I love singing along with Alanis Morissette when I get distressed about something. She always seems to have one of those songs I can sing at the top of my lungs with. Of course, I only sing out loud in my car. I struggle with singing out loud with people. When I went to a recent retreat, I almost had a complete meltdown because it was a small group I was expected to chant with. I really needed affirmation from someone before I would allow my voice to be heard. I was so afraid of offending some one's ears, or being mocked. It sounds a big childish, but it is my experience. It is also my experience that when I use my voice to express dissent, people turn away from me. In the past, I would rather be voiceless than to loose friends.
As with any childhood issue, things creep up all the time. Sometimes, those issues combine into one event. Having been raised in an Evangelical Church, I have struggled with ministers interjecting themselves into my relationship with God. There seems to be an entitlement with this exact issue, especially in the South. I was at the ball field one day when another mother walked up to me and commented on the cross I was wearing. She went on to start lecturing me about something to do with professing things by word. I was standing there in shock, shaking and wondering what I should do. I started going back at her and arguing. I even managed to quote some scripture, and I watched as her husband came up and had to pull her away.
So finding my voice with people who choose to place themselves in between me and God is hard for me. It is even harder to reconcile it when I realize that someone seems to read this blog simply looking for a vulnerable spot to hook me with. I write things and share them as part of a conversation, not a place to be told what I am, or what I need to do.
So, swallowing my fear of being heard out loud, and combining that with my fear of causing conflict, I get to make a conscious choice. Quite frankly, I don't think it is fair that I have to do it. I make sincere efforts not to interject my beliefs into someone else's relationship with God, and I expect the same sort of respect from others. I welcome any dialogue and real conversation. But, I do not welcome someone coming up to me to tell me that I am a 'tortured Catholic'. This simply isn't true and it is an unwelcome intrusion. So the time has come for me to use my voice. Since real conversation isn't possible, I'll just post it here and hope that it is heard.
"Back off"
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Saturday, June 8, 2013
A green lawn
I do most important things on the spur of the moment. It seems that if I think too much, I tend to hold back from doing things that are important. This morning I told my daughter I wanted to go with her to a Baptism at the lake for 2 friends of hers. She said I had 5 minutes to get ready, so I hurried.
I justified my decision to go by wanting to give my 4 year old the experience of witnessing a Baptism by full immersion. This is something that is rare in the Liturgical Churches we have brought our kids up in. In those communities, Baptism's tend to be very structured and polished. For 3 of our children was used antique Christening gowns with jewelry. We all dressed up in our finest and were expected to behave perfectly. My youngest was Baptized in a hand made gown by someone who has forgotten we exist and this has left me very, very sad.
So this morning when we arrived at a friend's back yard on the lake, my 4 year old took off running across it. She played tag with one of her friends and started giggling. This caused me to flash back to another event in my life that caused me to see important things from a different perspective. The first funeral I remember going to had been a very, very solemn occasion. I remember wanting to play with my cousins, but I was instructed that I was not allowed to have any fun 'out of respect'. I was taught that feeling sad and miserable was what the family wanted, so I did. A couple of years later, I would attend a funeral with a very different family. I distinctly remember my cousins taking off across my grandmother's green lawn to play tag. I immediately felt guilty, having been taught that play and laughter at a funeral was taboo. So, when I approached my grandmother, she wanted me to see it differently. She said, "Of course you can play." I was invited to enjoy myself and celebrate the life of the one who had left us. This was not a time to be miserable, it was a time to rejoice. In fact, my grandmother asked me to make sure the kids played tag at her funeral. The day of her funeral was beautiful, and we rejoiced.
I'm trying to find that place in my life where I leave behind these instructions to be sad a miserable. I'm not sure how to do this, as this seems to betray something. I'm not sure what, and I'm not sure why I write this for the world to read. I've found myself in a conversation with the church again, and this leaves me feeling vulnerable or woundable. I don't like this feeling, and I am sure I can think my way out of it. I hope that I'll find the courage to keep trusting and walking and doing things on the spur of the moment. Watching and remembering running across a green lawn seems like a pretty good step. Pray for me that I continue.
I justified my decision to go by wanting to give my 4 year old the experience of witnessing a Baptism by full immersion. This is something that is rare in the Liturgical Churches we have brought our kids up in. In those communities, Baptism's tend to be very structured and polished. For 3 of our children was used antique Christening gowns with jewelry. We all dressed up in our finest and were expected to behave perfectly. My youngest was Baptized in a hand made gown by someone who has forgotten we exist and this has left me very, very sad.
So this morning when we arrived at a friend's back yard on the lake, my 4 year old took off running across it. She played tag with one of her friends and started giggling. This caused me to flash back to another event in my life that caused me to see important things from a different perspective. The first funeral I remember going to had been a very, very solemn occasion. I remember wanting to play with my cousins, but I was instructed that I was not allowed to have any fun 'out of respect'. I was taught that feeling sad and miserable was what the family wanted, so I did. A couple of years later, I would attend a funeral with a very different family. I distinctly remember my cousins taking off across my grandmother's green lawn to play tag. I immediately felt guilty, having been taught that play and laughter at a funeral was taboo. So, when I approached my grandmother, she wanted me to see it differently. She said, "Of course you can play." I was invited to enjoy myself and celebrate the life of the one who had left us. This was not a time to be miserable, it was a time to rejoice. In fact, my grandmother asked me to make sure the kids played tag at her funeral. The day of her funeral was beautiful, and we rejoiced.
I'm trying to find that place in my life where I leave behind these instructions to be sad a miserable. I'm not sure how to do this, as this seems to betray something. I'm not sure what, and I'm not sure why I write this for the world to read. I've found myself in a conversation with the church again, and this leaves me feeling vulnerable or woundable. I don't like this feeling, and I am sure I can think my way out of it. I hope that I'll find the courage to keep trusting and walking and doing things on the spur of the moment. Watching and remembering running across a green lawn seems like a pretty good step. Pray for me that I continue.
Friday, June 7, 2013
Party!
Somehow, I think we end up searching for great things. We look for the big, huge parties with days of preparation. We want the wedding that is perfect and took an entire year to plan. We plan for Baptisms, Confirmations, Ordinations, all the rites of growing up. In many ways, these are important rites and should be recognized. Yet, sometimes, I think we do it at the expense of spontaneity and friendship.
Over the past 16 years of being a parent, I have gotten better at parties. I've tried to pay attention to what is important, and what is not. I've finally learned that most kids are very low maintenance. They really just want to feel comfortable and relax with friends. I've even turned the planning over to my teen, and developed the art of hanging back.
Today, my house filled up with teenagers. I get to enjoy listening to the giggling, joking and all around fun atmosphere. Forty bucks worth of pizza is all it took to take care of this end of the school year party. I've come a long way from the high levels of anxiety I had in years past. It seems the more I fretted and planned, the less people came. Now that I just leave everything up to chance, the house fills up. There is something about just breathing into the rhythms of life and opening up yourself to what is. I'm glad I've found this part out, it sure makes life easier.
My favorite part of today is that all of the kids here are welcome. I've got my three younger kids, and they just blended right in with the teenagers who had to step over barbie dolls to get to the TV. There is no one fighting for control or attention. Its just a sweet gathering of kids who decided to swim in the pool even though it is raining.
My favorite part of today is that all of the kids here are welcome. I've got my three younger kids, and they just blended right in with the teenagers who had to step over barbie dolls to get to the TV. There is no one fighting for control or attention. Its just a sweet gathering of kids who decided to swim in the pool even though it is raining.
Monday, June 3, 2013
Grief
One of my first big steps into self-reflection was a Retreat at my favorite Convent. It was on my 35th birthday, and I didn't even care what it was about. I was telling my therapist about this so-called "Shadow" retreat, and she told me something. "I think part of your Shadow is Grief."
I remember being very upset about her idea. Of course, I was paying her a great deal of money to give me an expert opinion on things, but that didn't matter. I just wanted to get away for a weekend. Of course, I walked into something far different. What I found was a gift. It was a gift of understanding a large part of my unconscious. It was those things that I kept out of my conscious life because I didn't want to deal with them. The lesson that I got that weekend was simple: just because we don't consciously think about something, doesn't mean that it doesn't affect us or those around us.
I remember being in my teens when my grandmother and her sisters started telling a story about "Little Alexander". I remember my mother's shock when she realized I had never heard the story. It is a mournful story, and I should probably tell it, but I'll wait until another time. The story was about my grandmother's littlest sibling being killed in a car accident. 'Little Alexander' was named for his father and a much loved baby of the family. His death was one that caused great grief and remorse for my family. As I understand it, his mother was never allowed to say his name after the funeral. The family struggled greatly in their grief. Instead of talking and mourning, they pushed it to an unconscious part of themselves. They pushed it away.
I think we all do this. When something is too hard to bear, we distance ourselves from it. I remember pushing away my grief at a young age. I was expected to comfort my parents in their grief, and that left little room for me to explore my own. In many ways, I think my parents were carrying their own parent's grief. It makes me wonder who carried the grief of my great-grandmother. She was a woman who wasn't allowed to grieve the death of her child. Did she have to push it onto her children? Did it get caught in the unconscious of our family? Is this where I came upon my own Shadow of Grief?
Grief is a slippery thing. It is something that we cannot really hold in one place. Sometimes, we grieve for a tangible loss. Sometimes, we grieve for what could have been. For me, at least, grieving touches many things in my life. It slips around, and isn't well contained.
Last week, I was faced with grieving a friend's death. I decided to attempt to face my grief with courage and compassion upon myself. I had forgotten how difficult this is, and it had brought me to my knees. I am blessed with a family who has been understanding and friends who have prayed with me. I feel my strength returning, maybe even growing.
Since my shadow workshop, I have managed to avoid pushing things away. I've learned not to be afraid of things. I don't need to push them away. Facing our fears, our remorse, our grief is important. It helps us to keep from pushing things away. It can also keep us from pushing it onto others. When a mother looses a child, someone has to do the work of grieving. Someone, anyone....
I remember being very upset about her idea. Of course, I was paying her a great deal of money to give me an expert opinion on things, but that didn't matter. I just wanted to get away for a weekend. Of course, I walked into something far different. What I found was a gift. It was a gift of understanding a large part of my unconscious. It was those things that I kept out of my conscious life because I didn't want to deal with them. The lesson that I got that weekend was simple: just because we don't consciously think about something, doesn't mean that it doesn't affect us or those around us.
I remember being in my teens when my grandmother and her sisters started telling a story about "Little Alexander". I remember my mother's shock when she realized I had never heard the story. It is a mournful story, and I should probably tell it, but I'll wait until another time. The story was about my grandmother's littlest sibling being killed in a car accident. 'Little Alexander' was named for his father and a much loved baby of the family. His death was one that caused great grief and remorse for my family. As I understand it, his mother was never allowed to say his name after the funeral. The family struggled greatly in their grief. Instead of talking and mourning, they pushed it to an unconscious part of themselves. They pushed it away.
I think we all do this. When something is too hard to bear, we distance ourselves from it. I remember pushing away my grief at a young age. I was expected to comfort my parents in their grief, and that left little room for me to explore my own. In many ways, I think my parents were carrying their own parent's grief. It makes me wonder who carried the grief of my great-grandmother. She was a woman who wasn't allowed to grieve the death of her child. Did she have to push it onto her children? Did it get caught in the unconscious of our family? Is this where I came upon my own Shadow of Grief?
Grief is a slippery thing. It is something that we cannot really hold in one place. Sometimes, we grieve for a tangible loss. Sometimes, we grieve for what could have been. For me, at least, grieving touches many things in my life. It slips around, and isn't well contained.
Last week, I was faced with grieving a friend's death. I decided to attempt to face my grief with courage and compassion upon myself. I had forgotten how difficult this is, and it had brought me to my knees. I am blessed with a family who has been understanding and friends who have prayed with me. I feel my strength returning, maybe even growing.
Since my shadow workshop, I have managed to avoid pushing things away. I've learned not to be afraid of things. I don't need to push them away. Facing our fears, our remorse, our grief is important. It helps us to keep from pushing things away. It can also keep us from pushing it onto others. When a mother looses a child, someone has to do the work of grieving. Someone, anyone....
A chance encounter
When I was in High School, my mom received a phone call early in the morning. Instantly, I knew something was wrong. My cousin had committed suicide. The news shocked our family, yet I headed off to school. I ended up breaking down in my German class, just before an my early dismissal. A friend walked me out to my car. My mother and I were going to head to the house to speak with the family.
I am fuzzy on the details of that day, it was a bit overwhelming to my teenage self. After hearing some of the details, I began to worry about walking into the house. I was not sure what it would look like after knowing that a death had occurred so recently. Upon entering the front room, I realize that it had been cleaned completely. It showed loving attention to leaving no mark of death. I have a distinct memory of looking at the wall and saying a prayer. "Thank you so much for the people who came and helped. Oh God, thank you for sending them." I realized that they had performed a very necessary and difficult task. It was an act of sacrifice and love.
I had not thought much about that day. In fact, it was a time I had tried to forget. So much grief, so much loss. One day, beside my pool, I was sitting with my daughter's former Youth Minister. As we got to talking, I realized that he had known my cousin. In fact, he had been his Youth Minister. We lamented together and talked. We both struggled to understand such a loss. We both missed him.
Almost embarrassed, he confessed to me that he had been the one to come to the house that night. He had cleaned the front room. My jaw dropped and my body began to shake. I teared up and started thanking him. I even told him about the prayer I had said that day.
It is so rare that we are given this sort of gift. A chance prayer and a chance encounter showing the web of connectedness we all share. I also realized a very, very important lesson. Sometimes, it is years later that our contributions are acknowledged. I need to just lower my head and do the best I can do. Someone probably notices me, or the work I have done. Maybe they didn't. I know that showing up and doing things for people is what life is all about. Sometimes, even 20 years later, you might be given the gift of knowing someone prayed for you. You might be even luckier. You may have the chance to meet the person you prayed for.
I am fuzzy on the details of that day, it was a bit overwhelming to my teenage self. After hearing some of the details, I began to worry about walking into the house. I was not sure what it would look like after knowing that a death had occurred so recently. Upon entering the front room, I realize that it had been cleaned completely. It showed loving attention to leaving no mark of death. I have a distinct memory of looking at the wall and saying a prayer. "Thank you so much for the people who came and helped. Oh God, thank you for sending them." I realized that they had performed a very necessary and difficult task. It was an act of sacrifice and love.
I had not thought much about that day. In fact, it was a time I had tried to forget. So much grief, so much loss. One day, beside my pool, I was sitting with my daughter's former Youth Minister. As we got to talking, I realized that he had known my cousin. In fact, he had been his Youth Minister. We lamented together and talked. We both struggled to understand such a loss. We both missed him.
Almost embarrassed, he confessed to me that he had been the one to come to the house that night. He had cleaned the front room. My jaw dropped and my body began to shake. I teared up and started thanking him. I even told him about the prayer I had said that day.
It is so rare that we are given this sort of gift. A chance prayer and a chance encounter showing the web of connectedness we all share. I also realized a very, very important lesson. Sometimes, it is years later that our contributions are acknowledged. I need to just lower my head and do the best I can do. Someone probably notices me, or the work I have done. Maybe they didn't. I know that showing up and doing things for people is what life is all about. Sometimes, even 20 years later, you might be given the gift of knowing someone prayed for you. You might be even luckier. You may have the chance to meet the person you prayed for.
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