Category Archives: Life Lessons

Practice Does Not Make Perfect

The kids’ toys have invaded every room of my house and it’s making me little crazy. Right now, there are three rooms in desperate need of painting, a brigade of dandelions invading my garden, and stacks of papers that have built up over a dreary, rainy season. I sigh heavily each time I look at them. For the last week I have been slightly obsessed with getting my home organized. Call it Spring cleaning, or whatever, but it has suddenly become of paramount importance that each these issues be rectified and a semblance of order restored to my living space before I can think of doing anything else.

In the last week I have been on a singular mission to create a playroom in a spare bedroom and reclaim my living room as “adult space.” I have made trips to IKEA, Target and Goodwill for donations. I have searched for more than an hour online for the just-so-perfect-paper-organizing-charging-station (which I have yet to find). If I’m being honest, I can think of hardly anything else until this project is complete. I know when I get so focused on one task that there is something larger, deeper at play, and this new zeal for cleaning and purging is no exception.

For four months I have been walking a razor’s edge. I’ve been balancing knives on a high wire and holding my breath 1000 feet under water. I’ve felt the heaviness of the unknown resting on my chest while dragging the past behind me strapped to my neck like a noose. It has been a long, hard winter for all the relationships in my life.

But today, like the tulips and daffodils that are pushing their yellow petals toward the sun from under previously frozen ground (a miracle each time) there has been a transition toward the light in my own life. Some friends have emerged as life preservers. Some family relations have been clarified, deconstructed, ready to build anew, perhaps in a healthier way. Most importantly, my marriage has shifted onto more solid ground and it too is rebuilding with a stronger foundation than ever before. At this moment everything feels like a miracle, from the flowers to my faith.

It’s been awhile since I’ve felt this assured about the future and my sole motivation to organize my home is my way of trying to hold onto that feeling; gain control of it, slap a fresh coat of paint on it and force it to stick around for a while. I believe this much is true.

I have learned a great deal about myself and relationships in the past four months by means of therapy, reading and introspection. In the midst of it, I have swung from one side of the sanity pendulum to the other sometimes in the very same day. I know more about who I am, a knowledge that came at a high price. I have confronted my anger, my anxiety, my ideas about marriage and family, motherhood and faith. My convictions have never been stronger or more flexible and neither has my body as a direct result of deepening my yoga practice. All of these are good things that have helped me grow, and yet, my compulsions remain.

life is a practiceThis is the lesson standing out to me on this clear, crisp Spring day–that like my yoga practice, life is never mastered. Life is a continuing practice because there is no such thing as perfection. Perfection is an illusion we portray to keep the deeper, larger things at arm’s length; to avoid eye-contact with the ugliness and unexpectedness that lays on the periphery of every thing we hold close.

As deep as my tendencies for obsessions and compulsions run, somewhere else deep lies the knowledge that there is no promise of ever getting it right, of having it all, of writing the perfect blog post, bending into the epitomous expression of downward dog or even another clear, crisp Spring day.

Even though I want to finish this post so that I can paint trim, I will remind myself in the midst of it that there is no such thing as the just-so-perfect-paper-organizing-charging-station (believed me, I’ve looked) or seemless, knick-free walls that do not hold with them the immediate threat of a toddler’s permanent marker adornments… or relationships without the promise of future disappointments.

My recent quest to organize my house is about me, once again, fighting this reality. In the light of this more hopeful, brighter place in my life, I am already starting to fear of the unknown, the chaotic, the foreboding season I just left, one that I know will come again because… such is life. My need to categorize my papers is me trying to hold onto something instead of slipping into the flow of life, of letting everything be perfect the way it is and trusting that everything is already as it should be… a miracle.

But the good news is that life is a practice, and part of that practice is reminding myself again and again that there is no such thing as the perfectly organized playroom and clutterless countertops. They do not exist.

If I have learned anything over the last four months, it is that life is unpredictable and precarious and the only thing we have is the present moment, whatever that beautiful mess might be, and miraculously that it is always enough. I know now that there is no such things as the perfect marriage, the perfect mother, the perfect life… that we are all just practicing at doing our best each day. Something we should learn to be more forgiving with, for, to, of.

I have changed the way I think about these things, and that new thought takes practice too. Instead of saying I am a writer, I say, I practice writing; same goes for yoga. I also practice being wife, a mother and a daughter. I practice patience and gratitude and staying present. Always practicing, never perfecting because I have also learned you can never master anything in life. (Much to my love-of-lists-and-checked-boxes dismay.)

But perhaps with diligence of effort, commitment to the cause, and a willingness to be vulnerable and take risks, I’ll get better at all of them? Maybe?

I don’t believe happiness, serenity and forgiveness comes naturally for anyone. Life is difficult and testing for even the most enlightened and faithful among us. But I believe the more we commit to practicing gratitude, being present, forgiving and loving thy neighbor, the less harsh the winters may seem.

My tendencies are for control and perfection and certainty, but today, on this rainy, shiny, Spring-filled day, with its Chartreuse leaves twisting in the wind and bright tulips unfurling to the sunshine, I know that practice does not make perfect, but I am CERTAIN it will make good enough.

Because there is no such thing as a garden without weeds, relationships without falter, children without messes… and would we ever want it any other way?

How the Life of Pi Changed My Life

*Spoiler Alert for those who have not yet seen the movie, The Life of Pi.

Last Saturday was a tough day. It rained. Hard. I fought. Harder. I cried. Hardest.

I replied to a text sent by one of my best friend’s asking me how I was doing. I told her the truth. I wrote that I’d just spent three hours lying on the floor like an infant begging for God’s grace and that now I was going to a movie by myself for sweet mercy.

I haven’t been eating lately. After those emotionally draining hours, I was suddenly starved. I felt like a wet rag; limp, red-eyed, tear-soaked and heavy with pain. All I wanted was something light and soothing to fill my empty stomach. Something soft; and kind and easy in my senses. There’s a popular Chinese restaurant next to the movie theater that serves these amazing dumplings and steamed buns. There’s a window right in front where you can watch a staff of Asian men dressed in white prepare these delicate morsels.The wait is always over an hour, but I thought if I hung out in the bar, I’d snag a lone seat and be out in time for my movie which started in an hour. I waited awhile. I was going to miss my movie if I waited any longer, so I left and found the first place that could serve me warm food, quickly and allow me to be done in time to see my movie.

I was not supposed to see The Life of Pi on this night. I was supposed to see The Life of Pi last weekend, but as I approached the ticket counter two weeks ago I changed my mind at the very last second (for I don’t know what reason) and saw Silver Linings Playbook instead. SLP was a great movie, and just what I needed that night. But last Saturday, I was definitely going to see The Life of Pi.

I read the bestselling book by Yann Martel many years ago. I remembered the premise. I remembered being impressed by the ending, but I wasn’t ecstatic overall. I wasn’t ready for all the layers of meaning and messages about God when I was 25. But now, I was more than ready.

I ended up at an Indian restaurant eating a creamy, soothing  Tikki Masala with a slight hint of curry and a side of warm garlic naan. I sat at the bar staring in a daze. My eye happened upon a lotus flower. I’d been thinking of lotus flowers lately and this reminded me, once again, that I must call my friend, the wise yoga teacher who wears a lotus flower around her neck, so that she could explain to me the meaning.

I ate in a hurry and literally ran to the theater. The only seats left were the seats way up front, or the single seats in between couples. I didn’t want to crane my neck at a 3-D movie so I sat in between strangers. How fitting, I thought. I’d spent the day feeling so lonely I might as well sit in this theater surrounded by couples with nowhere to lean.

Soon after the movie started there was a scene of the writer and the adult version of the protagonist, Pi, beginning to tell the story over a lunch of curry and naan bread. I was still tasting the warmth of my Indian dish on my lips and this made me smile. Not only was the movie adapted to be about a writer trying to capture a story, but they were eating what I still tasted. I settled into the thought; that I was exactly where I needed to be in that moment. I’m sure this was a result of my emotions being raw as white bone because I was ready to receive whatever was coming to me.

The year, God has been trying to teach me to surrender. I know this. Just look over the body of work here and it is clear how I keep coming back to one simple theme… letting go. My trip to Nicaragua was a pinnacle of this message, and while I was there a month ago, I picked up this postcard that now sits wedged on the edge of my bathroom mirror. It’s my daily reminder of what I know I must do.

shakti cards

Even though I am fully aware that this is the message Life/ God/ The Universe is trying to relay to me, I have not fully understood, until last Saturday night. I am finding that even when you understand a thing about life, it’s not the same things as knowing it.

The protagonist in The Life of Pi, is about an Indian boy and his journey in faith. As a child, and in present day as he’s relaying this story, he claims himself to be a Hindu, Muslim and Catholic. His parents each believed differently, his father, the eternal pragmatist, put his faith in science; his mother is a devout Hindu. Pi’s family owns a zoo in India that has fallen on hard times. They are now transporting all the zoo animals to North America on a Japanese shipping boat and Pi and his family are along for the ride toward a new life in Canada.

The writer whom the adult Pi is relaying the story to, does not believe in God. When the writer asks him how it is possible that he believes in so many different religions, Pi says, “Faith is a house with many rooms.”

The writer says, “Then there’s plenty of room for doubt.”

And the adult Pi says, “Yes, on every floor.”

This metaphor reminds me of a Halloween house party I went to in college. It was in one of the large, old, craftsman style houses. The kind that are more tall than wide. When you enter, it feels like a maze of small rooms and corridors. There were so many rooms that it was hard to figure out where you wanted to be. To add to the confusion, everyone was in costume. In the basement there was a loud DJ playing techno music. In the kitchen, a bunch of fraternity boys holding cups around a keg. In another room, dread-locks sticking out of knit caps surrounding a hookah. I found some rooms that seemed empty, but in the darkness I heard moans. There where rooms where the only girls congregated and still others that were merely functional and of course there’s always that one guy in the corner playing acoustic guitar. Even the front porch had its own feel packed with the claustrophobic and smokers. This is how I view faith, as one big party.

In my life, Jesus invited me to this house party for the purpose of introducing me to God. Of course, God and I, we hit it off smashingly. To this day, I can sit for hours talking to God, just him and me. But sometimes, I must admit, when the music is too loud I can’t quite hear what he’s saying. There are often miscommunications.  It’s just like when you’re at a loud party and someone is smiling at you while talking, but you have no clue what they are saying so you just nod your head and smile back.

Sometimes God is saying, “We need to leave, the house is on fire!” And I’d sit there with a big smile on my face nodding like I know exactly what’s happening. Then I smell smoke and all the sudden I’m really interested in knowing what God is saying to me. That’s usually when Jesus steps in to translate over the noise. When I finally understand what God was trying to tell me via Jesus, I look to God for confirmation. He always gives me this knowing nod. I do as he asked and then ask for forgiveness for not listening the first time. Of course, God always forgives. He’s a gracious host.

I often stay in the room where Jesus is the DJ because he plays some sweet beats that I really love. But sometimes, I’m not in the mood for those tunes. Sometimes I want to chill out with some Bob Marley or I need to talk to my best girlfriends and I have found peace and happiness and wisdom in those rooms as well, because God, he loves Rastafarians, too… and frat boys, and claustrophobics and even the dark, empty rooms where no one seems to be. So I call myself a Christian. I certainly believe in God and I believe in Jesus. I do not, however, believe that Jesus is the only way to meet God.

In the movie, little boy Pi comes upon a priest and the priest explains that Christ is God’s only son and God loved the world that he allowed his only son to suffer so that we might understand God’s love for us. Little boy Pi questions this fact. It doesn’t make sense to him. Frankly, for a long time it didn’t make sense to me either. Like little boy Pi, that logic didn’t sound very good to my little girl self.

The Japanese ship wrecks and Pi is the only survivor stranded on a life boat with a zebra, a orangutan, a hyena and a Bengal Tiger. From here, everything is a profound metaphor for life and our relationship to ourselves, adversity, and God.

Soon, it is just Pi and the Tiger on the life boat. All the others suffered and were killed and eaten by one another in fear and hunger. Pi is a vegetarian so he did not eat these animals. The tiger, whose name is Richard Parker, did.

It is clear to me that Richard Parker is a representation of Pi’s ego and/or adversity. He must now face down this force in order to survive. The entire journey is a test of his faith in God.

His situation seems insurmountable at first. The tiger is fierce, relentless, wild, veracious and a strong carnivore that can easily over-power a skinny, vegetarian, Indian boy. Pi works hard and builds a raft outside the life boat to put distance between himself and Richard Parker. He obtains some supplies and a booklet on survival from the life boat’s hull. The booklet is a metaphor for any sacred text, such as the Bible. He uses the information in this booklet not only to survive, but to devise a plan to outsmart the tiger by making him sea sick. When the tiger stumbles and gets weary, Pi tries to over power the tiger with aggressive behavior. The result of this has only angered the tiger more. Pi realizes that this strategy does not work; that adding anger to anger does not produce the desired result. He realizes that the booklet, although it has much practical information that ultimately contributes to his survival, does not contain precise instructions for exactly what to do when you’re trapped on a life boat in the middle of the Pacific with a hungry Bengal Tiger.

Pi then decides to win Richard Parker over by giving him what he craves most, food. Pi reasons that if he gives Richard Parker food, the tiger will see no need to eat him. Pi is unable to keep up with the demands of a tiger’s appetite and soon, the tiger gets greedy. Not only does he want Pi’s portion of the food, but he wants Pi. The tiger jumps into the water to catch his own fish and comes after Pi on his raft. It doesn’t matter that Pi has fed him, he doesn’t discern Pi’s generosity from his need to survive. Pi then climbs onto the boat and the tiger is left clinging to the side unable to get himself over the edge and back into the boat. Pi learns that you cannot stand up to adversity by being 100% passive and submissive.

Now, Pi could be rid of the tiger if he just lets Richard Parker get tired enough and drown. Pi would no longer have to battle this demon. But then Pi must watch this beautiful creature suffer, and in turn, Pi will suffer with the pain of watching him die. Richard Parker does not deserve to die, he is merely doing what tigers do. Pi realizes that if he allows the tiger to die, a part of him will die, too. Pi understands that sitting by and watching another living thing die just so you can survive, is not the answer, either. Pi works hard all day and prepares his raft with more supplies for survival and then helps Richard Parker back into the boat.

Pi finally comes to the conclusion that he must learn to tame Richard Parker. Not with aggression and hostility, but with love and respect. Respect for the tiger, and respect for himself. He uses fish and a stick. He pokes Richard Parker and yells at him when he over-steps his bounds, but still feeds him and allows him space on the boat. He creates boundaries using love and respect. This works.

When you think his problems are solved, at least in terms of the tiger, a whale breeches next to the boat and all his vital supplies are lost. Pi reaches a point of hopelessness. He has no food, no water, no supplies and is still living with a hungry Bengal Tiger on a life boat in the Pacific Ocean. He says, “Okay God, I surrender. I just want to know what’s next.”

Of course, the surrender part is correct, but we can never know God’s plan. We will never know, “what’s next.” It is not a matter of Pi just accepting God as a powerful force and the determiner of his fate. Now he must know the meaning of letting go of fear and expectations.

Just as Pi and Richard Parker are both at a pinnacle of suffering, they wake up on the shores of a magical floating island. It is inhabited by edible roots, Mere Cats and pools of fresh water. Both Pi and Richard Parker have all they need to live. One night, Pi finds a human tooth inside a flower that resembles a lotus flower. As he becomes fully aware of his surroundings, he realizes that the island is carnivorous. Sure, the island would give him and Richard Parker everything they would need to survive, but it would also eat them. This island is a metaphor for the many ways in which we ignore and numb our lives; the panaceas such as drugs, alcohol, sex, food, gambling, you name it. They will let us live comfortable, we can manage our hunger and pain, but they will kill us.

Pi realizes he must leave the island, or die. He works hard and prepares his boat, yet again, and then sets off onto the ocean to face down his greatest fears again. This is Life.

Next, they are hit by another storm and all is truly lost. There is no hope. Pi says in the midst of the storm, “God, I surrendered, I have done everything, what do you want from me?” Then, Pi finally accepts his fate. He knows he is going to die, he is seemingly no longer afraid of the tiger because he sits and takes Richard Parker’s large head onto his lap stroking it in an act of compassion, camaraderie and pure love. He has given up the need to know what’s next.

Lastly, they wash up on the Mexican shore, barely alive. Richard Parker disappears into the jungle without looking back and Pi is taken to the hospital. When they ask him what happened to the ship and everyone in it, he tells them the story of him and Richard Parker the hungry Bengal Tiger.

Of course they do not believe him. Who would believe this fantastical story of carnivorous islands and surviving on a boat for so 247 days with a hungry, Bengal Tiger? They say he is lying and crazy so he tells them a different story. He tells them a story of tyranny, cannibalism and murder. This is the story they believe as truth.

So the question to us the audience becomes, do we believe in the God we cannot see that is filled with magic and light and signs and wonder?  A God that is around us always, speaking to us, warning us, loving us, wanting us to trust him without question? The same God that brought me to see this movie about an Indian boy in existential crisis, after spending three hours myself begging for grace and mercy, with serendipitous curry on my breath? Or do you believe in the God of tyranny, cannibalism and murder? I left that theater knowing exactly what I believe and what God had been trying to tell me. I also had an idea of what I was supposed to do next.

The very next day, while sitting in a room where I have placed much of my hopes for my future, my eyes filled with tears again. I stared off into the corner. My gaze landed on the back of a wooden chair. The design was lotus flower. I still didn’t know what that meant. I looked it up, because at this point, I am sure it is vitally important sign from God. This is what I found: Lotus flowers represent rebirth. They represent hope. The represent magic and possibility. They take three days to bloom up through muddy, murky waters and when they do, they are pristine, untouched and beautiful, still.

By the time I left that room something had changed.

Since the moment I was lying on the floor on Saturday in the fetal position while the heavens opened up around me, while I begged for grace and mercy, then was given signs that I must not only surrender to His will, but I must give up the very thing I was hoping to find on Friday afternoon… hope, something profoundly shifted inside me. Come Saturday night, I gave up that wish for hope. I realized that hope comes tethered to the idea that you know what you want. That you are holding out for some kind of solution to your situation that makes you happy and fulfilled. I realized that hope is a panacea.

God sat me in that theater with naan bread in my stomach with no direction to lean because he wanted me to lean on him, without hope, without questions, without expectations. But he clearly told me I must still work. I must still prepare. I must not give up doing the hard things, but I must give up the expectation that they will bring me closer to what I want because there is only one person who knows what I truly want… and it’s not me.

If I can surrender, truly surrender and live without fear or hope for what I want, he will lead to the shores of salvation and they will never be what I imagine them to be… they will be better.

On this night God brought me inside the room of two artists, Yann Martel and Ang Lee, so that they could show me what I could not hear through Jesus’s sweet melodies or the words inside my booklet on survival. This is why I want to be a writer; because I know that stories change the world.

I know that many will be tempted to tell me I’m wrong. Anytime I talk about God I get those emails. People will point to Bible verses that speak of this truth, and I will tell them that I have read those same verses. But MY truth is, those words did not speak to me the way this movie did. I am not naive to think that everyone will enjoy this film and get out of it the same things I did. I was meant to walk into that theater last Saturday night and I was meant to sit alone and see the world this way. It was perfect for me but others may not have the same experience and that is okay because art is a subjective thing… but so is religion.

Faith, however, is a house with many rooms and God is the only host.

Amen.

Now scroll back up and look at what the woman in the postcard is holding… and the miracles continue to abound.

The name of the Indian restaurant I went to was MokSHA. I went to their website to see if I could get a picture of the lotus flower that I saw while there. This is what the name means: MokSHA-A Sanskrit term used to describe the attaining of eternal bliss or “highest happiness” by the soul… it’s a magical world, people. 

The Story of a Boy Who Went to Prison

I have many things I should be doing right now. I didn’t turn in my homework last night for my writing class because I couldn’t seem to focus all week. I know I should be working on that, but I can’t muster the inspiration for fiction. Someone from the online journal, Literary Mama, a publication I respect immensely, and a place I have hoped to be published, asked me to write an essay on something in particular. But I can’t get my thoughts together enough to write the first sentence. There’s also laundry… and showering.

Have you ever tried to sprint through sand dunes? The sand shifts under every foot fall. You have to use your whole body to compensate for the sliding ground. Forward progress is slow. Have you ever lost your shoes in a puddle of mud? At first glance you believe the ground is hard enough to support your weight, but you’re in a hurry so you jump right into the thick of it realizing instantly that you’ve made a mistake and your foot protection is now gone leaving you vulnerable to the next step. Have you ever had to hike in waist-high snow? Every step takes enormous effort; step, sink, pull, lift, repeat. Each of these ways of moving in the world leaves you exhausted. You quickly become desperate and appreciative for solid ground.

That’s what I feel like right now. I am going through a rough patch in my marriage and I feel like I’m climbing a mountain of obstacles all of which are sucking me dry of energy, time and hope. Energy and time I can manage… it’s the hope that takes my breath away and it’s hope that I feel desperate for right now. That is why a true story of hope is what I want to tell today.

I once knew a boy who went to prison. A long time ago, when I was just a girl and before he went to prison, I really liked him. He didn’t like me in the same way. I thought that if I gave him everything, he might. He didn’t. That was a hard lesson to learn.

This boy was tall and solid as an oak tree. His fists were the size of an elephant’s heart and he could smash a baseball to the moon. He was known for not only smashing baseballs, but people’s faces. Sometimes he was a very angry person.

That is what most people knew of him, but I knew him for something different. I knew he quivered like a sapling when anyone said the word “haunted.” I knew his eyes widened in real trepidation if he saw triple sixes. He was a bully in many ways, but I could see the tenderness in his heart as I watched him kiss his mother and call her “Mommy” in front of his tough teenage friends. His mother knew that I liked her son. She knew her son did not like me and she knew what I was willing to do to change that, and yet, she treated me with respect.

Every time I gave this boy something of mine, and then asked for something in return (for which he never gave), he did not laugh at me. He didn’t even pity me. He looked at me as if he was disappointed in himself for being so selfish. He didn’t want to hurt me and tried to get me to stop giving him things, but he was a just boy, and he did what boys often do.

Eventually, I let him go. I moved on. He dated a friend of mine for several years and into our early twenties. After a short stint in the minor leagues, he became addicted to meth. I heard stories about how he beat people to near death. He went on stealing things from people and friends to support his addiction and all of that landed him in prison for over a decade. I didn’t know him when he went in there. Shortly after going to prison the sweet woman he called “mommy” committed suicide.

I stole something from him, too. I took a photograph from his house that I still have tucked somewhere in a yellowed photo album in my parent’s basement. It was a picture of him at about the age of three. It is a close-up of his round, boy face. His hair is a deep monochramtic brown and straight as straw. It’s cut bluntly across his forehead covering the tips of his ears. His eyes were wide and lit up like sunlight dancing on muddy waters. Soft brown freckles were smattered across the bridge of his nose and sat on the peaks of his cheek bones like they’d been painted on a doll. He’s wearing a little tie, seemingly dressed for church on Easter morning. His smile is not big and happy, but contented. Only a mother would take that picture of her son and I felt bad for taking it from her because I’m certain now, that like him, it was her treasure.

I wanted that picture because that is how I saw him. I kept it to remind myself that I gave everything to that boy, and not that man who would later go to prison.

Every now and again, over the last decade he was in prison, I’d think about him. I’d think about what he was going through in that place compared to what I was going through in my life. I’d think about all the things he was missing and if he knew he was missing them, or if he even cared. I cried as I tried to imagine him learning about what happened to his mother while surrounded by bars and concrete. A couple of times I looked up his mug shot on the state’s website of incarcerated people. Over the years the tattoos grew, the eyes shrank and there was no smile. Sometimes I’d imagine running into him at a bar when he finally got out. I would know with just one look if that boy with the eyes as big as moons was still there, or if the harsh realities of a decade in prison had taken him away forever.

He’s out of prison now. I haven’t met him in person, but thanks to Facebook, I still know.

That boy is engaged to be married. He’s having a baby girl. He makes fun of himself for going to prison. He has no shame and I see that as a sign of internal strength. He’s still not afraid to tell the world how much he loves his mother and that same unabashed affection is now bestowed upon his fiance. With much regularity he writes posts about his great love for her, too. His declarations are cheesy, over-the-top, the grammar is all wrong and from anyone else I might roll my eyes and doubt the sincerity… but with him, I can’t help but smile.

That boy whose picture I took, who took things from me and then went to prison for taking things from others, did not let life break him. He lost his beloved mother while in that place, but he did not lose himself. When I see his picture pop up on my computer screen now, I wonder what sand dunes and mud puddles and snow-covered mountains he conquered while stuck behind those walls? Sometimes I wonder who he beat up, if he stopped beating people up, and when he decided he wouldn’t be beaten? Seeing his picture  today, his features are hardened and aged, like mine, but I can still see the joy in his eyes and the love he has for life and the people still in it, and when I see that… I feel nothing but hope.

Hope that the innocent child in us all is strong enough to overcome any obstacle, be it mountain or marriage. And that is the story I want to tell today.

I Do Not Want To Be A Lie

As much as I would like to be the kind of person who hears lines of poetry narrating their day-to-day life… I am not. I like poetry, I do.  I even write a rhyming poem for my Christmas card every year (although I hardly think that counts as “serious” poetry). As much as the self-proclaimed “serious” writer in me crumples in shame, I must admit that there is a lot of poetry that I simply do not understand.

I heard a saying once that goes something like this: a failed poet is a short story writer, and a failed short story writer is a novelist. In other words, the sentiments and potentiality for beauty and Truth in the art form of the written word is most distilled, potent, and most difficult to achieve in its most succinct form… a poem. Poetry is difficult to do well because it requires a mastery of language, imagery, and a penetrating sense of the world. It is why the great poets are pure genius. Perhaps this is also the reason I do not understand most of it?

But there are some poems, that when I run across them, feel like I’m looking at someone else’s heart on a page. And although it’s someone else’s heart, they have shown me mine as well. It’s the same with a song. Whenever I am moved to tears by music, inevitably, I will think of an off-handed line spoken by Vince Vaughn’s character in Ron Howard’s comedy The Dilemma. I’ve seen that movie only once. I can’t even tell you the plot, but I have never forgotten the simple truth in this line. Vaughn, in a spurt of nervous banter says,

“People say music is the highest art form. It can go the furthest, the fastest, emotionally.”

What is great music but poetry with an accompaniment? Now I’m just musing on art form. Let’s reign this in. Everyone has recognized good art in their life. A moment of pure emotion brought on my the words, sights, sounds of another human being’s creative powers. Poetry, it all its precision and depth, is thought by many, to be at the top of these creative endeavors.

In middle school I memorized Edgar Allen Poe’s, The Raven, on my own and not as an assignment.  I was enamored by Poe and his dark, brooding rhythms. I loved the way that new word “Nevermore, Nevermore” came after me line after line in increasing terror just like the caw of that raven. After hearing Maya Angelou recite On The Pulse of Morning at Bill Clinton’s 1993 inauguration, I sought out a copy and kept it folded in a blue treasure box under lock and key. I don’t know why really, much of it flew right over my head, but I knew it was something beautiful that deserved to be kept somewhere safe. There are certain poems that speak to me in that way. I will not say that I understand them all, but they are beautiful and feel like tiny miracles. I ran across one such poem by Ranier Marie Rilke just this week:

RilkeI can’t make every minute holy.
I don’t want to stand before you
like a thing, shrewd, secretive.
I want my own will, and I want
simply to be with my will,
as it goes toward action.
And in the silent, sometimes hardly moving times,
when something is coming near,
I want to be with those who know
secret things or else alone.
I want to unfold.
I don’t want to be folded anywhere,
because where I am folded,
there I am a lie.

~Ranier Marie Rilke

This is what I felt inside as I took up a pen and started to write:

I can’t live every moment fully aware. I can’t take the high road in every conversation. I can’t be holy, benevolent, pious, contented and non-reactive in each minute of every day no matter how hard I try. I want to. I want patience to rival Gandhi and compassion to make Mother Theresa proud, but I just can’t. I can not. At least not now. But I don’t want to be ashamed of myself either for not possessing those things. I don’t want hang my head low and beat myself up because I am not perfect and happy and well-behaved in every minute of everyday. I do not. I want to know what I want from this life, and I want to seek out those experiences and the highest Truths with all I have and all that I am. At times when those Truths draws near, when I am pious and benevolent and can quiet my mind long enough to feel the pulse of my life and the holiness in my breath, I want to be  surrounded by wisdom, by goodness and Love. If I cannot have that, I want to be alone. I want to be open. I never want to shut a piece of myself off because it is in the dark places where fear lives. I know that much. And I know that when I am afraid, I am a lie.

I’ve certainly heard of Rilke. When I hear a poem that strikes me as certain and wise, often times, it is Rumi or Rilke who wrote it. I looked around for more on Rilke and found this gem from one of his most famous works, Letters to a Young Poet written in 1908:

I beg you, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer. ~Ranier Marie Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

And that right there is what this blog seems to be about. Letting go and living in Love and Truth because anything else would be a lie.

The Truth About Constipation and Life

This is about the awful, no-good, terrible night I tried to tell my three-year-old daughter the truth about constipation and life.

It was an impromptu playdate after gymnastics. The kind borne out of three stay-at-home Moms who were facing down the prospect of a typical Monday afternoon of chores like cleaning, laundry and lunch making. It was bathroom cleaning day at my house and sitting around watching my kids play while having a little adult conversation sounded much better than scrubbing toilets. So I quickly eschewed my responsibilities and got on the SUV train toward the mall. There are certain expectations for impromptu playdates and one of them is that it’s completely reasonable to feed your child whatever is immediately available. In this case, it was McDonald’s, Annie’s Pretzel’s and/or Frozen Yogurt because if “yogurt” is in the title, it’s totally acceptable whenever.

We went to Annie’s pretzels. Extra side of unrefrigerated, electric-orange cheese please! When we got home, the tummy rumbles began.

My daughter’s preschool teacher who sees her two days a week for three hours knows her elimination schedule. Her punctuality in the potty department often seems like a miracle to me considering her diet consists of 95% dairy products, but alas, this week was different. After a few days of mild complaints about tummy aches and the lack of productivity, I could sense that today was going to be the day we’d both feel better.

Soon after we got home, I turned my attention toward the procrastinated chores, and turned up the repetitive Momtra every time she said her tummy hurt. “Honey, you need to drink more water, here,” I said while handing her a sippy cup of said water and holding a scrub brush. Without fail, each time I handed her the cup she took the teensiest sip possible and put it aside. The complaints picked up in frequency and urgency. Fed up because, let’s face it, these toilets weren’t scrubbing themselves, I decided to give her some chocolate milk. I knew she’d drink that down in two gulps and I really wanted the Great Poop Drama of 2013 to be over.

Now, I know that dairy is not good for constipation, but so is a bone-dry digestive system. I reasoned that the injection of liquid would outweigh any effects of calcium… and sugar is a diuretic right? Oh how I would come to regret that decision. Fast forward to those magical hours just before bedtime.

“But Mom, every time I push it hurts!”  I explained to her that she had to push through the pain and when she finally poops, it would feel all better. She replied through tears, “Don’t say that Mommy!” Now I’m sitting on the newly cleaned bathroom floor for the 32nd time she has said she has to poop, and for the 32nd time, nothing is happening. Bedtime has come and gone. I’m hand-feeding her grapes, apples and sips of water coaxing her to push harder while she cries in between lower abdominal cramps.

“What honey? I’m just telling you the truth. It’s going to hurt for a second and then it will be over.” Not only advice on constipation, I thought, but on life itself because I never like to miss a “teaching moment.” I consider my most important job to be the bestowing of truth and wisdom onto my three-year-old, particularly in moments of high stress. I’m thoughtful like that.

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Through sobs she says, “Tell me a nicer truth, Mommy!”

I was just about to tell her how many times I’ve cried wanting the very same thing from life, but in the end, after years of experience and hard-earned wisdom under the elastic waistband of these yoga pants, I could share with her the cold, hard truth. The harshest truth. That sometimes life gets constipated and you have to push through the pain until you come out the other side. Only when you’ve done the hard work and endured the pain, will things get better. I wasn’t going to lie to protect her from this simple fact. It was going to hurt for a second, then it would be over.

Two hours, 45 false alarms, 17 grapes, 1/2 an apple, countless sips of water and one warm bath later… she taught me something, too. That just when you think you’ve pushed through the hardest, most painful part… there’s another pile of crap waiting for you and will usually be the result of doing what you want to do, instead of what you need to do.

Imagine, if you will, or don’t because it’s quite grose, the aftermath of a cork finally coming loose on a shaken bottle of champagne and you will have experienced a fraction of what I witnessed with a front row seat. As I sat there with a horrified grimace, all I could think about was the painful irony of the situation. Because of my decision to procrastinate toilet cleaning and because I just didn’t want to make yet ANOTHER peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I fed her unrefrigerated, electric-orange cheese that was now spraying all over the toilet I just cleaned hours before when we finally got home from our playdate all while shewing her away with chocolate milk.

Maybe tomorrow we’ll discuss the importance of hard work and responsibility? Because I’m thoughtful like that.

Parenting. It’s not for the faint of heart or weak of stomach and there is no nicer truth than that. Then again, perhaps we should all relax… and just let it go.

The Beauty of Surrender

Today, I went to a second yoga session on my trip to Nicaragua. It will likely be my last here as we leave for home in a couple of days. It has been an illuminating, exciting and utterly exhausting trip. Caring for two toddlers is a lot of work in perfect conditions with all the tools in place like diaper pales, level sidewalks and regulatory high chairs with seat belts. All things for which I have a new appreciation. Doing all of the same day-to-day tasks here in the remote Third World without these luxuries has been a challenge for sure. A challenge that has stretched my coping abilities to their max.

I’ve yelled at my children more than I would like. I’ve been short with my husband for no reason. I have been too tired to enjoy some of the fun things because there’s just so much damn work to be done everyday. I’m not proud of it, but even on vacation surrounded by immense beauty I can be pissed off.

I needed yoga today to bring me back to myself. To remind me of the important things.

The wind was whipping my hair in the open-air studio. My dingy, borrowed mat flipped up on the edges from time to time. The pigeons congregated and cooed somewhere above me while the sounds of small-town Nicaragua swirled around me in cries, hollers, motors and horns. Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” was part of the soundtrack to the practice and somewhere around “…with every breath we drew a hallelujah” I let it all go and I sank into the beautiful space of surrender.

Surrender is beautiful, isn’t it? When we fall on our knees and crumple from the strain of life? When we’re brave enough to admit that we don’t have it all together, that we struggle, that we need help, that even on vacation in paradise we can get pissed off? When we stretch out our arms or join our hands in prayer asking, often begging for love, for peace, for a moment of grace in a hectic world–it is nothing short of a beauty-filled miracle. It’s something that doesn’t come naturally to a controlling, anxiety-ridden, yeller… like me.

But it came. It came with the strength of a thousand wind storms.

I was in the zone, or in yoga speak, ”on my edge” in every pose. My leg went up in wheel. I held crow. I got closer to a head stand than ever before and I stretched farther and deeper than usual… I chatuaronga’d the shit out of that mat. The hour and a half felt like mere moments in time. I was in my breath. I was humbled yet confident; filled with a strong weakness that transformed me from one inhalation to the next. I have been in many yoga classes in the last 10 years but this one will stay with me forever. It shifted me–left an indelible impression on my soul.

The teacher said, “Every breath brings an opportunity for change.” Like a gong this struck a chord deep inside. She is right. With every breath, I can change. With every minute, I can be better– I can come back to myself and all I have to do is surrender… “with every breath a hallelujah.”

Let Go And Trust the Direction of the Wind

There are so many lessons to be learned when traveling to foreign countries, in particular, developing countries. I wrote last week about traveling for the first time as the mother of (and with) young children to Nicaragua. I am still here in Nicaragua as I type this and there is still profound perspective around every unbaby-proofed corner.

Nicaraguan Baby

The second lesson that is hitting me hard is this: Let go and go with the wind.

The wind here blows in all directions, sometimes all at once. We were evicted from the place we planned to stay for the duration of our trip partly because of a veracious wind storm that ripped out a couple of window screens. The main reason we were evicted, was because the owner didn’t understand (nor could he tolerate) children. Although for months he led us to believe otherwise. After my daughter wet the bed (which we’d later discover was because of a UTI) along with other realitively minor infractions considering the environment, like not shutting the windows properly to prevent his curtains from be whipped by the wind, he let us know that we were no longer welcome on the 4th day of our 14-day trip. We were understandably upset by this development as my husband spent months planning our trip and corresponding with the owner to insure the safety and proper environment for our young family. Without notice, at 7am one morning, we were suddenly without lodging in a third world country with two small children and lots of luggage.

We railed against the situation and the owner. We vented and called him names and I wrote a review for his place of business and then edited it a dozen times. We were mad for being blind-sided. We were mad because our much-anticipated vacation wasn’t turning out as we’d hoped.

Luckily, there was space available at an excellent resort community that had great amenities including air-conditioning. We didn’t choose this location from the start because on the top of our checklist of accommodations, we wanted a stunning view, immediate beach access and someone to cook most (if not all) of meals. Although this place has a great view, it did not offer the other two things. This ordeal stole an entire day of our vacation by having to relocate and spend time shopping for food and necessities. Not a fun day with two cranky, sweaty, napless toddlers.  To add to the situation, the Nicaraguan woman we hired to help with our children during days up and quit in the middle of our shopping trip because she had problems at home. At some point later this day, I said to my husband in a moment of frustration: “I’m not having fun anymore!”

It was true. I was exhausted. Things weren’t looking good in the near-term future. All I wanted to do was rest and take a break from all the work and worry. In spite this, I picked up my frustrated, disappointed, tired-ass and took my kids to the pool.

Within 10 minutes of being there, I met the owner of the only yoga studio in the small town of San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua. Within 20 minutes of meeting her, our vacation would turn around significantly. The next morning, I went to my first yoga practice in two weeks at her studio. While there, on my mat, I would hear this lesson with crushing clarity: Let go and trust the wind.

I have said before that yoga is my church. It is where I check-in with myself. It is where I become the best version of me, and it is where I hear God speak, most clearly. As I sat there on my mat waiting to begin, I started to focus on my breath and become present. It was an open-air studio on the second floor and the breeze blew lightly through.

Yoga NicaraguaI lifted my gaze to watch a butterfly struggling against a sheer, black screen. It struggled, fluttering it’s yellow and black wings over and over again into a barrier it could not see. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew it around the screen into the exact direction it wanted to go. In that instant, I knew what I came to Nicaragua to learn more profoundly.

When life isn’t working out the way you planned; when you get kicked out your accommodations (in part because of a wind storm) and then find yourself on the streets of a third world country with two cranky toddlers, four bags of luggage and nowhere to go; trust, and follow the wind. Stop struggling against the Universe, stop arguing with reality, stop putting energy where there are no solutions or peace or love; stop fighting the obstacles in your path. Go with wind and trust that God will be there waiting to lift you around the screens you cannot see, toward the place where the Yoga teacher is waiting; to a better, brighter space where you can fly where you want to go without struggle.

From that moment on, our vacation got better and better. Since we were not beholden to this snake-oil salesman and his place, we were free to move about, wherever.  Because of this, we are now settled into a beautiful place on the most pristine white sand beach in Nicaragua called Coco which is just 45 minutes outside of San Juan Del Sur . Last night, we watched the most dramatic, stunning, outrageous sunset of our lives. Afterward, my little family of four walked on a the soft sand beach laughing, watching tiny crabs scurry about while the horizon over the ocean blazed on in fiery red-orange. My 3-year-old threw her arms out wide and exclaimed, “Everything is so beautiful!”

She was so right. It was beyond beautiful. I wanted to capture it with my new camera but no digital photograph would contain what we were feeling, seeing and experiencing as a family. We were alone, on a remote corner of the world looking into the dying light of day, gazing up at a crisp sliver of a moon and a sky beginning to dust itself with bright, glittering stars. It is a moment my husband and I will never forget and would never have had, had we held on to our disappointments and let that be our guide instead of being, “…Like a feather on the breath of God.’

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Coco Beach Nicaragua

Playa El Coco, Nicaragua, January 2013

Kids in Nicaragua and Mother Eyes

When my husband first said let’s take the kids to Nicaragua, I worried. I saw pictures of the place he wanted to stay and the first thing I worried about was the pool. Next, were all the unbaby-proofed pitfalls waiting around every jagged corner. The worries continued. How well will they travel for that many hours? What about car seats? The kids are so picky; what are they going to eat? Are they going to be able to adapt to the heat, and oh my, what about sunburns, dysentary, bug bites and where is the nearest hospital? On and on it went. Everytime we told someone we were taking the kids to Nicaragua they wanted to know– is it safe?

I’ve been to third-world countries before but this is my first time as a mother of two small children. It might as well be my first time ever because I see the world anew with Mother Eyes.

We brought two car seats; one for my 17-month-old son, and a booster for my 3-year-old-daughter. I worried that the booster wouldn’t be safe enough because she’s 3lbs shy of the weight limit, but we decided it would be best for packing reasons. Speaking of packing, we brought two large suitcases, a large duffle bag to hold the pack-n-play, two back packs and a rolling carry-on. We would be gone for 14 days and we reasoned that we needed all this stuff for our family of four. We brought snacks, toys, electronics, three kinds of diapers (day, night, swim) and clothes upon clothes upon clothes. Between my daughter and I, we have 10 swimsuits.

The drive from the airport in Managua, to the place we’re staying, San Juan del Sur, took 2.5 hours. It was in a “fancy” car which was a early model jeep of some kind with “air conditioning” which was slightly cooler than the muggy 85 degrees outside. The regular seatbelts were rusted and you can forget about those safety latches in the seat crack for attaching car seats. I don’t even think they know those exist. I was sure we were going to get into a head-on collision multiple times on the long drive down a narrow two-lane road. We passed horse-drawn carts, tractors, busses with people hanging out the sides (including children) and tons of rusted out (but functioning) motorcycles and bicycles loaded down with two or three people, including babies.

Nissan truck nicaragua

I’m not sure I saw a single helmet. It makes me feel a little silly worrying about the 3lbs my daughter lacked to be “regulation” for her booster seat because this is how toddlers travel in Nicaragua.

Toddler Nicaragua

With these new Mother Eyes, I can’t stop seeing all the Nicaraguan children and their mothers.

little girl & mom nicaraguaI went to the unairconditioned grocery store were I watched two mothers chat in the narrow aisles. When I passed them with my loud and whiney kids in the wobbly cart, they got quiet and parted letting me pass between them. They smiled and stared a little as I walked by. I couldn’t seem to hold their gaze. I felt shy, spoiled, foreign in every way and I can’t even imagine what they were thinking of my excessive persperation, new blonde highlights and coral painted toenails.

As we walked up and down the balmy aisles of the grocery store we looked for things our kids might eat. As a rule we try to limit their sugar, not only because it’s not good for them, but because my son has an intolerance when he has too much. There wasn’t much we could find. We bought some basic corn flakes, crackers and condensed milk in unrefrigerated cartons, because everything from the orange juice to the jams and cereals were loaded with tons and tons of added sugar and hydrogenated oils. Those things are cheap and work well to preserve and sweeten foods that aren’t that good for you and made to sit on unairconditioned shelves. They do have plenty of tropical fruit here; pinneaple, bananas, watermellons; but vegetables are hard to find and more expensive. Whole wheat bread is non-existent.

toddler boy and mom nicaragua

The woman that comes to the house from 7am-3pm to clean and cook breakfast for us has four children of her own. When we sit down to eat she holds my son and entertains my daughter. She doesn’t speak English but we try to communicate. My husband types into Google translation: “Thank you for helping with our children. We tip well.” Gracias por su atención a nuestros hijos. Nos propina. She smiles and laughs. Before she cleans our rooms I look around at all our stuff and I am embarrassed. I can’t find anything because we brought so much and it’s now strewn from one corner to the next. On top of it all, my daughter only wants to wear the pink swimsuit with the skirt, and my son has slept in the pack-n-play twice because he prefers to sleep next to me. I can’t help but wonder what she thinks of it all while she cleans. Of us. Of me.

I am humbled here. I feel silly for worrying so much about my children and their picky appetites while the children here clearly have so much less. There is perspective around every unbaby-proofed corner. It breaks my heart but I am equally grateful. I’m grateful to see these things; to understand so profoundly exactly what I have in my life.

Because when I look around I don’t just see all that’s different or lacking. I see what is also the same. That these mothers work, shop, cook and clean for their children because they love them as much as I do, mine. They may not have a LeapPad2, non-toxic crayons made in Europe or even car seats, but there is no difference in how we feel or what they would do for their kids. We all want the best for them. We will all worry about them no matter what and we will do our best to provide what we can. Nic- me & kids on hammock

The irony in all this is; the kids are oblivious to our angst. Everywhere, in any language, country and climate, all kids want is to wear is the pink swimsuit, sleep by Mommy, and instead of playing with fancy electronics, throw the scrabble letters around because of the cool sound they make on the tile floors.

Nic- BB morning deck bananagrams

It’s the kids that know how to live this life. It’s the kids everywhere that should teach us how to live. They don’t feel shy or embarrassed or silly around anyone and they don’t need Google to translate anything.

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Life Puzzles

life puzzlesWe have several wooden, peg puzzles for our children. I started purchasing them when our first child, our daughter, was barely a year old. We have letters, numbers, shapes, colors, animals… you get the picture. I thought it would be a wonderful way to teach my children the basics. My three-year-old has all but abandoned them having tired of the basic puzzles long ago but because of those puzzles, she now associates the letter K with Key, X with X-Ray and T with Daddy’s Tie.

My 16-month-old plays with them regularly. He isn’t proficient enough yet to put them all back together but we do it together, just like I did with his sister. At the end of the day they are inevitably scattered into a pile of mixed up pieces and upturned boards and each night I sit on my knees putting the A back in the Apple slot and matching the blue fish tale with the blue fish head. It’s a nightly chore, like any other. Sometimes pieces go missing for days and I am on the look out for them because if the puzzles don’t have all their pieces and aren’t reassembled, what’s the point of having them? At which point will my son learn how to match the number 5 puzzle piece with the 5 butterflies if the pieces are forever scattered and missing?

My husband, he doesn’t see the point in such nonsense. His answer is to brush all the pieces aside in a heap each night. Sometimes, when he steps on an errant pig peg piece, in a huff he suggests throwing them all away because they make such a mess. He doesn’t understand my logic and why I insist on putting them all back together each night. I can’t ever get him to help me put the puzzles back together, either. It is always my job. And I do it, usually, no matter how tired.

We’ve been together for over 11 years, married for 7 of them. We met when I was 23 and he was 24. Previous to meeting my husband I had a couple of “serious” relationships, but nothing that lasted more than a year. Mostly, it was tragic lineage of one mistake after another but on the bright side; by the time I met Brian, I was pretty sure I knew what I didn’t want and decently sure I knew what I did.

I couldn’t believe my good fortune when he came along. He was everything I’d been looking for and much more. I fell, we moved and then married. Eight years in to our relationship, and four years into our marriage, we had our first child. How could we have ever known what to expect? How does anyone?

Personally, becoming a mother rocked me to my core. I knew it would be hard. I knew it would be wonderful. I knew it would be one of the most important things I would ever do and I knew (logically) that it would “change everything” (or so people liked to advise), but how was I to really know what that meant? How does anyone?

How was I to know that I would become a different person from that girl 11 years ago who was pretty sure of what she didn’t want and only decently sure of what she did? How was I to know that having children would push me to the precipice of all my shortcomings and then throw me into the fire of change? How was I supposed to know that wooden puzzles, writing and women’s issues would become important pieces in my life’s puzzle? How was I supposed to know that in the process of shifting the lens of my life onto a child, it would create such a profound shift in me that I no longer recognized the piece of ground on which I stood?

When we first became a couple we fit together so well. We were two people with the same ideas about the same ideas and what differed, didn’t seem to matter. We wanted the same things about the same things and those were the most important things, so it seemed. But then, the two pieces multiplied and at the same time divided into four. Now the puzzle contains more pieces than available slots and some pieces are missing all-together. Right now, there’s a difference in opinion as to how it should all be put back together.

It’s hard enough to make you want to run away.

But the biggest piece of this puzzle we’re facing, is that no one is doing that. No one is giving up on trying to figure this out. No one is ready to shove all the pieces in a pile and move on. I do know that, and for that, I am grateful.

As for my half of this conundrum; I’m trying to focus on the fact that he knows all these wooden puzzles by heart because he has gotten down on his knees dozens of times to put them back together again with our children. I’m trying to become softer, to fit into places I’ve never been before and learn to mold myself to a new, better shape so that it might complement this new structure because I love this structure.

I won’t stop putting the puzzles back together anytime soon because that’s my job, but I’m also trying to respect the fact that he doesn’t feel the same way. My intuition tells me that all married couples traverse these crossroads at some point in their marriage. There is always a moment (or moments) when you look around at the pieces of your life and have to make hard changes and choices as two how their all going to fit together on the new ground on which you stand. Some puzzles are too hard and all require change.

Right now, we are both being forged by the fires of change and I won’t lie, it hurts. It hurts like hell. There is no definitive answers as to what shape we’re going to be in when we emerge from this crucible but because we’re here together, my hope is that we’ll find a way to fit together again. There are pieces coming together as I write this.

Right now, I’m trying to withstand the heat for the sake of all the things I care about most deeply. I’m trying to put aside the pain and focus on the hand that’s shaping me blow-by-blow because the only way to make something as strong as steel into something softer and more malleable… is with flames and pressure. It’s hard work becoming soft, but I’m trying like hell.

We’re trying like hell. And that’s got to be worth something… right?

I feel good about 2013. I’m hopeful, grateful, blessed and evolving… not giving up, but learning to give in.

We Are All Adam Lanza

In the wake of the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary I have witnessed every conceivable reaction. Some want to rage about gun control and security; others want to discuss mental illness. Many want to promote peace and focus on the good. Countless are putting their energy into prayer and espousing religion while others get busy with donations. There are even a few who want retaliation against the NRA. All if it… every. single. last. thing. we are doing is a feeble attempt at making ourselves feel better. They are our personal ways of grieving, coping, looking for answers, explanations, somewhere to place the blame and something to apply a balm for our worst fears come true. All are attempts at control.

I can understand the urge to climb, stand, and die on each of these mountains. I ache to make sense of this random senseless act because I know as humans, if we can contextualize it, if we can fit it neatly inside a label in our heads we can go back to feeling safe again. We can relax a little and cuddle up with a nice, reasonable explanation of why it won’t happen to me.

And then we can all go on ignoring the real issue at hand– the condition of humanity.

Why do we hurt each other, and ourselves? This basic question of self-inflicted human suffering swirls around in my thoughts daily. I ruminate to sleeplessness over human behavior, motivations and masochistic tendencies. My friends frequently implore, “Shannon, stop analyzing everything?!” My reply is always, “Damn it! I wish I could.” These thoughts are second nature to me and it is the fuel for why I write. I know that stories of humanity hold enough power and weight to change the world… hopefully like the one I’m going to tell you now.

My marriage is struggling. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’m in therapy. A close relative is falling down the hole of addiction tethered to a spouse and three precious, young children. My 60-something parents lie awake at night, knotted with worry. This was the pain and suffering in my personal life before twenty children and six women were mercilessly murdered by a man whose been described as, “just a kid” an,”ordinary guy” and “seemed normal.”

I’m not saying Adam Lanza was “normal.” For sure there is a degree of mental illness involved, the extent of which has yet to be revealed, but please keep two things in mind: 1) Research suggests that most perpetrators of “rage killings” do not appear to have active psychotic symptoms at the time of the event, and very few have histories of prior contact with mental health services.  It would appear that Adam Lanza did not. And 2)  Mass “rage killings” are a relatively recent phenomenon in human history.

Mental illness aside, doesn’t it make sense to look at what is happening in our society through a much broader lens than mental illness, gun control and/or the prevalence of religion? Aren’t there truths about the human condition that are universal? Things that lead to a collective nodding of heads instead of more battle lines being drawn? Shouldn’t we start by asking the hard questions about our own human condition, first? Maybe, instead of what makes Adam Lanza different from us, we should ask what makes us all like Adam Lanza?

There are parallels in all human suffering. No one is free of heart ache and pain and right now, RIGHT NOW it feels paramount to dig as deep into the root of these things and investigate all possible causes and solutions so that no one else has to die… on mountains, in schools or otherwise.

I’m not talking about the families of the victims. They are victims themselves. I hurt for them physically and emotionally. I am talking about the “painfully shy” Adam Lanza’s, the alcoholic relative insistent upon destroying their life, and yes me, the anger addict struggling to connect with my spouse.

The writing of this essay started before December 14th. It started with this picture of a meth addict. I was compelled to use all my faculties of left-brain creativity and right-brained analytics to discuss what could possibly make a person do something like this to themselves:

face of meth woman

This is a progression picture of a meth addict over six years. It is part of a campaign to create awareness of the physical effects of meth use over time. When I saw these pictures, I did not see the drastic deterioration of a physical person. I saw the drastic deterioration of a human soul.

But then Sandy Hook Elementary happened and I couldn’t help but draw the parallels between what this young woman has done to herself, and what Adam Lanza did to helpless children.

Humanity suffers from the same affliction in varying degrees. Not all of us will commit heinous crimes, be alcoholics, meth-heads or anger addicts; but the same affliction lies at the root of our self-inflicted pain and the urge to self-destruct. The affliction is disconnection.

I have written many times of the light and dark, ups and downs, the yin and yang of life. There is a balance to nature and energy in this world. It is an ancient spiritual wisdom correlated by the laws of science.

In our world today our ability to numb, distract, disconnect and ignore has never been so easy. With the swipe of a finger across the screen of a smartphone we can avoid our lives, have an illusion of connection, while sitting comfortably alone. This ease at which we are able to keep the world at arm’s length behind a screen has had an equal and opposite effect of desperate disconnection from each other and our inner lives and of whatever one calls God.

Sounds almost counter-intuitive right? How have we become so disconnected in a world where it is so easy to connect?

The answer is shame. Shame is a powerful and painful emotion. Shame is what makes us hide, duck, shirk, defer and numb. Never has there been so much to be shameful about when connected to a world that is so big, so glossy, that has so much to desire and so much to compare ourselves to. It’s quite easy to feel hopelessly insignificant and ordinary in this world. Shame is the by-product of one central, core belief we all have in varying degrees about a variety of ideas:

I am not enough.

The reason we feel that we are not enough? We look at this big glossy world and we feel inferior and alone. Lonely. We do not see past what we want to see. We do not recognize the divinity that lies within ALL of us. That divinity that makes us the same; connects us to each other; the part that tells us that we are not alone, never alone; that we are not so different, that we are all basically the same and that we are all loved no matter our flaws. The divinity that tells us that we need to be nothing other than who and what we already are. In a word (that means so may different things to so many people) we are disconnected from God.

This human condition of shame and disconnection is a vicious cycle. It is one that I have traced and re-traced a million times in my life. The more I disconnect, the more I feel alone. The more I feel alone, the more I self-destruct.

In light of what is happening in my own life, and now, in darkness of the events in Newtown, Connecticut, my hyper-active analytic right/left brain kicked into overdrive. I sat down one day, when I should have been doing something else, and what poured out of me was the following flow chart of The Human Condition. It was my attempt to understand my own disconnection and the cycle of toxic thinking that plagues my life, my relatives, the meth-addict you see above, and perhaps, too, the painful shy (i.e. painfully alone) Adam Lanza.

The Human Condition Flow Chart

It has taken me years to come to these conclusions. I could provide a bibliography along with the number of hours spent analyzing human behavior, but would that make this any more, or less true? The true test of its validity does not lie in a text-book but if you can see yourself on this treadmill of pain. If you do, then I welcome you here. I welcome you to connect with me to explore our humanity together. I have worn path after path along these lines and I am trying, with stories, awareness, yoga and seeking a God-centered life to stay connected to my life; to heal my own pain and if I am so honored, help others do the same.

This isn’t about religion. Religion can be a road map to God but it is not the same as God. It’s a road map that has been helpful in my life. But religion does not own the only connections to divinity and anyone who insists their religion is the only way, is continuing to draw lines that divide and disconnect humanity. I’m not interested in that, but I will respect you all the same.

I am also not a professional. I do not have a list of letters behind my name. I am just a person who thinks a lot about people and is willing to share my stories.

daring greatlyI also read a lot of books on the human condition. Lately, I must give credit to someone with an impressive resume whom I’ve been connecting to; the incomparable Brene Brown, Ph.D.  I have watched her Ted talks and I am reading her book, “Daring Greatly.” This woman, she is brilliance. She is the perfect mix of left-brained, creative, compassionate wisdom, and right-brained, structured analysis. This happens to be the exact dialect I speak.

If you are reading this and you can hear me; if you can connect with anything I have written, then know you are one less lonely person and now, so am I. If we can create a collective web of less lonely people, no matter their dialect, no matter their religion, perhaps no one will slip through the cracks again.

You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye. ~Matthew 7:5

Pain removes the veil; it plants the flag of truth within the fortress of a rebel soul. ~C.S. Lewis

All that we are is a result of what we have thought. The mind is everything. What we think, we become. ~Buddha

Grief can be the garden of compassion. If you keep your heart open through everything, your pain can become your greatest ally in your life’s search for love and wisdom. ~Rumi

And we say Namaste: the divine in me honors the divine in you.