"Mama, will you stay with me for ever and not die?"
"I will be with you, I hope, for as long as you want me to."
"Good, because when I'm ninety years old, I think I will still be kind of shy."
Calendar and Current Events
13 years ago
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Unconditional Love
Last week, I learned something deep the hard way. I don't think there was any other path to learning this for me, and here, I have to smile, because I wonder how many other times in my life I could say that. :)
Tuesday, Trinidad and I had a conflict in the morning. I did not feel at all well to begin with, and perhaps Trinidad was coming down with the cold, too. Not sure. I refrain from sharing details of the conflict as they are not part of the point I'd most like to make, but the end had me sobbing and telling him that I took responsibility for my feelings and needs and did not blame him. It was mighty difficult for me to get to this point in this particular challenge, and I said it loudly through tears to convince myself as much as him. With his usual aplomb, Trinidad told me he could not understand me just yet -- could I come back when I wasn't crying so hard?
When we fully reconnected, there was much sweetness in our snuggle. But it wasn't over yet. At midday, Trinidad refused to leave a friend's house. Fresh in my mind sat the process I'd worked through just hours ago. I reached past my trigger into my heart and found the space to hold his disappointment and grief at the separation happening as his friend left. We sat together again for awhile.
An hour or two later, Trinidad grew angry (with his brother? with the world? I don't remember....) and I again easily found the key to open my heart as the softness threatened to withdraw. I invited him to a snuggle. We talked later about a plan in case of one of these challenges coming up again when his last playdate of the afternoon happened. We agreed to both wear "Pause" buttons (figuratively), to match his Tamagotchi.
At the end of that playdate, a three-year-old informed me that Trinidad was on the roof. I demanded he come down and he demanded that he would stay up. I called "Pause." We both stopped moving and a shift in our energy and approach could be measured. Trinidad started telling me about his experience. I requested he get down to tell me more, and he declined. I heard him some, but was still challenged by my concern for the two other children wanting to join him, perched at the top of the fig tree. They climbed down. Trinidad agreed to come down if I got the ladder.
I fetched the ladder and my son. As a child, when in trouble, I would go and sit alone on the curbside and study the concrete garden of dandelion and plantain. As Trinidad joined me on the driveway, I found myself turning to the street, walking with him hand in hand to sit at the curbside. As he leaned against me, we both gave each other empathy and really listened to the needs unmet. We found strategies that worked for both of us to meet those needs in future.
But most importantly, we ended the day connected. I can't imagine what our relationship might have been like if I had used force, threats, and punishment at each of the junctures that challenged us. I cannot see my life in that at all. As I lay beside him at bedtime for awhile, Trinidad held me close and told me over and over how much he loved me. I asked him if he felt all the more tender for the challenges we'd worked out together.
"Yes!" he said. "And Maddy and I worked out MORE things when you were gone tonight!" Trinidad glowed. The deep feeling of unconditional love struck me. The opening of my heart over and over, a fierce determination to keep those gates open to love -- the feeling settled deeper in me than I have ever known it. How could I know this territory without constant challenge and opportunity? Without a shared commitment to caring for one another? Without working and working and working it out?
And here's the bonus gift: Sam, too, took in the depth of this love, this hope for acceptance and deep peace even in challenge. He hugged me often throughout the day and observed aloud but out of Trinidad's hearing that he noticed his brother's triggers and was seeking to stay out of the way. He appeared to be unafraid of both Trinidad and me (beyond my early morning explosion into sobbing), but breathed deeply with what I guess was relief to see his brother held with such care even in conflict and distress. Witnessing his blossoming in this way is a gift I am so very grateful to receive.
Did I mention... that I was dead tired at the end of the day?
Tuesday, Trinidad and I had a conflict in the morning. I did not feel at all well to begin with, and perhaps Trinidad was coming down with the cold, too. Not sure. I refrain from sharing details of the conflict as they are not part of the point I'd most like to make, but the end had me sobbing and telling him that I took responsibility for my feelings and needs and did not blame him. It was mighty difficult for me to get to this point in this particular challenge, and I said it loudly through tears to convince myself as much as him. With his usual aplomb, Trinidad told me he could not understand me just yet -- could I come back when I wasn't crying so hard?
When we fully reconnected, there was much sweetness in our snuggle. But it wasn't over yet. At midday, Trinidad refused to leave a friend's house. Fresh in my mind sat the process I'd worked through just hours ago. I reached past my trigger into my heart and found the space to hold his disappointment and grief at the separation happening as his friend left. We sat together again for awhile.
An hour or two later, Trinidad grew angry (with his brother? with the world? I don't remember....) and I again easily found the key to open my heart as the softness threatened to withdraw. I invited him to a snuggle. We talked later about a plan in case of one of these challenges coming up again when his last playdate of the afternoon happened. We agreed to both wear "Pause" buttons (figuratively), to match his Tamagotchi.
At the end of that playdate, a three-year-old informed me that Trinidad was on the roof. I demanded he come down and he demanded that he would stay up. I called "Pause." We both stopped moving and a shift in our energy and approach could be measured. Trinidad started telling me about his experience. I requested he get down to tell me more, and he declined. I heard him some, but was still challenged by my concern for the two other children wanting to join him, perched at the top of the fig tree. They climbed down. Trinidad agreed to come down if I got the ladder.
I fetched the ladder and my son. As a child, when in trouble, I would go and sit alone on the curbside and study the concrete garden of dandelion and plantain. As Trinidad joined me on the driveway, I found myself turning to the street, walking with him hand in hand to sit at the curbside. As he leaned against me, we both gave each other empathy and really listened to the needs unmet. We found strategies that worked for both of us to meet those needs in future.
But most importantly, we ended the day connected. I can't imagine what our relationship might have been like if I had used force, threats, and punishment at each of the junctures that challenged us. I cannot see my life in that at all. As I lay beside him at bedtime for awhile, Trinidad held me close and told me over and over how much he loved me. I asked him if he felt all the more tender for the challenges we'd worked out together.
"Yes!" he said. "And Maddy and I worked out MORE things when you were gone tonight!" Trinidad glowed. The deep feeling of unconditional love struck me. The opening of my heart over and over, a fierce determination to keep those gates open to love -- the feeling settled deeper in me than I have ever known it. How could I know this territory without constant challenge and opportunity? Without a shared commitment to caring for one another? Without working and working and working it out?
And here's the bonus gift: Sam, too, took in the depth of this love, this hope for acceptance and deep peace even in challenge. He hugged me often throughout the day and observed aloud but out of Trinidad's hearing that he noticed his brother's triggers and was seeking to stay out of the way. He appeared to be unafraid of both Trinidad and me (beyond my early morning explosion into sobbing), but breathed deeply with what I guess was relief to see his brother held with such care even in conflict and distress. Witnessing his blossoming in this way is a gift I am so very grateful to receive.
Did I mention... that I was dead tired at the end of the day?
Monday, September 22, 2008
The New Tamagotchi
It's an electronic pet, complete with video games by which one can win points to buy "stuff" which will keep one's pet happy. It is suddenly essential to social life on our block. Trinidad was so excited for M-- to get home from school today, "so their Tamagotchis could connect."
Throughout the night, the *#! thing bleeped randomly every hour or two. When I reported this to its father, Trinidad said, "Yeah. When I got up, I discovered it had a toothache and pooped a whole lot." I nodded. (He asked if he should teach me to fix its tooth ache and clean up after it in case it happens again, and what -- oh what?! -- do you think I said?)
"How do you like parenting?" I asked.
"It's fun," he said. "But he doesn't always want to do what I want to do."
An authentic electronic experience.
Throughout the night, the *#! thing bleeped randomly every hour or two. When I reported this to its father, Trinidad said, "Yeah. When I got up, I discovered it had a toothache and pooped a whole lot." I nodded. (He asked if he should teach me to fix its tooth ache and clean up after it in case it happens again, and what -- oh what?! -- do you think I said?)
"How do you like parenting?" I asked.
"It's fun," he said. "But he doesn't always want to do what I want to do."
An authentic electronic experience.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
One Fish, Two Fish
"Sam. Take off your shoe, and I'll put them in there to carry home."
"No, Trinidad. I have sandals," said Sam.
"They don't hold water. Nor mine," I said. Trinidad's shoulders sank as he stared into the creek.
"It's time to go," I said.
"Wait! I've almost got one," said Trinidad, nose inches above the water once again.
"Can you finish in about two minutes?" I asked.
"Yeah. Sure. I've almost got one," he said. Hmm, I thought.
"Okay! Here it is! I caught three, and they're all big. I think they can make it in my net until we get home," said Trinidad, fiercely determined.
"They will be out of the water the whole way? You're carrying them in your net?"
"Yeah! I just have to bring these for M--. He's going to put them in his bubble tank and they'll do great there. He's been trying to catch one, and now I have two! They're going to live, Mom. I'll run the whole way. It will only be a minute. They will be okay!" His blue eyes bore into mine.
I am: worried for their life, their comfort, wanting to contribute to gentleness in the world, wanting to live responsibly, wanting to support the development of compassion in my son, all -- all my need to contribute to the All as Me.
And yet. I am: not my son.
His arms swing nervously, staccato, at his sides. The net rests in the water, long handle in one hand. His feet, ankle deep in the muddy scum of Amazon Creek, are not my feet. His heart, beating a tattoo in his small but growing chest, is not my own. His mind, searching for meaning, understanding, connection in this plane, asks again -- and loudly -- if I can find it in me to let him be, to learn what he would most like to learn, to gather the consequences like autumn leaves about his youth to send his growing skyward.
My feet on the barkomulch path take stock of mySelf. I will watch him, I thought. I will hold this space for whatever may come. "Run," I said.
I turned and walked as I heard him clamber up the steep bank behind me, feet slipping and catching purchase again and again on the dry grass. Sam could not bring himself to leave his older brother and held the space between us, an anchor to us both with every nervous stride.
I gathered my courage to let be, and I walked. I did not look back. This is my gift, I thought. Let Sam bear witness. In that moment, I trusted my feet.
Trinidad tore past me at a run, Sam close behind. My steady pace quickened, and finally, I, too, broke into a run past neighbors who saw one, two, three on a mission for life, for learning.
As I stepped up to the porch, Trinidad rounded the corner, beaming. "They survived!" he said.
"They are in water now?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "My drinking glass. It was the closest I could find." I nodded.
And so we shared a parting, a reckoning, an opening. May the chasm between us hold all the love in this world.
"No, Trinidad. I have sandals," said Sam.
"They don't hold water. Nor mine," I said. Trinidad's shoulders sank as he stared into the creek.
"It's time to go," I said.
"Wait! I've almost got one," said Trinidad, nose inches above the water once again.
"Can you finish in about two minutes?" I asked.
"Yeah. Sure. I've almost got one," he said. Hmm, I thought.
"Okay! Here it is! I caught three, and they're all big. I think they can make it in my net until we get home," said Trinidad, fiercely determined.
"They will be out of the water the whole way? You're carrying them in your net?"
"Yeah! I just have to bring these for M--. He's going to put them in his bubble tank and they'll do great there. He's been trying to catch one, and now I have two! They're going to live, Mom. I'll run the whole way. It will only be a minute. They will be okay!" His blue eyes bore into mine.
I am: worried for their life, their comfort, wanting to contribute to gentleness in the world, wanting to live responsibly, wanting to support the development of compassion in my son, all -- all my need to contribute to the All as Me.
And yet. I am: not my son.
His arms swing nervously, staccato, at his sides. The net rests in the water, long handle in one hand. His feet, ankle deep in the muddy scum of Amazon Creek, are not my feet. His heart, beating a tattoo in his small but growing chest, is not my own. His mind, searching for meaning, understanding, connection in this plane, asks again -- and loudly -- if I can find it in me to let him be, to learn what he would most like to learn, to gather the consequences like autumn leaves about his youth to send his growing skyward.
My feet on the barkomulch path take stock of mySelf. I will watch him, I thought. I will hold this space for whatever may come. "Run," I said.
I turned and walked as I heard him clamber up the steep bank behind me, feet slipping and catching purchase again and again on the dry grass. Sam could not bring himself to leave his older brother and held the space between us, an anchor to us both with every nervous stride.
I gathered my courage to let be, and I walked. I did not look back. This is my gift, I thought. Let Sam bear witness. In that moment, I trusted my feet.
Trinidad tore past me at a run, Sam close behind. My steady pace quickened, and finally, I, too, broke into a run past neighbors who saw one, two, three on a mission for life, for learning.
As I stepped up to the porch, Trinidad rounded the corner, beaming. "They survived!" he said.
"They are in water now?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "My drinking glass. It was the closest I could find." I nodded.
And so we shared a parting, a reckoning, an opening. May the chasm between us hold all the love in this world.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Anger
Anger is a visitor welcome to my heart.
Five years ago, I first heard that anger was not an emotion, but a secondary tremor at the surface of my awareness, a thought that touched my feelings deeper than they wished to sound in their natural voices. I cocked my head, curious, and felt for my anger to hold it gently and with value for the message it might bring about what lived deep in me and chose to remain hidden.
Last week, while sharing my understanding of anger as a guide, a new view offered itself to me, and anger's cry found a particularly cherished place in my heart. In that moment, holding a dear one's anger with her, I heard not only a deep resonance from the wells of fear and sadness. In her words, bristling red with life -- yes, life! -- I did not hear a black disconnect from compassion at all, but instead a fiery adherence to some hope that had determined to slip her by.
"Your anger is a gift," I found myself saying. "It is alive in you not only as a gate and guide to the depths of pain whose witness will open your heart. Your anger is also the treasured voice of strength that you most need to face the darkness in yourself and others. Its fire is fueled by your soul's own fight against helplessness. If you had explored the reaches of your sadness, your fear, without the guide of this anger, you might have been overwhelmed by the emotions, pulled into a vortex of depression as you struggled to see your way out.
Anger offers you a rope to take with you into those depths. It tells you fiercely, loudly, tangibly, that you are powerful... for you are. It tells you that the energy arising in you at its arrival is your very own, not ever to be taken from you. And here you are to greet and receive it.
Do not give it away. It is tempting to send your anger at another, to direct its energy outward in thought and judgment. The sheer fire of your power can consume cities. Receive it instead. Accept its offer of power to counter the depth of your helplessness. Bring that assurance with you as you explore your pain. Receive that power from your anger, hold it, and connect it to your love. Then, whatever could be impossible to you?"
I am so very humbled, again, to witness the beauty of our hearts in this world. I am so grateful for the view into fire, not only because it offers to me the life in my own anger, but because it leads me to what lives in the anger of those that I fear.
Ahimsa, I am hot on your trail.
Five years ago, I first heard that anger was not an emotion, but a secondary tremor at the surface of my awareness, a thought that touched my feelings deeper than they wished to sound in their natural voices. I cocked my head, curious, and felt for my anger to hold it gently and with value for the message it might bring about what lived deep in me and chose to remain hidden.
Last week, while sharing my understanding of anger as a guide, a new view offered itself to me, and anger's cry found a particularly cherished place in my heart. In that moment, holding a dear one's anger with her, I heard not only a deep resonance from the wells of fear and sadness. In her words, bristling red with life -- yes, life! -- I did not hear a black disconnect from compassion at all, but instead a fiery adherence to some hope that had determined to slip her by.
"Your anger is a gift," I found myself saying. "It is alive in you not only as a gate and guide to the depths of pain whose witness will open your heart. Your anger is also the treasured voice of strength that you most need to face the darkness in yourself and others. Its fire is fueled by your soul's own fight against helplessness. If you had explored the reaches of your sadness, your fear, without the guide of this anger, you might have been overwhelmed by the emotions, pulled into a vortex of depression as you struggled to see your way out.
Anger offers you a rope to take with you into those depths. It tells you fiercely, loudly, tangibly, that you are powerful... for you are. It tells you that the energy arising in you at its arrival is your very own, not ever to be taken from you. And here you are to greet and receive it.
Do not give it away. It is tempting to send your anger at another, to direct its energy outward in thought and judgment. The sheer fire of your power can consume cities. Receive it instead. Accept its offer of power to counter the depth of your helplessness. Bring that assurance with you as you explore your pain. Receive that power from your anger, hold it, and connect it to your love. Then, whatever could be impossible to you?"
I am so very humbled, again, to witness the beauty of our hearts in this world. I am so grateful for the view into fire, not only because it offers to me the life in my own anger, but because it leads me to what lives in the anger of those that I fear.
Ahimsa, I am hot on your trail.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Drinking Poison As Wine
At sunset on Friday evening, I went sailing with a couple of friends. (Whoa dude... me, out for a joy ride -- what a vacation!) Sitting on the roof of the boat -- apologies, the nautical term escapes me -- I found myself deep in a conversation about consciousness when I heard a clink and a plunk.
"Oh! You lost something from your pocket," my companion told me.
"Yeah, I should have warned you about that," said my other friend. "Objects in pockets are not safe on a boat."
I thought a moment about what it could have been. My eyes widened. "I lost a stone," I said. "I lost a carnelian stone that is very special to me." The wind seemed to pause as I held my own response to this event: surprise, curiosity, and a small bit of mourning.
The sadness I felt touched the bittersweet goodbye of truly letting go and celebrating the connection I had enjoyed with that stone. I found it two years ago, polished as if for a setting but comfortably naked of metal wrappings in a bag of jewelry gifted to Seda. Its surface warmed quickly, golden red with a small dark occlusion offcenter. I have been carrying it with me off and on over the past year in my pocket as some comfort and support in touching what is sweet and earthly.
I sat a moment looking off across the lake in wonder. I did not remember ever releasing something of value to me so easily and joyfully. Yes, there was a joy to the letting go as I trusted that the sliding of that stone from my pocket into the depths below carried some meaning in the moment or thereafter, and while I did not delve deeply into what that might be, I settled myself with the very gift of that presence to possibility. I did not search my pockets.
The evening's beauty only grew my state of awe, and as the sun's last rays topped a nearby hillside, I reached into my pocket to discover the stone tucked safely against my thigh. Surprised again, I pulled it out to share with my friends who took in the last golden light of the evening through its dark amber lens. The man who owned the boat gave it back only reluctantly. "It gets warmer and warmer the more I hold it," he said.
Where that stone went or did not go is beyond my understanding. "I know I saw something slip out of your pocket, bounce off the edge there, and fall into the water," both friends said. I, myself, had heard the sounds. But I do not remember anything else that could have been in my pocket.
I met the surprise of two other "misfortunes" with the same curious openness since, and I realize I am experiencing a sense of detachment that I have not previously known. Yes, it was me who chose to leave the garlic hanging outside and now, after so many summer rains, it is beginning to rot. The pain has registered since, but my initial awareness did not include any self-blame or even worry for the consequence. Likewise, I noticed only surprise as I rounded the corner this morning to see the freshly stained deck turning pale in the morning dew where it did not, apparently, get time enough to dry before the evening's cool set in.
There is time to cuss and make faces as I work with the repercussions of these events, yes, but the deep seed of fear that had accompanied such discoveries in the past did not taken root in my psyche as I first witnessed them. I am working with what is in the moment, accepting my present annoyance, but fully trusting in the Universe to hold me as my path thus shifts towards what I will next step into.
Almost two years ago, I resolved at the New Year to learn to take in unexpected disaster as if it were a friend with hardly a beat between. Someone dear to me pointed to an Indian god who "drank poison as if it were wine." Yes, I told him, that's what I would like to do.
I had no idea what the training for that particular goal might look like, and if I had, perhaps I would have thought twice. Nonetheless, the events of the weekend suggest I am well on my way to journeyman in the field of winemaking, and I am counting my blessings in all of their sundry forms, unexpected though they may be.
A toast?
"Oh! You lost something from your pocket," my companion told me.
"Yeah, I should have warned you about that," said my other friend. "Objects in pockets are not safe on a boat."
I thought a moment about what it could have been. My eyes widened. "I lost a stone," I said. "I lost a carnelian stone that is very special to me." The wind seemed to pause as I held my own response to this event: surprise, curiosity, and a small bit of mourning.
The sadness I felt touched the bittersweet goodbye of truly letting go and celebrating the connection I had enjoyed with that stone. I found it two years ago, polished as if for a setting but comfortably naked of metal wrappings in a bag of jewelry gifted to Seda. Its surface warmed quickly, golden red with a small dark occlusion offcenter. I have been carrying it with me off and on over the past year in my pocket as some comfort and support in touching what is sweet and earthly.
I sat a moment looking off across the lake in wonder. I did not remember ever releasing something of value to me so easily and joyfully. Yes, there was a joy to the letting go as I trusted that the sliding of that stone from my pocket into the depths below carried some meaning in the moment or thereafter, and while I did not delve deeply into what that might be, I settled myself with the very gift of that presence to possibility. I did not search my pockets.
The evening's beauty only grew my state of awe, and as the sun's last rays topped a nearby hillside, I reached into my pocket to discover the stone tucked safely against my thigh. Surprised again, I pulled it out to share with my friends who took in the last golden light of the evening through its dark amber lens. The man who owned the boat gave it back only reluctantly. "It gets warmer and warmer the more I hold it," he said.
Where that stone went or did not go is beyond my understanding. "I know I saw something slip out of your pocket, bounce off the edge there, and fall into the water," both friends said. I, myself, had heard the sounds. But I do not remember anything else that could have been in my pocket.
I met the surprise of two other "misfortunes" with the same curious openness since, and I realize I am experiencing a sense of detachment that I have not previously known. Yes, it was me who chose to leave the garlic hanging outside and now, after so many summer rains, it is beginning to rot. The pain has registered since, but my initial awareness did not include any self-blame or even worry for the consequence. Likewise, I noticed only surprise as I rounded the corner this morning to see the freshly stained deck turning pale in the morning dew where it did not, apparently, get time enough to dry before the evening's cool set in.
There is time to cuss and make faces as I work with the repercussions of these events, yes, but the deep seed of fear that had accompanied such discoveries in the past did not taken root in my psyche as I first witnessed them. I am working with what is in the moment, accepting my present annoyance, but fully trusting in the Universe to hold me as my path thus shifts towards what I will next step into.
Almost two years ago, I resolved at the New Year to learn to take in unexpected disaster as if it were a friend with hardly a beat between. Someone dear to me pointed to an Indian god who "drank poison as if it were wine." Yes, I told him, that's what I would like to do.
I had no idea what the training for that particular goal might look like, and if I had, perhaps I would have thought twice. Nonetheless, the events of the weekend suggest I am well on my way to journeyman in the field of winemaking, and I am counting my blessings in all of their sundry forms, unexpected though they may be.
A toast?
Monday, September 1, 2008
While Sleeping Dogs Lie
So, I'm hopping around in my flea-like existence, contemplating only the mat of the dog hair before me, singing the song of some memory of a swim or a drowning (I'm not sure which),when Seda asks me if my memory is bittersweet and I tell her no... it's just a dream.
A good one? she wonders.
No. Not good or bad. Just a dream I had once, and the water was not cold and not hot in my memory now because whatever it was at the time, there was disagreement when the swim was over and the dog and I had a different idea of the temperature.
Oh, she says. That kind of dream.
Yeah, I tell her, and it's like this: if I can't know that an experience in my most full and alive moments in this realm is ever actually shared, then what, in fact, has been my experience at all? If it is only my own -- and lonely, lonely that drip, drip sound could be! particularly in retrospect, the full view of its singular solidarity unto itself -- then what difference is there between waking and sleeping?
There is no excitement there, I tell her. No longing or urgency or wondering. Just a smattering of light whose infinite shadow I once stepped on in one plane or another. The memory only prompts an awareness of the ethereal nature of my very flea-like existence. It points, in it's recovery, to some grander, effortless jump to which my tiny legs do not wholly belong.
All in a dream, while sleeping dogs lie.
A good one? she wonders.
No. Not good or bad. Just a dream I had once, and the water was not cold and not hot in my memory now because whatever it was at the time, there was disagreement when the swim was over and the dog and I had a different idea of the temperature.
Oh, she says. That kind of dream.
Yeah, I tell her, and it's like this: if I can't know that an experience in my most full and alive moments in this realm is ever actually shared, then what, in fact, has been my experience at all? If it is only my own -- and lonely, lonely that drip, drip sound could be! particularly in retrospect, the full view of its singular solidarity unto itself -- then what difference is there between waking and sleeping?
There is no excitement there, I tell her. No longing or urgency or wondering. Just a smattering of light whose infinite shadow I once stepped on in one plane or another. The memory only prompts an awareness of the ethereal nature of my very flea-like existence. It points, in it's recovery, to some grander, effortless jump to which my tiny legs do not wholly belong.
All in a dream, while sleeping dogs lie.
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