Friday, July 30, 2010

Good Dreams

The visions that have appeared to me on that silver lake of dreams have been thought provoking of late.

I dreamed of a life in which consequences were immediate.  As I drove along a road, up a mountain side,  I spoke impatiently to the kids who were buckled in behind me.  Instantly storms began to brew and lightning struck.  I was startled into an awareness of my sins.  My impatience had become so common I no longer noticed it.  A tornado formed and wound its way toward our car.  I felt the imminence of our destruction as I watched the road ripped up around me.  I knew if I did not repent we would all die.  And so I opened my mouth and apologized, and felt so glad!  The tornado dissolved and the clouds rolled away, and we proceeded along the (now bumpy road) toward the mountain top.  "How marvelous!" I thought "at last I can be perfect!"  It would be so, so much easier this way, to have a world in which consequences were immediate.  I think I would be able to be perfect, if only calamities pointed out my every mistake!  I reflected, also, on how as a parent, I can bless my young children by being consistent and quick with the consequences I employ.  It only I was perfect at it, would they be happier, too?

I dreamed of power wielded by evil men bent to destroy.  It was hurled against people, objects, areas, obliterating everything it was turned against.  But there were some who stood up to that evil power, without weapons or malice.  Calmly, powerfully they turned their minds to protection, to wholeness, to strength.  The obliterating evil shattered against the power of their thoughts like a waterfall on rock. That which was protected by those powerful thoughts--focused and unwavering--remained whole.  It worried me, on waking, to reflect on how scattered and distracted my own thoughts are, and how poorly I control them.  I would be disciplined in my thoughts, that they, too, may be powerful.  What should I be protecting?

I dreamed of learning to manipulate matter, to create and recreate, to dissolve and change what was around me.  Sam and I learned together and rejoiced in our new power.  And then, I was mute, and no longer in my training environment.  There were people all around me, sad, and needy.  Silently, I found them, one by one, conceived their trouble, and drew from what was around me to create a gift for them, perfectly suited.  I presented it with a smile and a powerful projection of love.  Each one knew he or she was loved, and was healed!  It was a beautiful dream, a reflection of my heart.
         That dream came to me when I was living in a situation of being misunderstood, resented, and criticized.  How I wanted to be able to give without words, (which were always twisted), and to prove my love and reveal my intentions in a way that could not be misconstrued or marginalized.   I wanted desperately to heal, to bless, to lift and give to the hurting people living around me.  Instead, every action and word brought animosity.  It broke my heart, and the dream was a sweet, sweet balm.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

A Rock and a Hard Place

Sam and I had been married for about 3 months, and I was close to graduating with a degree in Marriage, Family and Human Development when I came to the unpleasant realization that I really didn't know how to be married.  I had studied, planned, worked, learned, and observed how to be part of a strong relationship, and yet, it was all for naught, apparently.  I didn't get it.

The root of the problem was in reconciling apparently mutually exclusive needs/desires.  If Sam really wanted to watch an action movie, and I really wanted to watch a romance, what should we do?  Or what if he really needed some lovin' and I really needed some sleep?  I felt paralyzed and hopeless.  It was a no-win situation, a zero-sum game, and it just didn't feel right!  His needs or mine?  Should I be selfish or a martyr?

Unfortunately, as life has continued on, the number of needs and desires to reconcile has only grown.  Now I can either watch a movie with Sam or get some sleep or take care of the crying baby.  Or I can either let an exhausted baby sleep or go to a doctor's visit or have friends for the other kids over.  I can either let my baby have his naturally occurring sleep schedule or pick my kids up from school.  I'm not drawing up the alternatives all that well, but you probably get the point.  These situations have plagued me particularly for the past year, as I've tried to get enough sleep not to have a mental break-down, and take care of a very needy baby, and not totally neglect my other children.  I usually want to throw my hands up in frustration and scream "I quit!  I can't win!!" and then go hide in a hole and cry.

Of course, as I have already established, running away isn't actually the answer.  So WHAT IS?!  What can I do when there is only one of me and only one path in space and time that I can proceed down?  If only I had the advantage of being able to see into the future and explore multiple versions of reality and find out which would have the best outcome. . . but I don't and I can't and so I have to do the best with what I have.

I think James, who has been faithfully calling me this past week to make sure I'm not having a mental breakdown and am making choices that lead to happiness and sustainability, would remind me about the importance of making priorities.  "You can't do everything, you have to choose," he reminded me.  But sometimes that is SO DANG HARD!  Like take yesterday for example.  Yesterday morning Isaac awoke at 4 am, at which point I had had four hours of sleep (being unable to sleep the night before for unknown reasons.)  I was very tired and grumpy.  By 5:30 am, despite my best efforts, he had awoken Carol and Dorothea, so then there was no going back to sleep for anyone.  On the way to the 8 am appointment, he fell asleep for 5 minutes in the car, a testament to his exhaustion.  Then we went to his appointment, and sat for two hours waiting for the doctor to come and recast him.  The girls were great.  They watched a movie on the portable DVD player (which worked when plugged into the wall, if not when plugged into the car.)  Isaac, however, got more and more tired and by the time the doctor came to do the casts, he was screaming uncontrollably.  Four nurses and mommy all worked at once to try to calm him, and finish the casts.  He thrashed, bawled, rejected the paci (even with sugar water!), rejected the bottle, rejected five different toys and utterly refused to be appeased.  Only as they finished up with the casts did his eyes start to get heavy and sleep begin to come over him.  After another brief fit of screaming in the waiting room as I was making an appointment for next time (the strain of doing it every week was too much, and I made the next appointment for two weeks instead), he fell asleep in about 10 seconds of being put in the car.

Now, usually, having an exhausted baby sleep would be a good thing.  Unfortunately, this time I had another need/desire to reconcile.  The girls had come along to St. Louis happily, and been good on the very long car ride (considering), all with the happy expectation of getting to go to the Magic House after Isaac's appointment.  The Magic House is about a 10 minute drive from Shriner's Hospital, and we arrived there quite promptly after the appointment.  There was no where else I needed (or knew) to go, to kill time in the car while Isaac slept.  Besides which, I thought it was not a good idea to kill too much time in the car, as we still had a 5-6 hour drive home.   So there I was.  If it was just me, I would have taken off for home immediately, happy to have the baby sleeping.  But then the girl's happy expectation of time at the Magic House (which, while not exactly promised, was certainly understood) would not be realized.

I sat in the parking lot, feeling stuck between a rock and a hard place.  Exhaustion was not a good companion in making a well-prioritized decision, and again, as is often the case, I felt like it was impossible to win.  Let Isaac sleep and go home or fulfill the girls' expectation?  Eventually my hand was forced, as both girls proclaimed the need to go to the bathroom, and so we got out of the car, (me, lingering over a sleeping Isaac) and went in.

The rest of the story is that Isaac, while tired, did fine at the Magic House.  The girls enjoyed their time thoroughly, and were satisfied within a couple of hours, so we headed back home at a reasonable hour.  Isaac went back to sleep easily and slept well on the trip, and was mostly happy once he woke up.  I slept well last night, and woke up refreshed.  It all worked out.  It was only in the moment of decision that it seemed impossible to win.  In fact, everybody won, just not all at once.

As I recall, when I first started feeling distressingly stuck between a rock and a hard place over a decade ago, I eventually came to a similar discovery.  Life is full of opportunities to disappoint and satisfy our own and other's needs and desires.  If it doesn't work out today, well, maybe it will work out tomorrow.  Perspective and flexibility are essential ingredients of healthy relationships.  If I can open my myopic mind from the very moment of the decision and the zero-sum game that seems to be in play, I find a much broader playing field, where, with some flexibility, consideration, and perspective, everybody can win.

I think the myopia which paralyzes me in the face of an apparently no-win situation is, happily, not a permanent thing.  It seems to prevail when I am particularly tired or hungry or otherwise needy.  (I just discovered this pattern in writing this post--pretty much every no-win situation involves me being very tired!)  Remembering this pattern may be a good defense against the hopelessness that surfaces when I feel stuck between two mutually-exclusive needs.  Knowing that my vision is clouded, and that my understandings are shaded with negativity when I feel that hopelessness descend upon me means that I don't have to give them as much import as I otherwise might.  Being able to selectively discount my own feelings is powerful.  It means I am less a victim of my human, imperfect, fallen, mortal, (there is some word here that I am looking for, but of course, I don't remember it ;-) self.

And so, perhaps, the lesson is that rocks and hard places are, eternally, an illusion.  Given the right perspective, everything comes out all right in the end.  Given an understanding of the atonement of Jesus Christ, everyone can win, and be happy and satisfied.  It really is a marvelous thing to consider that all the times our needs are not met, and all the times we fail to meet other's needs can be healed, and swallowed up in light and peace.  We will one day realize how fleeting this life was, and that what mattered was not which of the infinite paths through space and time we took, when faced with the decision, but that the path we took was walked with faith and love and hope.  Ah, I feel more hopeful already.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Running Away

Today I feel like I need to run away.  I'm not sure why exactly.  The sun is shining and the sky is blue.  The children have been decently well behaved, Isaac took a nice nap and breakfast, lunch, morning work and the kids' studies have gone smoothly.  Yet there is this sort of panic in me, and I feel like I need space the way I need to breath.  In fact, I feel like I am "out of space" the way I might be "out of breath."  There is a desperation to it.

But I can't run away.  There are four little children here depending on me.  Three might not notice if I disappeared for half of an hour, but Isaac is currently being squeezed almost to death by Dorothea and I have to intervene.  There.  I have intervened.  And I have to be here.  I have to be here, I have to be here.  But I almost want to cry with wanting to get away.  I feel like I am suffocating.  Here is the thing I know, though: running away doesn't change things, and it doesn't solve the problem.  It doesn't even really address it.

I have tried running away at various times in my life.  I ran away to under the dining room table (my mom's suggestion) when I felt left out by my siblings.  I ran away from relationships from time to time, ignoring calls, mentally checking out when I felt uncomfortable.  I have tried running away since being a mom, too.  Sam comes home and I take the car and drive one street over and sit and stare at nothing, in my own space.

Ethan ran away today.  I told him he was accountable for having gone over this allotted amount of time on the computer yesterday and consequently would have less today.  He denied accountability, and said it should be my job to tell him when to get off.  I pointed out that he is 9, he knew the rule, there was a clock right next to him, and that he was capable of obeying; he just chose not to.  He insisted that he didn't know how to tell time on an analog clock, and wouldn't be able to learn.  Unfortunately, I lost my temper at that point.  I reminded him that he had proved his ability to tell time in first grade, and I was not going to believe his claims of being ignorant (and a few other choice synonyms).  He gave me one look of utter passionate hatred and stomped up the stairs, yelling "I'm leaving and I'm never coming back!!!"

I didn't go after him.  Ethan and I are too much alike for me to worry that the fit of passion would last long, or lead him to do anything dangerous.  That "flight" mechanism is powerful in both of us.

When I was nine, I felt overwhelmed by . . . well, I don't really remember what, exactly.  Something to do with school, and the fact that I wasn't performing up to my own standards, I guess.  It was all too much for me, and I didn't know how to deal with it.  I wrote my mom a suicide note.  She took me to counseling.  The nice older couple who saw me gave me an essay to read.  It was a five paragraph essay on how to be perfect.  It was type-written, and all of the "e's" were replaced with "x's."  The writer discovers this half-way through, and decides that even though the essay isn't perfect, it is still comprehensible, and in fact, is a nice little essay and should be kept, rather than being thrown away.  The writer points out that in writing this essay, he has learned that perfection is not required for something to be worth while, and, in fact, it is the imperfections that make it meaningful, memorable and maybe even funny.  I liked the essay and kept it for a long time (decades.)  I decided not to follow through with my threat, either.  Escapism didn't seem necessary anymore.

And yet, that impulse returns and returns.  There have been many times, since I was nine, that death seemed like a very positive option.  I have fantasized about dying (never suicide, just being hit by a car or something) the way a young girl might fantasize about marrying a prince.  It will be beautiful, peaceful, and perfect.  All my problems will be over, and I will exist in a magical land with everyone I love, happily ever after.  But death, like the abbey for Maria, isn't available as an escape, and so we must face our problems.

 It is hard to remember, in the moment, that my need is not really to run away, but to face a problem that is overwhelming me.  And yet, when I do remember (like right now, half-way into writing this blog) it is actually empowering.  When I turn and face the demon, and recognize it, it is half-way vanquished already.   I don't need to run away, I need to figure out what I am running from.

So what is it?  Depression, perhaps?  Does that qualify?  Am I running away from the fact that I find it hard to smile, I loose my temper so fast it surprises even me, and the thought of doing anything sounds like more than I can possibly accomplish?  What is it about depression that is so debilitating?  Or rather, what forces align (or misalign) to give depression such debilitating power?  Can I change them?  I can talk to a counselor about it.

There now, I have come to grips with the fact that my own feelings are overwhelming to me.  It makes me horribly sad not to have more to offer my children of me right now.  I want to offer them a smiling, energetic, patient mother, who invites friends over every other day, goes on exciting, educational outings with them frequently, and has created a house of order where everything is ready and prepared.  Instead they have. . . well, not that.  I am still longing for perfection, and mourning its absence.  It still overwhelms me not to live up to my own expectations, apparently.  It makes me want to escape.

I need to remember that even imperfect mothers, like imperfect essays, can be worthwhile, and shouldn't be tossed out.  As my wise, beloved Aunt Joan reminded me, if I was a perfect mother, my children would be disadvantaged, because they wouldn't know how to deal with normal people.  Ha!  It is true that my imperfections make my life meaningful, memorable and sometimes even funny.  I guess my children can still benefit from me after all, and I won't run away.

p.s. I've just rxturnxd from tutoring Maria, an XSL studxnt at the library.  Bxing outsidx, actually xnjoying thx sky and bxing part of thx world at largx, rathxr than dwxlling on my own littlx problems is vastly frxxing.  Rxaching out to someonx who appreciatxs my prxsxnce is wondxrful!  I fxxl bxttxr alrxady.  I fxxl so good, I think I'll go makx dinnxr!

Thursday, July 15, 2010

What keeps me up at night

Last night, after nursing Isaac and snuggling him back to sleep at 3 am, I returned to my bedroom to slip into that peaceful haven of soul renewal myself.  Lately, when I try to get back to sleep, I imagine myself on a raft at the edge of a wide, clear lake in the dark of the evening.  The middle of the lake is perfectly still and silver--a looking glass for seeing dreams and visions, a place of rest and clairvoyance.  I have a long pole, rather than oars, and I stand on my raft and pole towards the middle of the lake, eager to return to the clarity of sleep.  But there are things on the shore of wakefulness that entangle my raft, and which I must remove one by one, so that I can make forward progress.  Sometimes the tangle of waking thoughts are about tasks I must accomplish or relationships I am sorting through.  Sometimes it is the black tar of worry (in the night my sense of things is often especially negative), which threatens to drown me in the enormity of imagined problems.  Sometimes it is a repeated scenario from the day, which I have to work through emotionally to make peace with.

As I tried to pull my way into sleep last night, I was harried by nets of regrets which made me almost weep.  I mourned missed opportunities to visit five special people on the long vacation we recently finished.  Each person was within easy driving distance on this vacation, which is not usually the case.  In each case I worried that somehow the arrangements would be inconvenient on their side or mine, and that the distance, which was greatly reduced on account of our travel, was still too much.  We had a limited amount of time, it is true, and there were more desires to accommodate than mine alone--my kids and husband had to be considered as well, and they didn't have the same level of interest in extra trips as I did.  All five people will still be my friends, forever, I hope, and there will be other opportunities to see them.  Still I mourned.  I mourned the opportunity to show them by my extra efforts how special they are to me.  I mourned the strength that would have been added to each relationship by the visit.  And I mourned the chance to receive their love in return!  Ms. Walker, Naomi, James, Margaret and Desi, please forgive me!  I love you and mourn not getting to have been with you.

It has been two years since I have been able to do much reaching out to people.  As we returned from a vacation with so many missed opportunities, I questioned my character--the character that was revealed by not choosing to go to see my beloved ones.  What is the matter with me?  Have I become a hermit?  Do I not care about people any more?  Are my relationships so weak?  I think I am out of practice, certainly.  For two years my emotional burdens have been so heavy that I have felt I could scarcely lift my head, much less put energy into relationships outside of those that confront me every day.  In August 2008, Sam's family moved in with us.  They meant to be with us only a month or two, but months passed, and passed, and it wasn't until July of 2009, when Sam and I felt the time had come and aided the way for their departure, that they moved out.  In that time, we had between 6 and 8 extra people living with us.  It was hard for many, many reasons, and I was emotionally worn.  I felt isolated within my own home--both from those living in it and from those outside it. We literally no longer had space to invite people in, so our times with friends dwindled considerably.

In August 2009 Isaac was born, and his medical problems took us to Little Rock for two months, and then when we returned, the need to keep him out of general society meant that we were again limited in our social availability.  Physically, also, and mentally, this time has been more of a challenge to me than any other that I can remember.  Exhaustion from Isaac's care has drained me and reduced me to a bleary version of myself--unable even to participate in my other children's lives, fully, much less any one else's.  And so, two years of seeming solitude have passed.  I am out of practice in reaching out to others, I suppose, but I think that is why I lament the missed opportunity so much.

One of the powerful lessons that these years have taught me is how much I need others.  The pain of isolation grew steadily, and in the last half of a year I realized if I couldn't get help, support, strength and friendship, and might not make it.  When my burden grew too heavy, I didn't know where to turn.  I could hire someone, but in my exhaustion I didn't do even that.  "Your friends will help you!" my sister, Anna, wisely reminded me.  But who were my friends?  There are many who I call friends within my community, but I hadn't nurtured any of those relationships for years!  How, now, could I call on those who I had not reached out to, to reach out to me?  My friendships have worn thin and frayed at the edges. And so I mourned last night.  I tossed and turned and wished as I don't think I've ever wished before to turn back time and visit my beloved ones, my friends,and be strengthened by our relationship.  I deeply needed to relish in that sweetest of human joys: to give and receive love.

It wasn't until nearly 6 am that my raft escaped the nets of sorrow.  My husband  turned and draped his arm over mine, and with the aid of that strong, gentle touch, I was able to press forward, seeking peace.