motions and actions by people of the church, well-known and barely known all over the world, to have made a positive difference in the lives of others and significant impact on the history of the church (which I will get to.) None of which was mentioned.
There was little to no acknowledgment for past sins, compensation, explanation from a historical perspective, or delivery of what to hope for, what the message is (which I will also get to), what the church has done and is doing to do to progress, change and improve, what the church is sorry for. There was no mention of the past, present, or future, and furthermore, no acknowledge by either speaker of the repercussions the opposing side brought into view.
What of the emotions of the members of the church whose beliefs and vocations were betrayed by the monstrously sick actions of others--the members who have believed and acted in good hearts and real faith only to be slapped in the face by the evildoers, misrepresenting one in the same church? What of the points made by the opposition: the compensation for four ages of inquisition, for the epic horrors of slaying, brutalizing, ostracizing, and judging those with different beliefs over the centuries? What of the responsibility the church holds for its members acting out of ignorance, hate, intolerance?
There DOES need to be full-on acceptance by those most in place to own it--the hierarchy of the Catholic Church, the people who committed the crimes, and more than anything, the very souls whose dark, shrouded, and debauched judgment were the hands of these grave, grave sins. There should have been statements in the debate by the supporting side demonstrating that extensive research concludes that massive reparation must be made, that a vital, integral element of that full contrition, expiation and absolution of that reparation must include the unfailing transference of knowledge by the church to her members, so that what is known by the world can (and should have first been) known by its members and there can be NO excuse for ignorance.
But there should have been statements that showed where the church has owned up to the sins of the past (past popes' apologies, Pope John Paul's request for forgiveness in his March 2000 address in addition to an apology.) There should have been statements by the supporting side that full and extensive research shows a full history of good in the church, that the majority of her members from the top down are working toward a more reconciled church (worldwide missionaries in third world and war-torn countries), that old, dated teachings of a wrathful God are currently and continuously being replaced by teaching a message of a loving God in a sweeping, unifying movement (vast changes in catechism curriculum, worldwide sermon content, the direction of vocation education, clergy and lay newsletters circulating with a variety of Catholic authors acknowledging this much more peaceful, loving message); and that IN that new message is one of tolerance. Of love. Of peace. Of freedom to live in the love of God. A message which teaches us to not judge because we are ALL God's people. ALL people. And there could have been specific resources of these changes and movements named, referenced, called into light, presented.
But there were none.
I even watched the Archbishop's argument twice because I had to stop watching and come back to the debate to see if a second chance would reveal something I missed; and still nothing.
There could have also been statements to direct attention to the fact that there is access to all kinds of information on spiritual enlightenment, that all souls no matter their station or religion are responsible for their own levels of personal and spiritual maturity, that we as a church have suffered the humiliation of those members but don't have to be defined by those imbeciles; and that anyone who is willing is able to harness that information. As well, the fact that there is awareness of this information and complete and total access to it at all is a step in the positive direction.
There could have (should have) been more references to the motions Pope John Paull II made to work on bridging the gap between the old, staunchy, rhetorical idioms and rituals of yore and current times through his significant contribution as pope and one of the most influential leaders in history and the hope that that offers. There should have been more references to the late pontiff's remarkably nontraditional steps outside of the Vatican circle, his contribution to aiding the end to communism, his unprecedented request for forgiveness of the church's sins, his profoundly humble address in the Novo Millenio Ineunte, which urged a universal call to holiness, all of which was delivered in the spirit of hope and reconciliation between ALL peoples.
The problem with the church--or the perceived problem by all those struggling to accept the church in its entirety (from her painful past to its blessed output and everything in between)--is that in the the true deliberation of any given topic (especially in regards to change, hope, and goodness) under a true sense of the divine accompaniment which is in true communion with the Holy Spirit also needs pure minds and pure hearts, free from any influence, to come to a deeply holy and spiritual decision; but these minds and hearts belong to human beings, who are far from perfect and even in the holiest of states, are not perfect and cannot make perfect decisions. We, as the watching masses dissolve under pressure and timelines, struggle to accept (if not right out deny) that there are reasons for deliberation. I know as a parent that the best way to make a decision concerning the children is to deliberate with my partner. Sometimes making a decision involved asking other parents around me. But I have learned in my short life that the best decisions are not made hastily and for the ones that are, it was more luck than love that made them good.
This kind of deliberation takes time and almost immediately incurs doubt because there is lack of patience. Impatience for time creates the perfect loophole for all those resisting anything the church has to say/offer/extend and it justifies the doubt which seeps into the minds of those fed up with the entire entity and gives those resisting the critical value of the church to write off the whole church. These thoughts and feelings are very human, but it must be said that one cannot judge simply because those imperfections are license for one human to judge another, or a group of humans to judge another group. If we are all trying to be better people, then better people we all must try to be, in its very principle.
To be fair, no priest, bishop, archbishop, nun, lay person ALIVE, no person, no human being on earth could have come that far and answered for the monstrosities and abhorrences that belong collectively and historically to the Catholic Church. No one person could have stood under the barrage of fire, no single human being anyway, intelligent or witty, charismatic or otherwise, and answered for the single most humanly corrupted entity of religious authorities on earth. But we did not have intelligent and witty or loving OR emotional representation of any kind. We had no way of relating to the pained masses because we did not have adequate spokespeople, nor was there a basic, unfettered acknowledgement OF that pain in the debate, of those sins, of the wrongs of the church.
There were no clear, demonstrative answers of relenting and contrition, no mention of the late pope's recognition, apology, and asking of forgiveness for in an unprecedented move towards the beginning of the millennium (though he realized, as do many Catholics the world over, that that is only the beginning of the road to healing and reconciliation), no mention of the enormously different kind of pontiff Karol Jozef Wojtyla was at all, no mention of all the good that has been done in the church by its members, no mention of the hope its upstanding and holy members gives us. Doing so to the contrary might have proved more by action than lofty rhetoric that the Church DOES see its mistakes, that the Church DOES want to move toward whole and complete body of virtuous members, toward whole and complete contrition (from the act of apology all the way to compensation for victims to perhaps a suggestion of far stricter, faster, and swifter punishment for the violators--I'm thinking isolation in a dark dungeon far below the Vatican for all perpetrators and bread-and-water-only diet), and that there are already motions and actions in place (a wide host of documents I'm far too spent to amass containing that information, but that anyone curious enough this late at night could surf and read for themselves) for showing that the Church CAN move and is moving toward a brighter, more healed future, and that the Church CAN be and is a force for good in the world.
*---
Update: those videos are no longer posted on YouTube. The owner removed them.
December 7, 2009
I just watched a five-segment debate as done by BBC World (and posted on YouTube) that featured four panelists (two for the motion, two against) debating on whether or not the Catholic Church is a force for good in the world. I have to say I was immensely disappointed.
The two panelists for the motion were the Archbishop of Anuja, Nigeria, John Onaiyekan and Ann Widdecombe, a British MP who converted to Catholicism after protesting the ordination of female priests in the Church of England. The two panelists against the motion were Christopher Hitchens, who writes for Vanity-freaking-Fair, and Stephen Fry, an accomplished British TV personality and actor.
Let me reiterate. The two panelists for the motion were a well-known (to Africa) clergyman, an archbishop of the Catholic Church, THE Archbishop of Abuja, Nigeria, and at a glance the hope of an entire church to sufficiently and masterfully represent the church in its entire complex, gruesome and blessed history; and a stuffy, old British female politician staunchly rooted (or self-embedded, as it were) in staunchly traditional Catholicism (by which I mean personally [to her] fundamentalist principles.)
And the two panelists against the motion were an extremely well-articulated and accomplished writer, well known for his radical views, and frequent contributor to a haute couture magazine, among several other publications; and a perky, cheeky, left-wing television/radio personality who, to add to the controversy (or the ratings of said debate), is also homosexual.
Why could they not have chosen more articulated spokespeople for the pro side? Better yet, why did they not seek out as equally eloquent and vocal representatives for that side of the argument? It's an argument you at least know is going to heated, and at most will require adequate (matched) artillery, why not give both sides a real, running, gunning go?
Yes, I'm saying the side against the motion far outweighed the side for the motion! They did so by what appeared to be leaps and bounds. What's more is that I am personally a huge proponent of the motion that the church CAN be (and has been) a force for good in the world and was holding onto my breath waiting to hear what the rest of the world was (in theory) waiting to hear.
The sheer lack and disregard for a 'fair fight' by all those involved in assembling the debate notwithstanding, the debate itself began with the Archbishop at the podium, trying in what seems to be all earnestness to open up the doors to all the watching eyes of the world by delivering a dutiful opening statement that quickly dissolves into the all-too-familiar rhetoric by the Church. And then followed by Chris Hitchens, against the motion, back to Ann Widdecombe, who was for, and then closed by Stephen Fry.
The opening statements by both speakers opposing the motion were precisely articulated, clear and concise, eloquent. The points brought up were emotional, appealing, and spoke for a secular truth in the world. Raw emotions were brought up here.
But the opening statements of the two supporting the motion were not. They were the very stereotypical rhetoric by which the Catholic Church has been grievously known for and is perceived in current times, which only adds insult to injury in the eyes of a waiting world and, more namely, this believer. Especially when there have been motions and actions by people of the church, well-known and barely known all over the world, to have made a positive difference in the lives of others and significant impact on the history of the church (which I will get to.) None of which was mentioned.
There was little to no acknowledgment for past sins, compensation, explanation from a historical perspective, or delivery of what to hope for, what the message is (which I will also get to), what the church has done and is doing to do to progress, change and improve, what the church is sorry for. There was no mention of the past, present, or future, and furthermore, no acknowledge by either speaker of the repercussions the opposing side brought into view.
What of the emotions of the members of the church whose beliefs and vocations were betrayed by the monstrously sick actions of others--the members who have believed and acted in good hearts and real faith only to be slapped in the face by the evildoers, misrepresenting one in the same church? What of the points made by the opposition: the compensation for four ages of inquisition, for the epic horrors of slaying, brutalizing, ostracizing, and judging those with different beliefs over the centuries? What of the responsibility the church holds for its members acting out of ignorance, hate, intolerance?
There DOES need to be full-on acceptance by those most in place to own it--the hierarchy of the Catholic Church, the people who committed the crimes, and more than anything, the very souls whose dark, shrouded, and debauched judgment were the hands of these grave, grave sins. There should have been statements in the debate by the supporting side demonstrating that extensive research concludes that massive reparation must be made, that a vital, integral element of that full contrition, expiation and absolution of that reparation must include the unfailing transference of knowledge by the church to her members, so that what is known by the world can (and should have first been) known by its members and there can be NO excuse for ignorance.
But there should have been statements that showed where the church has owned up to the sins of the past (past popes' apologies, Pope John Paul's request for forgiveness in his March 2000 address in addition to an apology.) There should have been statements by the supporting side that full and extensive research shows a full history of good in the church, that the majority of her members from the top down are working toward a more reconciled church (worldwide missionaries in third world and war-torn countries), that old, dated teachings of a wrathful God are currently and continuously being replaced by teaching a message of a loving God in a sweeping, unifying movement (vast changes in catechism curriculum, worldwide sermon content, the direction of vocation education, clergy and lay newsletters circulating with a variety of Catholic authors acknowledging this much more peaceful, loving message); and that IN that new message is one of tolerance. Of love. Of peace. Of freedom to live in the love of God. A message which teaches us to not judge because we are ALL God's people. ALL people. And there could have been specific resources of these changes and movements named, referenced, called into light, presented.
But there were none.
I even watched the Archbishop's argument twice because I had to stop watching and come back to the debate to see if a second chance would reveal something I missed; and still nothing.
There could have also been statements to direct attention to the fact that there is access to all kinds of information on spiritual enlightenment, that all souls no matter their station or religion are responsible for their own levels of personal and spiritual maturity, that we as a church have suffered the humiliation of those members but don't have to be defined by those imbeciles; and that anyone who is willing is able to harness that information. As well, the fact that there is awareness of this information and complete and total access to it at all is a step in the positive direction.
There could have (should have) been more references to the motions Pope John Paull II made to work on bridging the gap between the old, staunchy, rhetorical idioms and rituals of yore and current times through his significant contribution as pope and one of the most influential leaders in history and the hope that that offers. There should have been more references to the late pontiff's remarkably nontraditional steps outside of the Vatican circle, his contribution to aiding the end to communism, his unprecedented request for forgiveness of the church's sins, his profoundly humble address in the Novo Millenio Ineunte, which urged a universal call to holiness, all of which was delivered in the spirit of hope and reconciliation between ALL peoples.
The problem with the church--or the perceived problem by all those struggling to accept the church in its entirety (from her painful past to its blessed output and everything in between)--is that in the the true deliberation of any given topic (especially in regards to change, hope, and goodness) under a true sense of the divine accompaniment which is in true communion with the Holy Spirit also needs pure minds and pure hearts, free from any influence, to come to a deeply holy and spiritual decision; but these minds and hearts belong to human beings, who are far from perfect and even in the holiest of states, are not perfect and cannot make perfect decisions. We, as the watching masses dissolve under pressure and timelines, struggle to accept (if not right out deny) that there are reasons for deliberation. I know as a parent that the best way to make a decision concerning the children is to deliberate with my partner. Sometimes making a decision involved asking other parents around me. But I have learned in my short life that the best decisions are not made hastily and for the ones that are, it was more luck than love that made them good.
This kind of deliberation takes time and almost immediately incurs doubt because there is lack of patience. Impatience for time creates the perfect loophole for all those resisting anything the church has to say/offer/extend and it justifies the doubt which seeps into the minds of those fed up with the entire entity and gives those resisting the critical value of the church to write off the whole church. These thoughts and feelings are very human, but it must be said that one cannot judge simply because those imperfections are license for one human to judge another, or a group of humans to judge another group. If we are all trying to be better people, then better people we all must try to be, in its very principle.
To be fair, no priest, bishop, archbishop, nun, lay person ALIVE, no person, no human being on earth could have come that far and answered for the monstrosities and abhorrences that belong collectively and historically to the Catholic Church. No one person could have stood under the barrage of fire, no single human being anyway, intelligent or witty, charismatic or otherwise, and answered for the single most humanly corrupted entity of religious authorities on earth. But we did not have intelligent and witty or loving OR emotional representation of any kind. We had no way of relating to the pained masses because we did not have adequate spokespeople, nor was there a basic, unfettered acknowledgement OF that pain in the debate, of those sins, of the wrongs of the church.
There were no clear, demonstrative answers of relenting and contrition, no mention of the late pope's recognition, apology, and asking of forgiveness for in an unprecedented move towards the beginning of the millennium (though he realized, as do many Catholics the world over, that that is only the beginning of the road to healing and reconciliation), no mention of the enormously different kind of pontiff Karol Jozef Wojtyla was at all, no mention of all the good that has been done in the church by its members, no mention of the hope its upstanding and holy members gives us. Doing so to the contrary might have proved more by action than lofty rhetoric that the Church DOES see its mistakes, that the Church DOES want to move toward whole and complete body of virtuous members, toward whole and complete contrition (from the act of apology all the way to compensation for victims to perhaps a suggestion of far stricter, faster, and swifter punishment for the violators--I'm thinking isolation in a dark dungeon far below the Vatican for all perpetrators and bread-and-water-only diet), and that there are already motions and actions in place (a wide host of documents I'm far too spent to amass containing that information, but that anyone curious enough this late at night could surf and read for themselves) for showing that the Church CAN move and is moving toward a brighter, more healed future, and that the Church CAN be and is a force for good in the world.
*---
Update: those videos are no longer posted on YouTube. The owner removed them.
02 December 2010
Why the Do-Over then...?
Well, because I had no idea, absolutely none, that what was coming was coming. No clue at all. I wouldn't have wanted it had someone told me it was going to happen, I would have rejected the notion entirely.
It is so entirely deceptive in its appearance, no matter how much I wish the world would understand. The unfolding of the treachery wounds me to tears even now. I understand how my friends feel. I understood it before they even knew it was coming, in the tender, quiet that was the space ahead of the storm. I understand how my girls feel. Their every corner and strain of their world torn; my every fiber longs for their well-being. I was concerned about how this would affect them even before leaving. I cried with them, I held them and comforted them when we landed here. I held them. I held them. I held them.
When I went back to fetch a few things, get my dog, and see my girls some two months after leaving, I saw the family picture we took. It had come in the mail after leaving. The picture was taken nearly moments before I knew I would go--that is, with things between the old us changing already and feeling more and more not meant to be, but before I even pondered such dramatic exit. I had wanted a professional family photo taken for ten years. How could I do this? My eyes fell upon the image, stacked among other wall hangings in the old entry way, and assaulted the part of my chest which still aches.
Nothing of this takes away from what my girls have been going through, how mortally this affected them. I knew it would. I prepared for it the best I could. And still I failed in one respect. In the respect of the world. But they grew, they healed, they even smiled. And my only concern is them. Not the world.
I did not see it coming. But I should have. Growing apart for years, there was refusal and denial about the actual state all around. We made it look good, but it was truly good for parts of it. It just wasn't enough. As long as we were taking turns at the wheel by ourselves and not working together to take responsibility, it would always be doomed.
It is so entirely deceptive in its appearance, no matter how much I wish the world would understand. The unfolding of the treachery wounds me to tears even now. I understand how my friends feel. I understood it before they even knew it was coming, in the tender, quiet that was the space ahead of the storm. I understand how my girls feel. Their every corner and strain of their world torn; my every fiber longs for their well-being. I was concerned about how this would affect them even before leaving. I cried with them, I held them and comforted them when we landed here. I held them. I held them. I held them.
When I went back to fetch a few things, get my dog, and see my girls some two months after leaving, I saw the family picture we took. It had come in the mail after leaving. The picture was taken nearly moments before I knew I would go--that is, with things between the old us changing already and feeling more and more not meant to be, but before I even pondered such dramatic exit. I had wanted a professional family photo taken for ten years. How could I do this? My eyes fell upon the image, stacked among other wall hangings in the old entry way, and assaulted the part of my chest which still aches.
Nothing of this takes away from what my girls have been going through, how mortally this affected them. I knew it would. I prepared for it the best I could. And still I failed in one respect. In the respect of the world. But they grew, they healed, they even smiled. And my only concern is them. Not the world.
I did not see it coming. But I should have. Growing apart for years, there was refusal and denial about the actual state all around. We made it look good, but it was truly good for parts of it. It just wasn't enough. As long as we were taking turns at the wheel by ourselves and not working together to take responsibility, it would always be doomed.
08 November 2010
(...continued from previous entry...)
It's just all so.... "messed," as my pop-jargon-savvy 10-year-old would say. I grew up far more emotionally conscious of myself and others I think than a lot of others around me were. Who knows why that was so, but it is the wheel behind the prolonged torture I put myself through. What I mean is, being that aware of my own emotions and the emotions of others really put me at a disadvantage well over the majority than the advantages it brought. While the rest of the world was taking off, not giving a shit, or just plain growing up like normal kids, I observed how selfish they were being, or other various observations. Not that I was any less selfish. It's just that I processed the same kinds of things they did in a different way; and I took stock of my observations. And then I had to try to do this in the adult world, where most functional human beings were working on various stages of putting childish things away, and I was only getting started. In this same observational mindset, I also took stock of my observations and noticed that fundamental truths were created and developed, etching their creations right on the inside of the person I was, fortunately most right and true, but like any erred human, not always right and not always true.
I see this in my daughter already. Both of them, actually. But the older one most of all, right now at this point anyway. It makes me proverbially raise my eyebrow and take note. I do not want her (or her sister) becoming the over-analytical freak I became. It has caused me so much unneeded duress in my life. Well, I guess not knowing how to handle it is what caused the duress, but in the dealing of it (coping, learning, processing, rejecting, whatever), I came to know rather suddenly that parenting from an emotional state is not always reasonable (simply for the fact that it can screw up in the way their worlds are supposed to work; and because I learned this the hard way), and not the most responsible core to start from. I try to maintain a balance, and learned to try for the balance when I became aware, so I'm not going to jump to my mommy pulpit just yet, but as any parent knows, there's no job manual for being a mom. It is definitely marked on the back of my brain.
The most important part of the journey is how my previously-mentioned spirituality filled (and continues to fill) the gaps. Besides learning how to be practical (over emotional), rational over theoretical, I've also learned how sacrificial love is.
I see this in my daughter already. Both of them, actually. But the older one most of all, right now at this point anyway. It makes me proverbially raise my eyebrow and take note. I do not want her (or her sister) becoming the over-analytical freak I became. It has caused me so much unneeded duress in my life. Well, I guess not knowing how to handle it is what caused the duress, but in the dealing of it (coping, learning, processing, rejecting, whatever), I came to know rather suddenly that parenting from an emotional state is not always reasonable (simply for the fact that it can screw up in the way their worlds are supposed to work; and because I learned this the hard way), and not the most responsible core to start from. I try to maintain a balance, and learned to try for the balance when I became aware, so I'm not going to jump to my mommy pulpit just yet, but as any parent knows, there's no job manual for being a mom. It is definitely marked on the back of my brain.
The most important part of the journey is how my previously-mentioned spirituality filled (and continues to fill) the gaps. Besides learning how to be practical (over emotional), rational over theoretical, I've also learned how sacrificial love is.
05 November 2010
" I really did feel like everything I did was about..."
I really did feel like everything I did was about 50%. I didn't want it to be that way, and I really tried putting 100% into everything, but as long I kept feeling let down no matter what kind of effort I was putting in, I knew something wasn't sitting right.
It wasn't as though I wanted these things to happen. It is, though, that I didn't make the decisions for something else to happen. I was, in part, looking for somewhere else to throw the blame if something went wrong. When I finally thought about what kind of decision I should have made, could make, and consequently did make, it was almost too much to bear. At first it was unthinkable. Then it was necessary. And it's like my dad told me (which I all-too-inconveniently forgot): If you don't make a decision, someone will make it for you. I let people make decisions for me for years without even realizing I had gotten in the habit of it. I did not realize it exactly like that. It explains so much. A puzzle piece in the big jigsaw of life. But then the other part to Dad's piece of advice is to make the decision and execute it. If it was right, then move forward, if it was wrong, make it right. Seems so simple, doesn't it. That's how easy it is for us to complicate things. Even as a woman who was raised to think like a guy and reconciled with the woman I really am, this makes sense. I complicated things ALL the time, unnecessarily. And why? Because I was too busy trying to "prove" something, to make it look good, all the while not investing with my whole heart. In a phrase: I was lying to myself.
And how bitter that seems!! How terribly raucous it is to put my life and the tremendous sorrow I have for the hurt I caused people into a simple paragraph! This was not an easy conclusion to come to. Not for one second. The elaboration of which I'll have to save for another entry, but suffice to say for this entry, it comes with heavy, heavy consequence and the duress of a summation of approximately 13 years. However, I am still not bitter.
And I was thinking about love. What it means. How we say it. How it is true. Most of all, in terms of myself and how my life has led me to really give it a good, hard look; and how it still means something, now more than ever. The other day, I was sitting on the bench outside staring at the supporting post of the balcony above, and the words "love" and "not enough" breeched my thoughts. Never in my wildest dreams did I think about my non-choice way of living exactly like that for a really long time, or that finally taking responsibility for my life, myself, and my actions (finally!) would bring me here, but neither did I think my life would unfold the way it did; and it occurred to me that sometimes, love just isn't enough.
Proper communication (learning how to speak the other person's language and giving it importance), matched fundamental values, short term goals, long term goals, and a solid base of all these things IS what's "enough", it's what sets the tone to the degree of compatibility, but most of the world gets automatically bored with the idea, especially because the advanced stages of love are not being taught--the crucial, underlying truths of what love can be. (There are marriage preparation-type courses for a reason! And yet we all cry that divorce is as easy as changing our snow tires.) The world is (and even I was, to a surprising degree) lacking in the concept of building a foundation, fundamental to the core of a relationship. Everyone gets to the point where they are at a loss for what to do after the "ohmygod I think I'm in love" love (or whatever version of thought gets us into the state of fundamentally unhappy couples) fades into something else. Here's a hint: it's supposed to mature. It becomes a decision then, an action, and it is love like that which supports the structure built on afore-mentioned foundation like layers of a pyramid: likes, dislikes, common interests. It is love that can sustain the soul during conflict of the initial layers and it grows from there, if nurtured, but it does not generally shake the foundation. Love grows, but it also transforms. Most of all, it is an action. Love is an action that requires sacrifice, but sacrifice comes in all forms--but usually means letting go of our pride, allowing our walls of defense to be softly penetrated, and when done right is the most tender, precious thing in the entire world, here or thereafter.
Things Not Allowed in Love: bitterness, lukewarmness, indifference, lack of action, blandness. That's what I think, anyway. Even intense negativity is better than absolute lack of participation, because at least it's dedicated in some way (although it doesn't have a good place in a relationship.)
Now. Here's the thing. None. Of. These. Things. Are. New to me. Not once, ever, in my existence as a wife of a cancer victim, or as a mother of two, or as a woman exposed to the attrocities of the world, or as a person whose sense of emotional awareness/perception was her own flogging, or as a person whose made a bazillion minor-to-major grave errors in her whole life, did I not live these things as best as I could. I knew, even if I struggled like an s.o.b. with knowing better, what love was supposed to be. How, exactly I can't describe, but it was always something intrinsically inscribed on the walls my soul. Perhaps taught to me through the faith my parents transcribed unto me, perhaps acquired through years of observations watching them miss the mark with each other every time they opened their mouths, watching other couples, watching the nuances and inconsistencies that created hardship and strife, but most of all, living exactly as I have lived, eff-ups and all. It has only become all the richer now...
Lest I become a sermon from on high, let me be perfectly clear that I am among the generalizations I have made. I have no more place to mention these things than say, a criminal or banished sinner. I am just, in a word, sharing.
...to be continued...
It wasn't as though I wanted these things to happen. It is, though, that I didn't make the decisions for something else to happen. I was, in part, looking for somewhere else to throw the blame if something went wrong. When I finally thought about what kind of decision I should have made, could make, and consequently did make, it was almost too much to bear. At first it was unthinkable. Then it was necessary. And it's like my dad told me (which I all-too-inconveniently forgot): If you don't make a decision, someone will make it for you. I let people make decisions for me for years without even realizing I had gotten in the habit of it. I did not realize it exactly like that. It explains so much. A puzzle piece in the big jigsaw of life. But then the other part to Dad's piece of advice is to make the decision and execute it. If it was right, then move forward, if it was wrong, make it right. Seems so simple, doesn't it. That's how easy it is for us to complicate things. Even as a woman who was raised to think like a guy and reconciled with the woman I really am, this makes sense. I complicated things ALL the time, unnecessarily. And why? Because I was too busy trying to "prove" something, to make it look good, all the while not investing with my whole heart. In a phrase: I was lying to myself.
And how bitter that seems!! How terribly raucous it is to put my life and the tremendous sorrow I have for the hurt I caused people into a simple paragraph! This was not an easy conclusion to come to. Not for one second. The elaboration of which I'll have to save for another entry, but suffice to say for this entry, it comes with heavy, heavy consequence and the duress of a summation of approximately 13 years. However, I am still not bitter.
And I was thinking about love. What it means. How we say it. How it is true. Most of all, in terms of myself and how my life has led me to really give it a good, hard look; and how it still means something, now more than ever. The other day, I was sitting on the bench outside staring at the supporting post of the balcony above, and the words "love" and "not enough" breeched my thoughts. Never in my wildest dreams did I think about my non-choice way of living exactly like that for a really long time, or that finally taking responsibility for my life, myself, and my actions (finally!) would bring me here, but neither did I think my life would unfold the way it did; and it occurred to me that sometimes, love just isn't enough.
Proper communication (learning how to speak the other person's language and giving it importance), matched fundamental values, short term goals, long term goals, and a solid base of all these things IS what's "enough", it's what sets the tone to the degree of compatibility, but most of the world gets automatically bored with the idea, especially because the advanced stages of love are not being taught--the crucial, underlying truths of what love can be. (There are marriage preparation-type courses for a reason! And yet we all cry that divorce is as easy as changing our snow tires.) The world is (and even I was, to a surprising degree) lacking in the concept of building a foundation, fundamental to the core of a relationship. Everyone gets to the point where they are at a loss for what to do after the "ohmygod I think I'm in love" love (or whatever version of thought gets us into the state of fundamentally unhappy couples) fades into something else. Here's a hint: it's supposed to mature. It becomes a decision then, an action, and it is love like that which supports the structure built on afore-mentioned foundation like layers of a pyramid: likes, dislikes, common interests. It is love that can sustain the soul during conflict of the initial layers and it grows from there, if nurtured, but it does not generally shake the foundation. Love grows, but it also transforms. Most of all, it is an action. Love is an action that requires sacrifice, but sacrifice comes in all forms--but usually means letting go of our pride, allowing our walls of defense to be softly penetrated, and when done right is the most tender, precious thing in the entire world, here or thereafter.
Things Not Allowed in Love: bitterness, lukewarmness, indifference, lack of action, blandness. That's what I think, anyway. Even intense negativity is better than absolute lack of participation, because at least it's dedicated in some way (although it doesn't have a good place in a relationship.)
Now. Here's the thing. None. Of. These. Things. Are. New to me. Not once, ever, in my existence as a wife of a cancer victim, or as a mother of two, or as a woman exposed to the attrocities of the world, or as a person whose sense of emotional awareness/perception was her own flogging, or as a person whose made a bazillion minor-to-major grave errors in her whole life, did I not live these things as best as I could. I knew, even if I struggled like an s.o.b. with knowing better, what love was supposed to be. How, exactly I can't describe, but it was always something intrinsically inscribed on the walls my soul. Perhaps taught to me through the faith my parents transcribed unto me, perhaps acquired through years of observations watching them miss the mark with each other every time they opened their mouths, watching other couples, watching the nuances and inconsistencies that created hardship and strife, but most of all, living exactly as I have lived, eff-ups and all. It has only become all the richer now...
Lest I become a sermon from on high, let me be perfectly clear that I am among the generalizations I have made. I have no more place to mention these things than say, a criminal or banished sinner. I am just, in a word, sharing.
...to be continued...
30 September 2010
19 September 2010
Redaction
Yes. Did I forget to mention something very important in this blog post? The answer is undoubtedly, unequivocally yes, I did.
It is a word that bears repeating out loud, after having thought about it, felt it, poured from every cord of my heart, my feelings, and my mind multiple times of consequence and conscience. It is an element, a vital step in just about every kind of moving on, that dwelt so loudly in me that I almost missed saying it.
It deserves to be broadcast on top of a mountain, the New York Times, on prime-time TV, perhaps even a tiny blog like this one, but it is more appropriate to center it in the hearts of those who need to hear it.
It is something I could never afford to keep to myself and is something I would never want to keep to myself. It is something that I have felt for so long and known all this time towards all the ones I love and have known, above all and despite all other processes in my life to date, that there can be no resolve without it. There cannot even be hope to resolve if it is not said and stated loudly and clearly, no real hope of truly moving on and certainly no hope to expect forgiveness if I do not express it. Especially if I do not express it like I have been feeling it for so long. Especially since the form in which I have done most of my processing is also the form where now it needs to be addressed.
It is also something I was not too quick to blurt out, at the risk of saying it too quickly or it sounding too convenient, as it was anything but easy or convenient and it needed to mean everything to those who needed to hear it; and even to those who didn't, as the truest essence of it (love) is not bound to the limits of human perception.
They are two of the most difficult words in the English dictionary to say; and even though I've never considered myself too proud to say them, I almost missed saying them myself in the deconstruction/reconstruction of the massive, percussive tide of my decisions and their consequences:
I'm sorry.
I really am. I'm sorry for the hurt I caused, for the confusion, the apparent hypocrisy. I'm sorry for stringing everyone along (even though I wasn't intending to) because I was stringing my own self along. I'm sorry for looking everyone in the eye, pretending to be going one way but planning another. I'm sorry for the worry I caused, the initial and potential damage my leaving caused; but most of all, for hurting the ones I love the most.
I haven't stopped loving you, haven't stopped caring for you, and in that I make my full conscious plea with you for your forgiveness. But with or without your forgiveness, I shall forever remain sorry for these things and carry on. I pray that we can work through these things individually and in private; I will be holding onto those days and hoping for reconciliation.
It is a word that bears repeating out loud, after having thought about it, felt it, poured from every cord of my heart, my feelings, and my mind multiple times of consequence and conscience. It is an element, a vital step in just about every kind of moving on, that dwelt so loudly in me that I almost missed saying it.
It deserves to be broadcast on top of a mountain, the New York Times, on prime-time TV, perhaps even a tiny blog like this one, but it is more appropriate to center it in the hearts of those who need to hear it.
It is something I could never afford to keep to myself and is something I would never want to keep to myself. It is something that I have felt for so long and known all this time towards all the ones I love and have known, above all and despite all other processes in my life to date, that there can be no resolve without it. There cannot even be hope to resolve if it is not said and stated loudly and clearly, no real hope of truly moving on and certainly no hope to expect forgiveness if I do not express it. Especially if I do not express it like I have been feeling it for so long. Especially since the form in which I have done most of my processing is also the form where now it needs to be addressed.
It is also something I was not too quick to blurt out, at the risk of saying it too quickly or it sounding too convenient, as it was anything but easy or convenient and it needed to mean everything to those who needed to hear it; and even to those who didn't, as the truest essence of it (love) is not bound to the limits of human perception.
They are two of the most difficult words in the English dictionary to say; and even though I've never considered myself too proud to say them, I almost missed saying them myself in the deconstruction/reconstruction of the massive, percussive tide of my decisions and their consequences:
I'm sorry.
I really am. I'm sorry for the hurt I caused, for the confusion, the apparent hypocrisy. I'm sorry for stringing everyone along (even though I wasn't intending to) because I was stringing my own self along. I'm sorry for looking everyone in the eye, pretending to be going one way but planning another. I'm sorry for the worry I caused, the initial and potential damage my leaving caused; but most of all, for hurting the ones I love the most.
I haven't stopped loving you, haven't stopped caring for you, and in that I make my full conscious plea with you for your forgiveness. But with or without your forgiveness, I shall forever remain sorry for these things and carry on. I pray that we can work through these things individually and in private; I will be holding onto those days and hoping for reconciliation.
17 September 2010
Les canards
Every day I get up, get a coffee and have a cigarette out side. When I first got here and the mornings were still warm, I'd go "all the way out" on the dock and watch the ducklings. (I've been here two and a half months.) I would take in the open blue sky, the towering evergreens, and the thicket of forest where all kinds of creatures hid in the safety of their refuges while standing over the water feelin
g like the floating dock would take me away.
It was the only thing that kept me from dwelling on the world that I left, an entire other life that felt sacked by me up-and-leaving (a life that I had grown rather accustomed to living.) I breathed in the fresh, pine-heavy air, and struggled to appreciate that I was there and incapable of turning back before I could change my mind.
Before the girls went back with their father, my youngest would come out and greet me a sleepy good morning and sit with me. And after they were gone, it was a place I would go to collect my thoughts and wake up. I've had many a day here like that. Almost every single one. This haven, this beautiful secret garden, has been the refuge I've needed to clear just about every basic (or complex) thought I've ever had.
It has also been, much to my charm, a world unto itself. The ducklings grew and more seemed to join the family. And they've gotten fat eating off the ground where the birds spill their seed. As well, I've had the privileged delight to witness not one or two, but three blue jays, which I've never seen before. Between the birds, the squirrels, the wasps, the dragonflies, the two odd otters (one day only), and the odd porcupine, it is enchantment best saved for the movies.
The funniest thing though, is how the ducks have
made a path in the grass with their waddling march to the tree where the bird feeder is. It's truly a delightful little show of mother nature's humor.
g like the floating dock would take me away.It was the only thing that kept me from dwelling on the world that I left, an entire other life that felt sacked by me up-and-leaving (a life that I had grown rather accustomed to living.) I breathed in the fresh, pine-heavy air, and struggled to appreciate that I was there and incapable of turning back before I could change my mind.
Before the girls went back with their father, my youngest would come out and greet me a sleepy good morning and sit with me. And after they were gone, it was a place I would go to collect my thoughts and wake up. I've had many a day here like that. Almost every single one. This haven, this beautiful secret garden, has been the refuge I've needed to clear just about every basic (or complex) thought I've ever had.
It has also been, much to my charm, a world unto itself. The ducklings grew and more seemed to join the family. And they've gotten fat eating off the ground where the birds spill their seed. As well, I've had the privileged delight to witness not one or two, but three blue jays, which I've never seen before. Between the birds, the squirrels, the wasps, the dragonflies, the two odd otters (one day only), and the odd porcupine, it is enchantment best saved for the movies.
The funniest thing though, is how the ducks have
made a path in the grass with their waddling march to the tree where the bird feeder is. It's truly a delightful little show of mother nature's humor.
12 September 2010
Mass in French
What an enriched experience Mass is in French when you have a small stash of vocabulary and the little missal in front of you!
I came here under premonition, decision, wincing in preparing for the barrage of fire, but the one thing that helps me even when I'm feeling like the scum of the earth about my decision to live here like I am is to go to this massive cathedral where I am just a peon.
In the whole sense of the word "blessing", it just doesn't matter what the whole world thinks for a moment in your life. For just one hour, you get to be a person who could be worthy of forgiveness, a person full of graces, and part of a family. For one hour, you can focus on something so much sweeter, nicer, more loving, gentle and warm, forgiving than the weight of all the raucous crap people feel entitled to give you just because you made a decision to do something with your life, and every person you ever knew, ever loved was hurt or pissed by it and had something to say on Facebook about it. (True story.)
For just a few moments, you get to shed the unraveling of the prior week (or weeks), the pain them feeling betrayed. In French, "blessure" means "to wound." In my studies of eternal matters, I have found that many of the saints refer to this "wound of love" that pierces them. It is this pain that they rejoice in because it signifies death to self and a welcoming of the eternal love that floods the soul through the light and mercy of our most Eternal Lord. (Can you imagine the light pouring in your eyes? The pressure of joy bursting from withing your gut? The sheer, overcoming relief of total welcome?) Isn't it something that we refer the the word "blessing" without really even realizing its sheer and pure, yet absolute meaning.
Funny thing is, the scenes didn't all unfold caustically until human judgment got in the way; and, like it or not, I'm finally realizing that it isn't their forgiveness I'm seeking. (Although it used to be. Weird, huh?) But I digress. I still felt like this (refer to "peon" paragraph) before I made the decision to move here and eff up everyone's perceptions of me, hurt their feelings, shock them. You know, when I was a Stepford wife.
That doesn't mean that you are reprieved of the things that you do which suck, or that your journey to be a good person and make fully conscious decisions, complete with consequences just stops there. It means that for a concrete, singular moment you get to breathe. Which is a blessing.
Of course, it seems easier when the people in the church don't know your every last sin, but when you're sitting there with the uncle of the man you're with on the other side, and he knows that you are there under some matter of dramatic sequence, you know you are going to be facing the music eventually.
But even then, it's okay. It's peaceful. Because even when they know my story (at least the people closest around me), I know they're not going to be the type of people to judge. Even if they heard all the gory details down to the final indiscretion, these people I already love already love me and this life, here, is already its own proof that I am not the same person who just lays idle about life and allows everyone else to define her boundaries.
Ici est la cathedrale de Chicoutimi:
I came here under premonition, decision, wincing in preparing for the barrage of fire, but the one thing that helps me even when I'm feeling like the scum of the earth about my decision to live here like I am is to go to this massive cathedral where I am just a peon.
In the whole sense of the word "blessing", it just doesn't matter what the whole world thinks for a moment in your life. For just one hour, you get to be a person who could be worthy of forgiveness, a person full of graces, and part of a family. For one hour, you can focus on something so much sweeter, nicer, more loving, gentle and warm, forgiving than the weight of all the raucous crap people feel entitled to give you just because you made a decision to do something with your life, and every person you ever knew, ever loved was hurt or pissed by it and had something to say on Facebook about it. (True story.)
For just a few moments, you get to shed the unraveling of the prior week (or weeks), the pain them feeling betrayed. In French, "blessure" means "to wound." In my studies of eternal matters, I have found that many of the saints refer to this "wound of love" that pierces them. It is this pain that they rejoice in because it signifies death to self and a welcoming of the eternal love that floods the soul through the light and mercy of our most Eternal Lord. (Can you imagine the light pouring in your eyes? The pressure of joy bursting from withing your gut? The sheer, overcoming relief of total welcome?) Isn't it something that we refer the the word "blessing" without really even realizing its sheer and pure, yet absolute meaning.
Funny thing is, the scenes didn't all unfold caustically until human judgment got in the way; and, like it or not, I'm finally realizing that it isn't their forgiveness I'm seeking. (Although it used to be. Weird, huh?) But I digress. I still felt like this (refer to "peon" paragraph) before I made the decision to move here and eff up everyone's perceptions of me, hurt their feelings, shock them. You know, when I was a Stepford wife.
That doesn't mean that you are reprieved of the things that you do which suck, or that your journey to be a good person and make fully conscious decisions, complete with consequences just stops there. It means that for a concrete, singular moment you get to breathe. Which is a blessing.
Of course, it seems easier when the people in the church don't know your every last sin, but when you're sitting there with the uncle of the man you're with on the other side, and he knows that you are there under some matter of dramatic sequence, you know you are going to be facing the music eventually.
But even then, it's okay. It's peaceful. Because even when they know my story (at least the people closest around me), I know they're not going to be the type of people to judge. Even if they heard all the gory details down to the final indiscretion, these people I already love already love me and this life, here, is already its own proof that I am not the same person who just lays idle about life and allows everyone else to define her boundaries.
Ici est la cathedrale de Chicoutimi:
25 August 2010
If I may...
I didn't meant to hurt anyone. I knew that it would hurt a LOT of people around me, but I didn't count on it affecting every single person who felt entitled to write me and tell me just what kind of person they thought I was before and after the whole initial step.
Not everyone who wrote me had something ill-willed or damning to say, but the entire collection of messages and emails I received did, in fact, make me think about my actions AGAIN, yes, of course, but mostly of yelling my defense amidst wracking sobs from on top of a mountain. I did consider this--and all these things that happened--in the full scope of making this decision before I even left. I have had the darkest days of my life so far contemplating these things. And I've seen some pretty dark days.
I considered the entire drama of it all, the potential tidal wave of reactions to ensue, the confusion, the hurt, the heavy impact of what I was about to do, the most important people in my life that it would affect. I tried to write them letters beforehand, erroneously, trying to explain (why did I even bother?) that what I was doing was huge and that I had to do it.
I made mistakes in my execution of this, used words that poorly conveyed what I really wanted to say, but I had no intentions of escaping the aftermath; and I did not escape it. I faced it full-on, like a matador in the bullring that knows full and damn well that if he dies, he made the choice to be there.
I also considered the people I knew, love, and respect to count on their forgiveness. Not in the way that I deserved it or would even get it or would ever learn of their processing of the entire situation, but in the qualities I saw in them, the reason I could be friends with each one, to believe/hope/see that place inside them that could and would conquer even the obvious hurt. It has been a tremendous blessing to see those who have nurtured their wounds enough to come out from the shadows of judgment and reach out their hands. Somehow I think they knew I would never turn them away.
I considered the light and beauty in each one of them to evolve past the initial tear, once things settled on the first level, in fathoming such a thing; and then to ask questions. I believe(d) in their ability to love past and through the hurt, which I could see in them, was (is) greater than anything I had to offer them, greater than whatever perceptions to come, greater than the general mass mentality.
I considered that no amount of explanation, then or now, would make it any more right.
I considered that at the end of the day, there was and is so much more to get from life than what I was preaching to everyone else to get, to soak up; and that if I had to be responsible for my life and what I got out of it (like I've preached to everyone else), then I had a decision to make.
For so long, people around me my whole life were unwittingly putting me in a cage with words and phrases like "oh well" or similar, critically judging my every move. Until, one day, I just did what was "right" and everyone shut up. Everyone didn't have to worry about sticking their two cents in, no one could tell me how stupid I was being. (No one was listening to ME anyway.) And while any time that people, family, friends meant well, it left me feeling like I couldn't do anything right unless I laid low.
Did I think that my aunties, old friends, dear family should allow me to get away with messed up choices? Of course not. Would have killed them to let me make my own mistakes? What happens when you cage a free spirit just for doing bad? You don't have a chance to see them do good.
I had a chance to change the direction of my life, just the right person to take the journey with, and the opportunity to be true to myself with massive consequences. With the daggers of people's opinions on every side and the future of my precious daughters at stake, I took the first step of my life, braced for just exactly what I got. And I still got the wind taken right out of me. The only load of crap I've ever fed myself was believing that some of the people closest to me would jump over the wide gap of broken pieces to see me for real. Some were able, some were not.
In my opinion, it's never too late.
I didn't figure I was being caged just like that, though, with exactly that intention on my mind trying to "shut" everyone up. I realized from early on that I wasn't speaking loud enough to be heard nor did I give anyone in the infancy of my adulthood the chance to see I was more than they gave me credit for.
I didn't realize I was being that way, and I wouldn't have admitted it had I seen a glimpse of it. I just was doing what I thought was right, following the path that I didn't see was meant to lead me here, making a shitload of mistakes in the process, but wanting to embrace what I was given, rather than discard a moment of it in ungratefulness.
But in a life that was one succession after another of making concessions, letting go of even the smallest dreams towards the end, and finally having lost my voice under the barrage and weight of all other perceptions but my own, it led me here. It led me to making painful, painful sacrifices. It led to the most consequential, supremely massive decision of my life. This wasn't just about a guy. This wasn't just changing life on a whim. It was and continues to be about something greater than myself, which is what I said from the beginning.
Not everyone who wrote me had something ill-willed or damning to say, but the entire collection of messages and emails I received did, in fact, make me think about my actions AGAIN, yes, of course, but mostly of yelling my defense amidst wracking sobs from on top of a mountain. I did consider this--and all these things that happened--in the full scope of making this decision before I even left. I have had the darkest days of my life so far contemplating these things. And I've seen some pretty dark days.
I considered the entire drama of it all, the potential tidal wave of reactions to ensue, the confusion, the hurt, the heavy impact of what I was about to do, the most important people in my life that it would affect. I tried to write them letters beforehand, erroneously, trying to explain (why did I even bother?) that what I was doing was huge and that I had to do it.
I made mistakes in my execution of this, used words that poorly conveyed what I really wanted to say, but I had no intentions of escaping the aftermath; and I did not escape it. I faced it full-on, like a matador in the bullring that knows full and damn well that if he dies, he made the choice to be there.
I also considered the people I knew, love, and respect to count on their forgiveness. Not in the way that I deserved it or would even get it or would ever learn of their processing of the entire situation, but in the qualities I saw in them, the reason I could be friends with each one, to believe/hope/see that place inside them that could and would conquer even the obvious hurt. It has been a tremendous blessing to see those who have nurtured their wounds enough to come out from the shadows of judgment and reach out their hands. Somehow I think they knew I would never turn them away.
I considered the light and beauty in each one of them to evolve past the initial tear, once things settled on the first level, in fathoming such a thing; and then to ask questions. I believe(d) in their ability to love past and through the hurt, which I could see in them, was (is) greater than anything I had to offer them, greater than whatever perceptions to come, greater than the general mass mentality.
I considered that no amount of explanation, then or now, would make it any more right.
I considered that at the end of the day, there was and is so much more to get from life than what I was preaching to everyone else to get, to soak up; and that if I had to be responsible for my life and what I got out of it (like I've preached to everyone else), then I had a decision to make.
For so long, people around me my whole life were unwittingly putting me in a cage with words and phrases like "oh well" or similar, critically judging my every move. Until, one day, I just did what was "right" and everyone shut up. Everyone didn't have to worry about sticking their two cents in, no one could tell me how stupid I was being. (No one was listening to ME anyway.) And while any time that people, family, friends meant well, it left me feeling like I couldn't do anything right unless I laid low.
Did I think that my aunties, old friends, dear family should allow me to get away with messed up choices? Of course not. Would have killed them to let me make my own mistakes? What happens when you cage a free spirit just for doing bad? You don't have a chance to see them do good.
I had a chance to change the direction of my life, just the right person to take the journey with, and the opportunity to be true to myself with massive consequences. With the daggers of people's opinions on every side and the future of my precious daughters at stake, I took the first step of my life, braced for just exactly what I got. And I still got the wind taken right out of me. The only load of crap I've ever fed myself was believing that some of the people closest to me would jump over the wide gap of broken pieces to see me for real. Some were able, some were not.
In my opinion, it's never too late.
I didn't figure I was being caged just like that, though, with exactly that intention on my mind trying to "shut" everyone up. I realized from early on that I wasn't speaking loud enough to be heard nor did I give anyone in the infancy of my adulthood the chance to see I was more than they gave me credit for.
I didn't realize I was being that way, and I wouldn't have admitted it had I seen a glimpse of it. I just was doing what I thought was right, following the path that I didn't see was meant to lead me here, making a shitload of mistakes in the process, but wanting to embrace what I was given, rather than discard a moment of it in ungratefulness.
But in a life that was one succession after another of making concessions, letting go of even the smallest dreams towards the end, and finally having lost my voice under the barrage and weight of all other perceptions but my own, it led me here. It led me to making painful, painful sacrifices. It led to the most consequential, supremely massive decision of my life. This wasn't just about a guy. This wasn't just changing life on a whim. It was and continues to be about something greater than myself, which is what I said from the beginning.
19 August 2010
August 19, 2010
I'm surprised it hurts so much. To be without my girls. I mean, I'm not surprised because a mother's true love is not without some foresight, wisdom, realization. I just mean that with the way I came into motherhood as a naive, young flit "coping" with it and then how I've changed my method and moral to choosing to be a mother, the pain of this just stings so much more than all of the sting I had anticipated.
I'm not as surprised to be missing their voices, their laughter, their hugs, the smell of their hair, the sandwich cuddles---I knew that I would. It's just that the reality becoming real stings more than I could have ever prepared for.
So how do I dare cry about this when the choice to leave the way I did was mine? Sure I took them with me for the first part--so they would never have the pain of seeing their mother leave, but what did that prove? It seems like it would almost be nothing at the current juncture.
But I tell you what. I'm holding onto something higher than myself to get us through this two-year period.
I'm not as surprised to be missing their voices, their laughter, their hugs, the smell of their hair, the sandwich cuddles---I knew that I would. It's just that the reality becoming real stings more than I could have ever prepared for.
So how do I dare cry about this when the choice to leave the way I did was mine? Sure I took them with me for the first part--so they would never have the pain of seeing their mother leave, but what did that prove? It seems like it would almost be nothing at the current juncture.
But I tell you what. I'm holding onto something higher than myself to get us through this two-year period.
05 May 2010
All You Need Is Love
One of the greatest song done by the Beatles, in my opinion. But I digress.
Today I have a small window of time before tackling the evening shift at work to ooze something more appropriate than the things I have blogged about in the past.
I have felt, as I'm sure many others have, the despairing nature of the world. Something in all of us, at least, has at least noticed the difference in the societal sense--"things aren't what they used to be", "things weren't like that when I was younger", "can you believe people today?" and so forth ad nauseum. What we are seeing, in all of our varying degrees of sights, is a graphic insurgence of hardened hearts. (I have a friend who could term this better, but for now this will do.) Without analyzing the crap out of is, which I have been known to do, the better question is, "why?" Why do we have to live in a world that is like this?
Already people are pointing to the signs of the times, trying to predict the end of the world, or at least the world as we know it. People are hurting each other, souls are broken and wounded. Crimes of mass destruction and of unspeakable nature are occurring in every minute. There is certainly no denying that, where we are in history, we are engaged in the inevitable last stages, though what "stage" is precisely defined is anyone's theory; and I am not a doomsday advocate. Are there no sacred places anymore? Is there no reaching out for another in humanity? What happened to the simple belief that the One greater than us would take care of all of us; and in that love, care for another? Why is it, how is it, that we, as a people chosen by God, can so easily forsake His great love, so easily forget to treat others with love and humility? It is our duty, our obligation, and our call in this test of life to respond to that love by loving one another.
I am profoundly blessed to be surrounded by those who understand this on some kind of basic, intrinsic level, even to say those who aren't aware of it in themselves. But a new hope, even greater than these, has been bestowed on me these last few days. Hope and light of epic proportions. My desire is that all souls be filled with this light, this hope, this promise. My life now belongs to my Lord in a way that it never has and my only mission is to impart that peace and love that I have been given on others and to share it with others. What I am and who I am are a pathetic, measly resemblance of a human being, but if I can use what little I have to inspire others, especially so in my humiliation, then my existence has been for good. And in a world that is hurting for love, this is all I could ever ask for. To be a servant of Him who called me.
Today I have a small window of time before tackling the evening shift at work to ooze something more appropriate than the things I have blogged about in the past.
I have felt, as I'm sure many others have, the despairing nature of the world. Something in all of us, at least, has at least noticed the difference in the societal sense--"things aren't what they used to be", "things weren't like that when I was younger", "can you believe people today?" and so forth ad nauseum. What we are seeing, in all of our varying degrees of sights, is a graphic insurgence of hardened hearts. (I have a friend who could term this better, but for now this will do.) Without analyzing the crap out of is, which I have been known to do, the better question is, "why?" Why do we have to live in a world that is like this?
Already people are pointing to the signs of the times, trying to predict the end of the world, or at least the world as we know it. People are hurting each other, souls are broken and wounded. Crimes of mass destruction and of unspeakable nature are occurring in every minute. There is certainly no denying that, where we are in history, we are engaged in the inevitable last stages, though what "stage" is precisely defined is anyone's theory; and I am not a doomsday advocate. Are there no sacred places anymore? Is there no reaching out for another in humanity? What happened to the simple belief that the One greater than us would take care of all of us; and in that love, care for another? Why is it, how is it, that we, as a people chosen by God, can so easily forsake His great love, so easily forget to treat others with love and humility? It is our duty, our obligation, and our call in this test of life to respond to that love by loving one another.
I am profoundly blessed to be surrounded by those who understand this on some kind of basic, intrinsic level, even to say those who aren't aware of it in themselves. But a new hope, even greater than these, has been bestowed on me these last few days. Hope and light of epic proportions. My desire is that all souls be filled with this light, this hope, this promise. My life now belongs to my Lord in a way that it never has and my only mission is to impart that peace and love that I have been given on others and to share it with others. What I am and who I am are a pathetic, measly resemblance of a human being, but if I can use what little I have to inspire others, especially so in my humiliation, then my existence has been for good. And in a world that is hurting for love, this is all I could ever ask for. To be a servant of Him who called me.
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