The Pit

Psalm 88:4
I am counted among those who go down to the Pit; I have become like one who has no strength

This week I attended a perinatal bereavement conference. I was asked by someone at my job if I wanted to attend. I routinely deal with women and families dealing with losses, and I felt it would help me in my job. I like education which helps me be a better nurse. As I sat in this conference, and started hearing stories, I started dredging up my own experiences with pregnancy and loss. I lost my first pregnancy early. It was a very welcome and long desired baby. I had just enough time to tell everyone I knew that we were going to be parents, and start adjusting to our new life. When the bleeding started, a hole opened up that I didn't know existed.
"It was a woman's trial. Something no man could fully understand. After moons of speaking to the child, feeling it move inside you, seeing it grow up in your dreams, a powerful love, like no other developed. The shock of loosing that child, of suddenly realizing you would never look into its living eyes- it stunned the soul." p. 126 of People of the Silence by Gear and Gear.

One of the last speakers used the image of open-pit mines to show us what this grief felt like to people. He used it to explain why most people back away from this grief. It is like standing at the edge of one of these mines, disoriented and afraid. People usually back away from it and say things to soothe their own great anxiety. As he was saying these things, so much of my experiences made complete sense.

After my miscarriage, people either avoided me, and said stupid things like "It was meant to be", "At least you can have more children" and many other things. Their words were meant to be comforting and helpful, but they weren't. They meant for these words to fill in a hole, but this hole was bigger than a city. Afraid of this hole, they move away from it.

Of course, there were others. A co-worker of my husband sent us flowers. Some people sent us cards. I think the nicest thing anyone did for me was a simple hug. I was at work, avoiding people, looking at a bulletin board. He walked up beside me, put his arm around me and simply said. "I've been thinking of you."

Although my pit has been a large sorrowful part of my life. I can certainly say, now, that I wouldn't trade it for anything. I have been blessed to see my own experience of this hole as a connection with other women. I have managed to stand on the brim along side others as they try to make sense of this feeling. I have had several conversations with women as I try to remember that Psalm that talks about the Pit. I tell them to read it, knowing that the Psalmist tried his best to articulate what that sort of grief is. I think that my experience gives me the gift of being fully present, as others have been present for me. It is truly a privilege to spend this sort of time with others. I feel sorrow for those who spend their time backing away. I understand that the depth of pain, can also be matched by joy.

So, this is how my life seems to work. The universe put me in a place to help me. I went to this conference under the pretense of helping others. I, now, see that it was in a very profound way, it was simply to help myself. If there weren't enough coincidences in this conference; I realized, yesterday, that it happened on the anniversary of that loss 16 years ag. I have been given an incredible gift of healing among incredible people. I hope that I can begin, in some way, to repay this gift.



Am I mom enough?

The front page of Time Magazine last week pictures a mother breastfeeding her 3 year old and the title: "Are you Mom enough?"  It has bothered me since it came out, and I have tried to pretend it didn't exist.  Now I realize why it bothers me so much.  It is a question I often ask myself.  A friend called me on mother's day and left me a very nice message, saying something about me being a great mom.  Deep down inside, I cringed.  I wonder if I really am.

My parenting journey began with so many things to prove.  I dove into attachment parenting for many reasons.  I, honestly, think it is a great way to parent.  I had natural births, breastfeed.  I have home schooled, used cloth diapers, co-sleep.  I've tried to do all of those 'radical' things that prove that I have devoted myself to being a mother.  Been there done that.  It never filled that void of wondering if I am enough.  Being a mother is a very, very vulnerable thing.  It is that soft spot on our underbelly that leaves us open to being hurt.  It is the place where we tend to hurt others. 

My primary job is now working with new mothers.  I try very, very hard to give space to that vulnerability.  I once had a new mom who was exasperated and crying saying she didn't realize it would be this hard.  I said "Yes, it is very hard.  It will break you, and it is OK to let it."

It is my dream that mothers find ways to realize that EVERY SINGLE MOTHER is enough.  We are all humans trying our best to do the hardest job on the face of the earth.  It is my dream that we give each other the Grace and Compassion that we all deserve.  I hope that we quit trying to prove things and concentrate on our raising our kids the best way we know how. 

It is my prayer that I will learn all of these lessons for myself.

Compassion, part 1

As it usually turns out, I find a few words in a book that strike a real chord with me. Yesterday was no exception.
"All wounds are openings to the sacred," the great holy man, Dune the Derelict, once taught me. "You must crawl inside those chasms. Go alone, on your hands and knees, and sit in that terrible darkness. If you sit long enough, you will discover that the worst pain is the breath of compassion." p. 29. People of the Silence by Kathleen O'Neal Gear and W. Micheal Gear.

It was a paperback I picked up at the used book store so that I could read while in the pool. It is about the Anasazi of the Midwest, and I find it fascinating.

So, as I have written this blog, I have shared some of my wounds. Several of those wounds happening within a church. Last year, my family started visiting a local Methodist church when my oldest daughter was invited to sing with a Praise Team. I had a very difficult adjustment to make from a 'high church' mentality to a contemporary service complete with power point and recorded music. One night at the youth 'jam', I started wandering the halls and found a bible study. I was made welcome, so I decided to stay. As we started a section about the place of church in people's lives, I started sobbing. I told these new friends of my hurts from church and declared I would never join another church. Not only did they not judge me, one of them even shared his own similar story. Later that night, I would skype with my Spiritual Director. I had time to become embarrassed about my meltdown, yet she praised me. She told me that was how I needed to start the healing process.

About 6 months later, my family decided to become official members of this small country congregation. I relented on my refusal to join another church and went up on stage to join in being welcomed into a new community. Several people from that bible study class followed us onto that stage and supported us. I then cried tears of joy, understanding how lucky I am to have been able to sit long enough in that chasm.

Last night, the pastor came up to me and asked me how I was doing with this Transition. It took me several minutes to be able to speak, because my emotions are still very deep. I told him about my mom's cousin telling a group about our family tradition of starting off Episcopalian and ending up Methodist. My grandmother was 92 when she changed churches. I then managed to thank him for asking and that this church had been very good to us. He said it works both ways, we had been good to them. We agreed that it is best when it does work both ways.

That is what compassion means: to suffer with. It means that we are all suffering, and we all need love to flow between us. I understand on a very deep level the pain of the breath of compassion. It is hard to breath it in, finally; knowing that it should have been there all along. Yet, when you do breath it in, you can live.

As I write this, I hear the voices of several teenagers at my house. They are on that Praise Team at church and they sound like angels.