In grief, the world feels distorted, like you're under a bell jar, the voices filtering in from behind the glass. Life carries on, glassy and a little distant. The grief has lessened now, the waves less regular. The world is less distorted.
I moved from grief into a few weeks of unrelenting anxiety. In anxiety, the world becomes very small. Whatever occurs, you return to center, and the center to which you return is the thing you are anxious about. It's like being in love, but instead of your beloved at the center, it is your worry.
The grip of anxiety has finally loosened (the external stimulus for the worrying almost gone for a few minutes anyway), and there, at the gooey center of myself, I am pummeled and tender. What will be next? Sickness? Depression? Healing? Transcendence? I intend the latter.
I have this unsettled quivering thing in my center now (very different from grief, which is carried in the chest.) It is also very different from anxiety, which is a tight knot that makes it hard to breathe. Now I can breathe, and ask myself, "What's this?"
At the gooey center, I realize I will never be the same again. Now that I am getting to know death and cancer and heart defects and divorce and unimaginable loss more intimately, I cannot close my eyes to these things anymore. I can't go skipping along daydreaming about my garden very much. There's so much suffering. I read on Facebook, on all those captioned pictures people send around, the message to enjoy your wild and precious life, seize the day, design your life, live your best life, go down your bucket list, and on and on. I get the message, I really do. But I'm not there.
Right now, I'm just a pile of overcooked noodles. The dullest knife can cut me up into mushy pieces.
I think the thing to hope for is that, as life keeps cooking me, the tenderness blooms into compassion and understanding. It isn't really any of my business, though. My business is this moment, right now, drinking my tea, breathing, before I get back to my actual life: feeding cats, feeding children, watering gardens, washing dishes and clothes, packing snacks, living. This moment is my teacher.
Monday, August 12, 2013
Saturday, July 20, 2013
Grief
My dad died suddenly, four Thursdays ago, from a heart attack. My dad could do anything. He was ornery, difficult, argumentative, and when I was little, I thought, scary. But he could do anything, and I was sure he would live forever. I wrote an essay in elementary school about how amazing I thought my dad was. There's a part of me that is still that kid. I still can't quite believe he's gone. My inner child and my adult self are having quite a go-round.
When I was little, in the backseat of the car, my dad would rest his right hand up on the back of the passenger side headrest, when he was driving. I would sit in the middle of the back seat, scrunched between my sister and my brother, and I would stare at his hand, his arm. I stared at it all the way from New York to Florida, once, and back again. It was huge, thick, tanned, hairy. His hand was covered with scars. These hands built things, fixed things, they could do anything. He was so strong. How can he be gone?
When I was little, I used to tense at the sound of my dad's big boots clomping down the hall. I was afraid I'd done something wrong, forgotten to put wood in the stove, left his hammer in the woods, afraid he was going to yell at me. In adolescence, I wrote angry poems about his boots. When I saw his boots sitting in the closet two weeks ago, I couldn't believe it. How can he be gone?
The last time I remember hugging my dad, he was wearing a blue short-sleeved button up shirt. It was in the driveway. He was really happy to see me. He gave me his big bear hug. Being hugged by my dad as an adult was like disappearing for a moment into a big, warm, strong thing that smelled wonderful. When I was little he smelled like cigarettes and beer, but in the last several years, he just smelled like himself. I know that wasn't the last time I hugged him, but for some reason it's the last time I really remember.
A few years after I left home, I got pretty mad at him, and wrote him letters, gave him a piece of my mind. He wrote back, tried to apologize in his own way. But he didn't come to my wedding. It was a pretty sad affair. I keep waiting for my husband to ask me to renew our vows. I keep thinking maybe, somehow, this time my dad will come, walk down the aisle with me. But no. He can't.
Three years after I got married, my parents came through town with their RV. My dad held my baby daughter in his lap, with a big goofy smile.
I used to come home every day after school, alone. Later, my dad would get home. He would just stand outside, decompressing, staring at the pond, walking around the yard, looking at the flowerbeds, staring at the woods. I would walk around inside the house, looking out the windows, watching him watching. I loved my dad so much in those moments. I wished I could reach him; I always wondered what he was thinking. I loved the way he looked at the land. He looked at growing things the same way my grandma used to, had the same way of walking around the garden, like he was visiting old friends. I carry that in me.
Two years ago, I visited my parents in Florida. I couldn't quite put it together, this person without this piece of land to go with him. They had an RV in a campground. Who was my dad without the farm? I couldn't quite put it together.
My mother told me that before he died, my dad desperately needed to go to the dentist, and to get his cataracts removed. He wouldn't go; he was too anxious and scared. How could my dad be scared of anything? Hearing, afterwards, how he declined, how he was in too much pain to do so many things, this in some ways is just as upsetting as his death. How could this happen to my dad?
The thing is, despite all his flaws, my dad is still a superhero in my mind. A cranky, difficult one, but still: a superhero. Strong, smart, incredibly capable. The thing is, if my dad could get old and weak, fall apart, and his heart give out-- if my dad could die, then... oh... there's no hope for any of us.
I mean, of course there isn't; we all have to go sometime-- but now, I believe it. I mean, I can't believe it... but I do. It's a sea change.
It's just so profoundly appalling. A curtain lifted. Now everything seems very fragile. My mother, my beloved mother-and-father-in-law, my husband, my children, my sister's family, my nephew with a life-threatening heart condition, my brother (who's sure he's going to live forever,) my friend whose hair is falling out, friends who will move away, my friend with breast cancer, my cats....me.... all living on borrowed time, slipping away. I can't believe I'm going to lose people over and over again...or people are going to lose me... it's just appalling.
I'm filled with anticipatory grief for everyone and everything I love.
Right now, I feel so shut down, like loving people is a recipe for disaster. Right now, I think the pain of separating--however it happens, whomever goes first-- will be too wretched to bear. The more I love, the worse it will be.
What possible evolutionary purpose does this kind of grief serve?
EDIT: Okay, I googled it. This makes sense:
I'm not exactly sure what this means: "Grief – in its most basic form – represents an alarm reaction set off by a deficit signal in the behavioural system underlying attachment," because I don't know how a behavioral system physically releases a deficit signal...probably something to do with cortisol and a cascade of hormones... but the basic idea makes sense.
Here is another explanation I found, which seems pretty clear:
When I was little, in the backseat of the car, my dad would rest his right hand up on the back of the passenger side headrest, when he was driving. I would sit in the middle of the back seat, scrunched between my sister and my brother, and I would stare at his hand, his arm. I stared at it all the way from New York to Florida, once, and back again. It was huge, thick, tanned, hairy. His hand was covered with scars. These hands built things, fixed things, they could do anything. He was so strong. How can he be gone?
When I was little, I used to tense at the sound of my dad's big boots clomping down the hall. I was afraid I'd done something wrong, forgotten to put wood in the stove, left his hammer in the woods, afraid he was going to yell at me. In adolescence, I wrote angry poems about his boots. When I saw his boots sitting in the closet two weeks ago, I couldn't believe it. How can he be gone?
The last time I remember hugging my dad, he was wearing a blue short-sleeved button up shirt. It was in the driveway. He was really happy to see me. He gave me his big bear hug. Being hugged by my dad as an adult was like disappearing for a moment into a big, warm, strong thing that smelled wonderful. When I was little he smelled like cigarettes and beer, but in the last several years, he just smelled like himself. I know that wasn't the last time I hugged him, but for some reason it's the last time I really remember.
A few years after I left home, I got pretty mad at him, and wrote him letters, gave him a piece of my mind. He wrote back, tried to apologize in his own way. But he didn't come to my wedding. It was a pretty sad affair. I keep waiting for my husband to ask me to renew our vows. I keep thinking maybe, somehow, this time my dad will come, walk down the aisle with me. But no. He can't.
Three years after I got married, my parents came through town with their RV. My dad held my baby daughter in his lap, with a big goofy smile.
I used to come home every day after school, alone. Later, my dad would get home. He would just stand outside, decompressing, staring at the pond, walking around the yard, looking at the flowerbeds, staring at the woods. I would walk around inside the house, looking out the windows, watching him watching. I loved my dad so much in those moments. I wished I could reach him; I always wondered what he was thinking. I loved the way he looked at the land. He looked at growing things the same way my grandma used to, had the same way of walking around the garden, like he was visiting old friends. I carry that in me.
Two years ago, I visited my parents in Florida. I couldn't quite put it together, this person without this piece of land to go with him. They had an RV in a campground. Who was my dad without the farm? I couldn't quite put it together.
My mother told me that before he died, my dad desperately needed to go to the dentist, and to get his cataracts removed. He wouldn't go; he was too anxious and scared. How could my dad be scared of anything? Hearing, afterwards, how he declined, how he was in too much pain to do so many things, this in some ways is just as upsetting as his death. How could this happen to my dad?
The thing is, despite all his flaws, my dad is still a superhero in my mind. A cranky, difficult one, but still: a superhero. Strong, smart, incredibly capable. The thing is, if my dad could get old and weak, fall apart, and his heart give out-- if my dad could die, then... oh... there's no hope for any of us.
I mean, of course there isn't; we all have to go sometime-- but now, I believe it. I mean, I can't believe it... but I do. It's a sea change.
It's just so profoundly appalling. A curtain lifted. Now everything seems very fragile. My mother, my beloved mother-and-father-in-law, my husband, my children, my sister's family, my nephew with a life-threatening heart condition, my brother (who's sure he's going to live forever,) my friend whose hair is falling out, friends who will move away, my friend with breast cancer, my cats....me.... all living on borrowed time, slipping away. I can't believe I'm going to lose people over and over again...or people are going to lose me... it's just appalling.
I'm filled with anticipatory grief for everyone and everything I love.
Right now, I feel so shut down, like loving people is a recipe for disaster. Right now, I think the pain of separating--however it happens, whomever goes first-- will be too wretched to bear. The more I love, the worse it will be.
What possible evolutionary purpose does this kind of grief serve?
EDIT: Okay, I googled it. This makes sense:
Evolutionary biologists think that grief is passed on not because it provides benefit in itself, but rather it is a side effect of having relationships. As anyone who every had separation anxiety as a kid — or who lost track of their parents at the beach — knows, our bodies produce stress hormones when we’re separated from our parents, and the only way for those bad feelings to go away is to come together again. This biological reaction to separation keeps us together because staying together provides an evolutionary benefit. Kids and their parents — the core relationship evolutionarily — rely on one another for protection and genetic proliferation respectively, and so being drawn together and kept together is advantageous.
In more social animals, such as humans, those reciprocal relationships extend beyond parent-child. Our siblings help us survive, as do our aunts, uncles and friends. And, when we are separated, our bodies send out alarm cries to bring us back together. But, after death, the two cannot be rejoined. I stressed out while my hormones pushed me to find Pat. But he isn’t coming back, compounding the stress. “Grief – in its most basic form – represents an alarm reaction set off by a deficit signal in the behavioural system underlying attachment,” writes psychology professor John Archer of the University of Central Lancashire in his book The Nature of Grief.( From: http://blogs.scientificamerican.com/culturing-science/2011/11/11/the-evolution-of-grief-both-biological-and-cultural-in-the-21st-century/ )
I'm not exactly sure what this means: "Grief – in its most basic form – represents an alarm reaction set off by a deficit signal in the behavioural system underlying attachment," because I don't know how a behavioral system physically releases a deficit signal...probably something to do with cortisol and a cascade of hormones... but the basic idea makes sense.
Here is another explanation I found, which seems pretty clear:
Here are two functions of grief, both of which strike me as highly adaptive.
1. To prevent the loss of a relative, or ally.
Relatives have your genes in them, and so should not be lightly lost, and allies help you spread your genes, and so too should be valued alive. If you know that you would feel grief if you were to lose a certain person, then you will avoid the pain of grief and so prevent their death if you can. A simple example is a mother, knowing that she would feel grief were one of her children run over by a car, who forbids her children to play in the street. She does not need to lose one child and actually experience the grief for this to be a motivation. She only has to be able to imagine how she would feel. This, in turn, I believe, is why people, especially nurturing types like mothers, enjoy sad stories. Nature has equipped them with a way to rehearse bad feelings in a harmless way, so that they are useful even if not experienced "for real" (see my theory on tragedy)
2. So that we instinctively show ourselves to be good allies.( From http://www.lloydianaspects.co.uk/evolve/grief.html )
In order that we may make and keep allies, it is good to show grief at the loss of one ally, so that others of our surviving allies see our grief, and thus learn what a true ally we are. If my best friend lost a close friend of his and just said "C'est la vie" and carried on as usual, I would get the impression that he probably didn't care much about me either, and so could not be relied upon were I to have a crisis. I would seek a better friend. Grief, being an involuntary emotion, forces us to show what good allies we can be. Humans cannot be relied upon to fake this sort of thing convincingly.
The emotion of grief evolved. We know this because we today are all capable of feeling it. It is in us, innate. No one teaches us how to feel grief. It has become a human universal because it is very useful. People of the past who felt no grief did not become our ancestors. They didn't look after their children, and they didn't forge strong alliances.
Of course, this knowledge doesn't make grieving people feel okay again. If it did, it would take away the value of the grief. Grief needs to hurt in order to work.
Friday, July 19, 2013
Gordon Neufeld and Easy Parenting
Let me tell you where I'm coming from. I was raised as a protestant, told in confirmation class that one of the important ways we were different from Catholics is that we might speak directly to god, with no intermediary. I am no theologist; this is merely what I was told. Culturally, this stuck. I come from long, deep lines of farmers-- stalwart emigrants from England and Germany who were protestant, if not literally puritanical. The cultural message I was raised with is this: what we do in this world, we will do ourselves. We will overcome adversity by pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps and soldiering on. We will rely on our native abilities and sense alone. We will speak with god directly and independently.
Thus, I am a cultural protestant, and while life and experience have taught me the necessity of interdependency and the risks and rewards of vulnerability, I confess to you, oh Internet: I remain a protestant when it comes to parenting.
This is to say: gurus, philosophers, self-help books and parenting fads are deeply suspect to me. The community I tend to surround myself with is made up of wildly independent, difficult people, who, like myself, are leery of bandwagons. It upsets me to witness flocks of people gathering around a parenting ideology, quite possibly to the detriment of the real, actual child in their home.
Gordon Neufeld is revered around here. His book "Hold On To Your Kids" is regularly cited in homeschool circles. Neufeld argues that children need to have their primary attachment be to their parents and not to their peers-- an excellent fit with homeschooling parents, and for all parents, perhaps. That's not at all a bad argument, but he goes so much further than this.
I have read many times that Neufeld begins his talks with the stated goal of making children "easier to parent". Let's be honest about this. Making children easier to parent is a nice goal, I guess, but should that be the goal? Not to make their lives more authentic or fulfilling-- but to make parenting easier?
Underneath all the parenting advice, there is a tacit message about what the perfect, healthy, "properly" attached child is like. Cooperative, they look up to the parent with wondering eyes, palms spread wide, saying "Teach me, wise parent! Fill me with your wisdom and show me the way with your example!" In touch with her "Alpha Instincts," the mother leads her children forward confidently, with no argument or contrariness. All the problems children have today with anxiety, arguing, contrariness, bullying, bossiness-- all can be traced to not being in "right relationship" with their authority figures. Parents must be in touch with their "Alpha Instincts," and be confident enough in leading that children can feel safe enough to follow. Like magic, all will be well.
You can attend intensives and advanced training in "making sense of children." You can listen to Neufeld earnestly discuss his ideas all you like. There's even an Institute!
"We cannot parent children whose hearts we do not have." He says this repeatedly. The idea is this: first you get the child to fall in love with you, to want to please you (this happens naturally in the properly attached child) and then you lead them confidently in the direction of their (your) dreams, like little ducks.
I disagree with this approach. Some children tend to want to please, others do not. That's natural variation. It's not an inherently desirable or undesirable quality. Why not meet the child wherever they are? Why not have an authentic relationship that doesn't involve manipulating the child? Instead of a natural tendency to want to please their parents, I think any person has a natural desire to get their needs met. Maybe sometimes getting a need met (such as contribution, belonging, or acceptance) can look like pleasing.
Neufeld talks about taking a year off to study all the attachment theory he could find, putting it all together-- that sounds to me like a fine intellectual exercise; he is clearly gifted in the realm of synthesizing ideas. I understand. It's fun to do! But if one wants to help actual children, one would be better off just spending a year with actual children, just paying attention. Believe it or not, your relationship with your child doesn't have to be based around power dynamics at all. It's pretty clear that Neufeld isn't in this for the kids, though. He's in it for the parents, and the parents want their kids to cooperate.
Instead of treating your child like an ideological problem to be solved-- a heart to be won and manipulated into what someone else tells you is "right relationship"-- I suggest you stop. Stop seeking cooperation, stop seeking easy parenting, stop seeking peace above all else, stop seeking control. Begin the uncomfortable process of giving up control, of responding to your child's needs, even if they conflict with your desires. Respond to the actual person in front of you, who has their own actual thoughts and feelings and schedule for "unfolding" that may not follow the expected schedule, and respond genuinely, from the heart, without strategizing. Take them seriously; don't assume you know better what your child needs than they do. You don't. Allow them to prove you wrong. Instead of trying to get in touch with your "Alpha Instincts," try being your child's partner. Try trusting them more. If they have needs and opinions that differ from yours, it's okay; if conflict should arise, that's okay, too. It is possible to work together to find solutions that meet everybody's needs to the greatest degree possible without trying to enact a particular power dynamic between parent and child. Sometimes the best solutions for everyone turn out to be damn inconvenient for the parent. Sometimes it isn't easy, and that's okay.
I'm not sure an obedient, "well-behaved" child is a particularly worthwhile goal. I value authenticity, trust, honesty, clear thinking and communication skills far above cooperation. It is very difficult, for instance, to be genuinely compassionate toward others without being able to think clearly. Does our country really need more people who follow authority figures? Why not nurture a generation of children who have well-developed critical thinking skills, who can question authority, who can connect with some of the independent spirit that makes America unique? Why not nurture children to develop their own sense of self, instead of feeling safe under the umbrella of their "Alpha" authority figure? Why not help them to feel safe walking beside us, as equals, but with different levels of experience? It's a foreign thought for those of us who were the attachment mothers of babies, but maybe attachment theory isn't really all that useful after the first few years of life. Perhaps there is a natural transition in the years between "school-age" and adulthood, from dependency to partnership.
I really find Neufeld's stance unfortunate. As far as I can tell, it encourages manipulation for the sake of convenience. Perhaps it's helped some families stop being so mean to each other, and that's really good. I'm glad. But instead of working through the fog of ideology and massive amounts of theory, families would be better off communicating directly, taking one another quite seriously, even if some of the people involved are mere children.
The most popular parenting approaches tend to be about ways to control children, masked as compassion. It can be very alluring; Neufeld is just the most recent iteration. I support the idea of working towards co-existence, rather than control. My role with my children is not that of a leader; my role is that of a more experienced tour guide, resource, and passionate advocate.
If you are a recovering control freak, like me, you might try reading something by John Holt, who was not at all interested in control. You may find yourself less focused on controlling your kids, and more curious about them, and what you can learn together.
Thus, I am a cultural protestant, and while life and experience have taught me the necessity of interdependency and the risks and rewards of vulnerability, I confess to you, oh Internet: I remain a protestant when it comes to parenting.
This is to say: gurus, philosophers, self-help books and parenting fads are deeply suspect to me. The community I tend to surround myself with is made up of wildly independent, difficult people, who, like myself, are leery of bandwagons. It upsets me to witness flocks of people gathering around a parenting ideology, quite possibly to the detriment of the real, actual child in their home.
Gordon Neufeld is revered around here. His book "Hold On To Your Kids" is regularly cited in homeschool circles. Neufeld argues that children need to have their primary attachment be to their parents and not to their peers-- an excellent fit with homeschooling parents, and for all parents, perhaps. That's not at all a bad argument, but he goes so much further than this.
I have read many times that Neufeld begins his talks with the stated goal of making children "easier to parent". Let's be honest about this. Making children easier to parent is a nice goal, I guess, but should that be the goal? Not to make their lives more authentic or fulfilling-- but to make parenting easier?
Underneath all the parenting advice, there is a tacit message about what the perfect, healthy, "properly" attached child is like. Cooperative, they look up to the parent with wondering eyes, palms spread wide, saying "Teach me, wise parent! Fill me with your wisdom and show me the way with your example!" In touch with her "Alpha Instincts," the mother leads her children forward confidently, with no argument or contrariness. All the problems children have today with anxiety, arguing, contrariness, bullying, bossiness-- all can be traced to not being in "right relationship" with their authority figures. Parents must be in touch with their "Alpha Instincts," and be confident enough in leading that children can feel safe enough to follow. Like magic, all will be well.
You can attend intensives and advanced training in "making sense of children." You can listen to Neufeld earnestly discuss his ideas all you like. There's even an Institute!
"We cannot parent children whose hearts we do not have." He says this repeatedly. The idea is this: first you get the child to fall in love with you, to want to please you (this happens naturally in the properly attached child) and then you lead them confidently in the direction of their (your) dreams, like little ducks.
I disagree with this approach. Some children tend to want to please, others do not. That's natural variation. It's not an inherently desirable or undesirable quality. Why not meet the child wherever they are? Why not have an authentic relationship that doesn't involve manipulating the child? Instead of a natural tendency to want to please their parents, I think any person has a natural desire to get their needs met. Maybe sometimes getting a need met (such as contribution, belonging, or acceptance) can look like pleasing.
Neufeld talks about taking a year off to study all the attachment theory he could find, putting it all together-- that sounds to me like a fine intellectual exercise; he is clearly gifted in the realm of synthesizing ideas. I understand. It's fun to do! But if one wants to help actual children, one would be better off just spending a year with actual children, just paying attention. Believe it or not, your relationship with your child doesn't have to be based around power dynamics at all. It's pretty clear that Neufeld isn't in this for the kids, though. He's in it for the parents, and the parents want their kids to cooperate.
Instead of treating your child like an ideological problem to be solved-- a heart to be won and manipulated into what someone else tells you is "right relationship"-- I suggest you stop. Stop seeking cooperation, stop seeking easy parenting, stop seeking peace above all else, stop seeking control. Begin the uncomfortable process of giving up control, of responding to your child's needs, even if they conflict with your desires. Respond to the actual person in front of you, who has their own actual thoughts and feelings and schedule for "unfolding" that may not follow the expected schedule, and respond genuinely, from the heart, without strategizing. Take them seriously; don't assume you know better what your child needs than they do. You don't. Allow them to prove you wrong. Instead of trying to get in touch with your "Alpha Instincts," try being your child's partner. Try trusting them more. If they have needs and opinions that differ from yours, it's okay; if conflict should arise, that's okay, too. It is possible to work together to find solutions that meet everybody's needs to the greatest degree possible without trying to enact a particular power dynamic between parent and child. Sometimes the best solutions for everyone turn out to be damn inconvenient for the parent. Sometimes it isn't easy, and that's okay.
I'm not sure an obedient, "well-behaved" child is a particularly worthwhile goal. I value authenticity, trust, honesty, clear thinking and communication skills far above cooperation. It is very difficult, for instance, to be genuinely compassionate toward others without being able to think clearly. Does our country really need more people who follow authority figures? Why not nurture a generation of children who have well-developed critical thinking skills, who can question authority, who can connect with some of the independent spirit that makes America unique? Why not nurture children to develop their own sense of self, instead of feeling safe under the umbrella of their "Alpha" authority figure? Why not help them to feel safe walking beside us, as equals, but with different levels of experience? It's a foreign thought for those of us who were the attachment mothers of babies, but maybe attachment theory isn't really all that useful after the first few years of life. Perhaps there is a natural transition in the years between "school-age" and adulthood, from dependency to partnership.
I really find Neufeld's stance unfortunate. As far as I can tell, it encourages manipulation for the sake of convenience. Perhaps it's helped some families stop being so mean to each other, and that's really good. I'm glad. But instead of working through the fog of ideology and massive amounts of theory, families would be better off communicating directly, taking one another quite seriously, even if some of the people involved are mere children.
The most popular parenting approaches tend to be about ways to control children, masked as compassion. It can be very alluring; Neufeld is just the most recent iteration. I support the idea of working towards co-existence, rather than control. My role with my children is not that of a leader; my role is that of a more experienced tour guide, resource, and passionate advocate.
If you are a recovering control freak, like me, you might try reading something by John Holt, who was not at all interested in control. You may find yourself less focused on controlling your kids, and more curious about them, and what you can learn together.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Connecting Flight
I was born in rural New York, and I live in the Pacific Northwest, but this week, I'm on vacation on Kauai. Vacationing with my family is demanding and wonderful-- we are a spirited lot, who hike and swim and run down the beach and climb trees and get hurt and need comforting and constant creative problem solving. There's usually a moment when I get away by myself to gather my thoughts. Sometimes it's in the ocean, sometimes it's in the woods, but along with all the togetherness and bonding, those private moments are very precious and few. This evening, with only two days of our sojourn remaining, I took a walk. I had less than an hour as the sun set, but the sweetness of walking smoothed the rough edges of my soul, and gathered my thoughts together.
I walked parallel to the beach, behind the treeline where three men had their fishing poles anchored in the sand, through a field where acres of low-growing blue and purple flowers sprawled, and dozens of snow-white egrets browsed for their dinner. I wore my wrap around my shoulders as the mild breeze blew gentle and steady. The air smelled distinctively sweet, and a bird in a treetop fluted its evening song. I walked north toward the coconut fields. As I walked past the straight rows of cultivated tall coconut palms, I smelled the dry cut grass of the fields, and it smelled for all the world like a hay field in June. It transported me back to rural New York in the summer, jumping from bale to bale, chasing fireflies in the dark. This very morning, I remembered, I ordered the char-siu fried rice omelet special. The fried rice tasted just like the kind I used to get at the lone chinese place in the town where I grew up. My mother and I would return hundreds of beer cans to the grocery store every weekend, taking the $12 down the street to buy a Chinese lunch. I found this, in my youth, to be a powerful kind of alchemy. I felt sorry for the proprietors, whom, I worried, must be very lonely without any other Chinese people around. I thought they might even be more lonely than me. But today, walking down a dirt path on an island in the middle of the pacific ocean, so obviously a visitor in a land not my own, I felt quite at my ease. It occurred to me that the Chinese-American restauranteurs might have been content, for all I knew.
As I passed a white haired couple walking back to their hotel from dinner, polystyrene leftover boxes clutched in their hands, I wished my customary wish upon seeing such couples-- that my own partnership might age as well--and admired the man's cheerful red sweater. As I turned to retrace my steps, I thought of the mouth-watering smell of barbequed chicken I had smelled at the hotel earlier in the day. It was the smell of a vinegar and egg based barbeque sauce, a smell which permeated my summers as a child. My mouth watered just thinking of it. A local poultry company produced the sauce/marinade, and my parents used it to grill chicken. I recalled how odd and marvelous it had been, to walk into a hotel in Hawaii, and smell an aroma I'd only ever experienced in New York.
I stopped by the entrance to the adjacent hotel to watch a hungry-looking clowder of cats wander across a parking lot. I counted 6, and tried to imagine what their lives might be like (there seems to be a significant number of feral cat colonies on the island). I spent much of my childhood trying to tame a number of feral cats and kittens. As I walked back through the field, and past the 3 fishermen, now sitting on a bench, looking out at the waves and talking, I was struck by how these tastes and smells today-- my breakfast, the palm grove, the chicken barbeque-- brought me back again and again to New York. I am planning a trip there at the end of summer, and I'm finding I'm looking forward to it more than I was when I woke up this morning.
I've been to Hawaii 4 times in the last 13 years. When I first came, I found my perception was very colored-- almost obscured-- by the preconceptions I brought with me. My uncle had worn loud Hawaiian shirts, listened to the Beach Boys, and had pictures of hula girls on his walls. My dad had watched "Magnum P.I." and "Fantasy Island", and had been stationed on Oahu in the army, in the Hawaii of Elvis Presley. Each time I've returned, some of my preconceptions have been washed away, and more of the genuine healing spirit of this place seeps in. Underneath the dashboard hula girl schtick, there is a genuine spirit of openness and warmth in the people here, and a gentleness in its natural rhythms. The dynamic temperance of the climate is so soothing. Even if many Hawaiians are Christians (there seems to be an impressive number of churches for such a small island), something of the spirit of this place seems to be native to many of the Hawaiians who have crossed my path.
Perhaps this is one of the secrets of traveling: crossing time and space, I connect my present with my past in surprising ways, letting the place I am visiting wash away some of my preconceptions, thereby becoming a little more myself.
I love to walk alone, but I always walk with my favorite walking enthusiasts, Ralph and Henry David, in my mind. I'll leave you with something Ralph once said: " To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment." Walk and travel, travel and walk. Even 45 minutes in the space of 8 days is better than nothing. It might even be enough!
I walked parallel to the beach, behind the treeline where three men had their fishing poles anchored in the sand, through a field where acres of low-growing blue and purple flowers sprawled, and dozens of snow-white egrets browsed for their dinner. I wore my wrap around my shoulders as the mild breeze blew gentle and steady. The air smelled distinctively sweet, and a bird in a treetop fluted its evening song. I walked north toward the coconut fields. As I walked past the straight rows of cultivated tall coconut palms, I smelled the dry cut grass of the fields, and it smelled for all the world like a hay field in June. It transported me back to rural New York in the summer, jumping from bale to bale, chasing fireflies in the dark. This very morning, I remembered, I ordered the char-siu fried rice omelet special. The fried rice tasted just like the kind I used to get at the lone chinese place in the town where I grew up. My mother and I would return hundreds of beer cans to the grocery store every weekend, taking the $12 down the street to buy a Chinese lunch. I found this, in my youth, to be a powerful kind of alchemy. I felt sorry for the proprietors, whom, I worried, must be very lonely without any other Chinese people around. I thought they might even be more lonely than me. But today, walking down a dirt path on an island in the middle of the pacific ocean, so obviously a visitor in a land not my own, I felt quite at my ease. It occurred to me that the Chinese-American restauranteurs might have been content, for all I knew.
As I passed a white haired couple walking back to their hotel from dinner, polystyrene leftover boxes clutched in their hands, I wished my customary wish upon seeing such couples-- that my own partnership might age as well--and admired the man's cheerful red sweater. As I turned to retrace my steps, I thought of the mouth-watering smell of barbequed chicken I had smelled at the hotel earlier in the day. It was the smell of a vinegar and egg based barbeque sauce, a smell which permeated my summers as a child. My mouth watered just thinking of it. A local poultry company produced the sauce/marinade, and my parents used it to grill chicken. I recalled how odd and marvelous it had been, to walk into a hotel in Hawaii, and smell an aroma I'd only ever experienced in New York.
I stopped by the entrance to the adjacent hotel to watch a hungry-looking clowder of cats wander across a parking lot. I counted 6, and tried to imagine what their lives might be like (there seems to be a significant number of feral cat colonies on the island). I spent much of my childhood trying to tame a number of feral cats and kittens. As I walked back through the field, and past the 3 fishermen, now sitting on a bench, looking out at the waves and talking, I was struck by how these tastes and smells today-- my breakfast, the palm grove, the chicken barbeque-- brought me back again and again to New York. I am planning a trip there at the end of summer, and I'm finding I'm looking forward to it more than I was when I woke up this morning.
I've been to Hawaii 4 times in the last 13 years. When I first came, I found my perception was very colored-- almost obscured-- by the preconceptions I brought with me. My uncle had worn loud Hawaiian shirts, listened to the Beach Boys, and had pictures of hula girls on his walls. My dad had watched "Magnum P.I." and "Fantasy Island", and had been stationed on Oahu in the army, in the Hawaii of Elvis Presley. Each time I've returned, some of my preconceptions have been washed away, and more of the genuine healing spirit of this place seeps in. Underneath the dashboard hula girl schtick, there is a genuine spirit of openness and warmth in the people here, and a gentleness in its natural rhythms. The dynamic temperance of the climate is so soothing. Even if many Hawaiians are Christians (there seems to be an impressive number of churches for such a small island), something of the spirit of this place seems to be native to many of the Hawaiians who have crossed my path.
Perhaps this is one of the secrets of traveling: crossing time and space, I connect my present with my past in surprising ways, letting the place I am visiting wash away some of my preconceptions, thereby becoming a little more myself.
I love to walk alone, but I always walk with my favorite walking enthusiasts, Ralph and Henry David, in my mind. I'll leave you with something Ralph once said: " To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment." Walk and travel, travel and walk. Even 45 minutes in the space of 8 days is better than nothing. It might even be enough!
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Non-Violent Communication
I heard a lot about non-violent communication ("NVC") several years back, because so many friends were studying it. Non-Violent Communication is based on a book of the same name by Marshall Rosenberg. It's short, and worth a quick read. Many people have been inspired by it.
The main thing I gleaned from this philosophy was the basic idea that people are a bunch of beings running around trying to get their needs met. When people are being ordinary, run-of-the-mill assholes (I'm not talking about psychopaths, here), it's usually because there's some unmet need that urgently needs tending.
For instance, when my basic need to feel safe is not met-- that is, when I'm scared-- I have a tendency to be kind of a jerk. Same thing when I hurt myself. I hit my head on the oven hood at least once a week (do they make bumpers for those things?) and typically snarl at anyone who comes in the room. After five or ten minutes, I'm fine. I can say clearly, "I'm grumpy because I hurt myself; give me a few minutes and I'll be myself again."
I wish we could all learn this, so well it becomes second nature-- the way we learn to drive a car, or write a check: Learn to look for and identify needs. I used to feel very sad when my husband would come home and not greet me, and just go straight to the kitchen to eat something. I learned that when he comes home, he really needs to eat, and I really need warmth and re-connection. When we identified what we needed from each other, and kindly requested it (a humbling act) we were able to stop taking things personally and help one another get our needs met.
Parents often confuse their own needs with those of their children. For instance, many parents confuse their need for order with something they imagine their child needs. "You need to clean your room, to show that you can take care of your things" often really means, "When the house is clean, my need for order is met, and I feel calm. I demand that you help me clean." "You need to get to bed on time tonight so you can get to gymnastics tomorrow" often means "When you stay up late, it is more difficult for us to get out the door on time the next day, and I need things to be easier, so I demand that you go to sleep." Parents often have a lot of needs around marital relationships. When one parent stays home with the kids, and the other works out of the home, needs often arise on both sides around appreciation, value, and connection. As with my earlier example, I could say to my son, who needs to play (re-connect) with his dad when he walks in the door, "Your Papa needs to eat, and then maybe he will want to play". Many parents have a need to feel competent-- like they're being a "good parent"-- so they say things like, "Only one hour of tv before bed, because too much tv isn't good for you." This probably is not true for most kids, but it might be honest to say, "Only one hour of TV before bed, because if you watch more, I'll feel bad because it's not good parenting (my need for competency won't be met)." Of course, most people won't say that, even if it is basically true.
Imagine a world in which parents can see clearly what they themselves need, and can ask for it, or tend to it themselves. Imagine a world in which parents can help kids identify what they need, and learn to ask for it. Imagine a world in which parents don't project their needs onto their children--because they are a heavy burden to carry-- and can make sense. I certainly don't claim to be an expert at these things but I am grateful to have heard the concept. It's useful.
I am not good at guessing other peoples' motives. I prefer to take people at their word. A lot of us, though, do not say what we mean. When words and actions don't add up, being able to make a good guess at what someone is needing (and not taking it personally) can go a long way toward getting along with others. Sometimes, in the heat of the moment, I don't know what I need, I just feel upset and I'm not sure why. Sometimes I have to just remove myself and think about it for awhile. That happened today, in fact. Sometimes it's really nice when someone comes along who can articulate it for you. I guess that's what folks like to call "empathy".
Technically, the NVC approach involves 4 steps-- making an observation, identifying your feelings, identifying your needs, and making a request: I notice when you come home from work and don't look at me, I feel really sad. I need to reconnect with you, even in a small way, so would you please look at me and smile at or hug me when you walk in?
After a while, this process becomes more natural, and everybody gets their needs pretty well met, at least until the normal stresses of life make it more challenging. Then you have to try harder.
I find it annoying when people go on and on about the philosophy and endless wonderfulness of NVC and get all religious about it, but the basic idea can be, I think, transforming for relationships where people have a lot of resentment as well as a hard time asking for what they need. That covers a lot of us. I encourage everyone to make the effort.
A helpful list of feelings.
A helpful list of needs.
I think I will write separately sometime about how NVC fits nicely as a (basic, non-fanatical) tool in the unschooling home.
The main thing I gleaned from this philosophy was the basic idea that people are a bunch of beings running around trying to get their needs met. When people are being ordinary, run-of-the-mill assholes (I'm not talking about psychopaths, here), it's usually because there's some unmet need that urgently needs tending.
For instance, when my basic need to feel safe is not met-- that is, when I'm scared-- I have a tendency to be kind of a jerk. Same thing when I hurt myself. I hit my head on the oven hood at least once a week (do they make bumpers for those things?) and typically snarl at anyone who comes in the room. After five or ten minutes, I'm fine. I can say clearly, "I'm grumpy because I hurt myself; give me a few minutes and I'll be myself again."
I wish we could all learn this, so well it becomes second nature-- the way we learn to drive a car, or write a check: Learn to look for and identify needs. I used to feel very sad when my husband would come home and not greet me, and just go straight to the kitchen to eat something. I learned that when he comes home, he really needs to eat, and I really need warmth and re-connection. When we identified what we needed from each other, and kindly requested it (a humbling act) we were able to stop taking things personally and help one another get our needs met.
Parents often confuse their own needs with those of their children. For instance, many parents confuse their need for order with something they imagine their child needs. "You need to clean your room, to show that you can take care of your things" often really means, "When the house is clean, my need for order is met, and I feel calm. I demand that you help me clean." "You need to get to bed on time tonight so you can get to gymnastics tomorrow" often means "When you stay up late, it is more difficult for us to get out the door on time the next day, and I need things to be easier, so I demand that you go to sleep." Parents often have a lot of needs around marital relationships. When one parent stays home with the kids, and the other works out of the home, needs often arise on both sides around appreciation, value, and connection. As with my earlier example, I could say to my son, who needs to play (re-connect) with his dad when he walks in the door, "Your Papa needs to eat, and then maybe he will want to play". Many parents have a need to feel competent-- like they're being a "good parent"-- so they say things like, "Only one hour of tv before bed, because too much tv isn't good for you." This probably is not true for most kids, but it might be honest to say, "Only one hour of TV before bed, because if you watch more, I'll feel bad because it's not good parenting (my need for competency won't be met)." Of course, most people won't say that, even if it is basically true.
Imagine a world in which parents can see clearly what they themselves need, and can ask for it, or tend to it themselves. Imagine a world in which parents can help kids identify what they need, and learn to ask for it. Imagine a world in which parents don't project their needs onto their children--because they are a heavy burden to carry-- and can make sense. I certainly don't claim to be an expert at these things but I am grateful to have heard the concept. It's useful.
I am not good at guessing other peoples' motives. I prefer to take people at their word. A lot of us, though, do not say what we mean. When words and actions don't add up, being able to make a good guess at what someone is needing (and not taking it personally) can go a long way toward getting along with others. Sometimes, in the heat of the moment, I don't know what I need, I just feel upset and I'm not sure why. Sometimes I have to just remove myself and think about it for awhile. That happened today, in fact. Sometimes it's really nice when someone comes along who can articulate it for you. I guess that's what folks like to call "empathy".
Technically, the NVC approach involves 4 steps-- making an observation, identifying your feelings, identifying your needs, and making a request: I notice when you come home from work and don't look at me, I feel really sad. I need to reconnect with you, even in a small way, so would you please look at me and smile at or hug me when you walk in?
After a while, this process becomes more natural, and everybody gets their needs pretty well met, at least until the normal stresses of life make it more challenging. Then you have to try harder.
I find it annoying when people go on and on about the philosophy and endless wonderfulness of NVC and get all religious about it, but the basic idea can be, I think, transforming for relationships where people have a lot of resentment as well as a hard time asking for what they need. That covers a lot of us. I encourage everyone to make the effort.
A helpful list of feelings.
A helpful list of needs.
I think I will write separately sometime about how NVC fits nicely as a (basic, non-fanatical) tool in the unschooling home.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
My Garden, My Life
 |
| Pastoral beauty, ancestral home. |
 |
| Making memories of her own, maybe. |
Roses and Petunias for my dad. Trillium, forget-me-nots and fragrant violets for the woods I used to know intimately as a child. Black-eyed susans and daisies for the fields. Phlox and rhubarb like those that have grown in front of my parents house all my life. Bearded iris like the ones out past the garage, siberian iris like the ones at the end of the long driveway where I spent hundreds of hours waiting for the schoolbus. Peonies for the bush that grew under the old bird feeder, next to the well. Geraniums for my mother-in-law, zinnias for her father, whom I never met, but love anyway, because he loved flowers too. Mock orange for an afternoon on the UMass Amherst campus, where my heart broke open with the scent of that plant. Hollyhocks for my teacher, a poet who loved his Vermont garden. A fig tree for an evening and good conversation in a hot tub on Vashon Island many years ago. Wallflower and crocosmia in memoriam for my old garden, and the house I lived in when I became a mother. A cherry tree for my daughter, a plum tree for my son. Spicy red snapdragons and red raspberries for my sweetheart. Peas for my sister, with whom I once lay in the sun in the everlasting afternoon, on the hood of an old black car, splitting them open one by one. And for me... I love them all, but in my own secret garden, the tulips are just for me. The thick-stemmed, huge, sultry red ones, the aching pale pink ones, the angelic white ones, the dark and secretive black ones, the fancy Rembrandt parrot ones, the simple cheery yellows, the difficult pointy-petaled ones, the gypsy polka peony-petaled ones...all for me. The Lily of the Valley I dug up in New York, from the earth of 3 generations of my family, carried 3000 miles in my suitcase, transplanted in Washington... for me. The pale Canterbury Bells, which almost ring, for me. The clerodendron tree, with its wonder upon botanical wonder, discovered in Seattle one sunny singing afternoon with a beloved friend... only for me.My garden is made of love and memory, and it is one of the best things in my life.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Moment by Moment
What a long, grey rainy season it's been in Washington. Earlier this week I had a moment that broke my heart open. It was just a small thing: my daughter, unable to sleep, asked me to draw her a bath at 12:30 in the morning. It was not hard for me to do. I was tired, I lay in bed, but we had no need to be up early. I had no reasonable objection. "Sure, why not!" No biggie.
Six months ago, it would have been harder. I likely would have kvetched about it as I dragged myself out of bed, making sure she felt guilty about it. A year and a half ago, I simply would have refused. Who gives their child a bath after midnight? Such a simple thing. The result? More happiness. Peace. A child who feels right in the world, and can drift off in comfort. A need met.
Life is made of these moments.
I am really glad I am able to become a nicer person, both for my children, and for the sad little kid inside me.
Six months ago, it would have been harder. I likely would have kvetched about it as I dragged myself out of bed, making sure she felt guilty about it. A year and a half ago, I simply would have refused. Who gives their child a bath after midnight? Such a simple thing. The result? More happiness. Peace. A child who feels right in the world, and can drift off in comfort. A need met.
Life is made of these moments.
I am really glad I am able to become a nicer person, both for my children, and for the sad little kid inside me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)