He keeps looking. Last night the children were able to pick an Easter Egg from the basket as part of the end-of-the year celebration. He was absolutely thrilled with what was in his egg until he saw that the other prize was a balloon. He spent the next 90 minutes searching for an egg with a balloon. Several times he came back to me to complain that he couldn't find one and that he really wanted a balloon. I told him that I understood but that all he could do was look for the eggs with the balloons. He sighed, disappointed I could not help him, and left to continue his search. However, he was not successful last night. And every time one of the 'lucky' kids would pop their balloon, I would see the heartbreak in his eyes. As we walked to the car, he slipped his hand in mine and repeated how much he wished he had a balloon. I told him not to worry that there are many balloons in this world and one of these days, he'd have his own balloon again.
And one day I will have my own balloon too.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Running to Stand Still
Sometimes my “ah-ha” moments hit me at the strangest of times. I was jogging in the park when mine smacked me upside the head. When I run, I think. I think about how my day went, my kids, my future, how my legs hurt, why my butt gets tight going up hills and my thighs tense on the way down. I wonder about the idiot that didn’t pick up their dog’s mess on the trail; and agree with myself that U2 is the best band EVER for jogging. Running is my tranquil time. And since I don’t run fast I am able to maximize my peace.
I have been running for a long time. When I was in high school, my dad and I used to go out for jogs through the neighborhood. Since we lived in the desert, our route was not very green, could be quite windy and we always had to contend with a few hills on the course. Dad was always in the lead until the last ¼ mile when I would give a little extra effort and finish first. I loved our runs. I have gone jogging with my own kids a few times; but, I am looking forward to when they are a little bit older and we can run more often together. I know they will finish first, too.
I was in a good groove this particular afternoon. The fresh air filled my lungs; my feet hit the path in a good rhythm, arms swinging along with my beat. I was a fine-oiled 38 year-old machine. I was in a running trance listening to my breath inhale and exhale. Thoughts, observations and questions about my body, my marriage, my relationships, and my future ran through my mind.
Then my brain called out “Abandonment.” My heart said “What?! Hush!” My brain said louder (to be heard above the heavy panting that was my actual breath) “Abandonment. Abandonment. A-ban-don-ment!” I stopped running. There it was, so clear. My fear! All my observations, thoughts and questions about my body, my marriage, my relationships, and my experiences were all part of my subconscious to avoid ‘Abandonment.’
My curvaceousness. My relationships with otherwise “obligated” men. I had devised a pretty successful subconscious mechanism for protecting my soul from feeling the pain of abandonment again. I didn’t want to be rejected for being me so I kept on a few pounds and I chose men who were in no position to reject me because they couldn’t truly have me.
I continued walking on the path. My breathing returned to normal. I began to pick up the pace. I mulled over this revelation. Yes I was afraid of abandonment. I was afraid of feeling that pain again. I had made it very easy to not experience those feelings again. I had managed to build into my life a set of easy, fall-back excuses when things didn’t turn out as hoped or planned.
So why did this revelation come crashing to the surface and demand to be acknowledged? Why? What was I supposed to do with this new-found self knowledge? I was already exercising and watching what I ate, although the weight wasn’t exactly coming off. I was already refusing additional ‘otherwise-obligated’ male companions, although I hadn’t exactly sent the others back to their obligations. I was still only going through the motions of healing from my loss. I wasn’t really getting any closer to being able to be open and vulnerable to another person. And yet, that desire for surrender and intimacy with another person was pushing its way through my shield. It was saying to me “look, until you quit manipulating yourself with mind games, until you quit hiding behind your well-placed, convenient and strategic excuses, until you quit acting like such a scaredy-cat (well it actually used a bit harsher language there, I think you know which one), you will NEVER again experience the love that your soul is craving.”
“Yes, I know.”
Tears streamed down my face. I finished my jog and walked back to the minivan absorbing the fact that I was about to head down an unfamiliar and potentially painful path. But for some reason, I wasn’t nearly as afraid.
I have been running for a long time. When I was in high school, my dad and I used to go out for jogs through the neighborhood. Since we lived in the desert, our route was not very green, could be quite windy and we always had to contend with a few hills on the course. Dad was always in the lead until the last ¼ mile when I would give a little extra effort and finish first. I loved our runs. I have gone jogging with my own kids a few times; but, I am looking forward to when they are a little bit older and we can run more often together. I know they will finish first, too.
I was in a good groove this particular afternoon. The fresh air filled my lungs; my feet hit the path in a good rhythm, arms swinging along with my beat. I was a fine-oiled 38 year-old machine. I was in a running trance listening to my breath inhale and exhale. Thoughts, observations and questions about my body, my marriage, my relationships, and my future ran through my mind.
Then my brain called out “Abandonment.” My heart said “What?! Hush!” My brain said louder (to be heard above the heavy panting that was my actual breath) “Abandonment. Abandonment. A-ban-don-ment!” I stopped running. There it was, so clear. My fear! All my observations, thoughts and questions about my body, my marriage, my relationships, and my experiences were all part of my subconscious to avoid ‘Abandonment.’
My curvaceousness. My relationships with otherwise “obligated” men. I had devised a pretty successful subconscious mechanism for protecting my soul from feeling the pain of abandonment again. I didn’t want to be rejected for being me so I kept on a few pounds and I chose men who were in no position to reject me because they couldn’t truly have me.
I continued walking on the path. My breathing returned to normal. I began to pick up the pace. I mulled over this revelation. Yes I was afraid of abandonment. I was afraid of feeling that pain again. I had made it very easy to not experience those feelings again. I had managed to build into my life a set of easy, fall-back excuses when things didn’t turn out as hoped or planned.
So why did this revelation come crashing to the surface and demand to be acknowledged? Why? What was I supposed to do with this new-found self knowledge? I was already exercising and watching what I ate, although the weight wasn’t exactly coming off. I was already refusing additional ‘otherwise-obligated’ male companions, although I hadn’t exactly sent the others back to their obligations. I was still only going through the motions of healing from my loss. I wasn’t really getting any closer to being able to be open and vulnerable to another person. And yet, that desire for surrender and intimacy with another person was pushing its way through my shield. It was saying to me “look, until you quit manipulating yourself with mind games, until you quit hiding behind your well-placed, convenient and strategic excuses, until you quit acting like such a scaredy-cat (well it actually used a bit harsher language there, I think you know which one), you will NEVER again experience the love that your soul is craving.”
“Yes, I know.”
Tears streamed down my face. I finished my jog and walked back to the minivan absorbing the fact that I was about to head down an unfamiliar and potentially painful path. But for some reason, I wasn’t nearly as afraid.
Water-colored Lenses
Everytime I pick up a glass to take a drink, I clink it on my new glasses. And everytime it happens, I remember that it happened the last time. I haven't resorted to removing my glasses everytime I want to take a drink, yet. (Okay sometimes I lift them up off my nose.) Instead I just keep feeling like an idiot. Would there have been a training session for those "new to life with glasses", I would have signed up. Instead, they showed me how to clean them and sent me on my way. And in my innocence and ignorance I thought that was all I needed to know. But I am learning slowly and seeing things awash through my water-colored lenses.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Il Bacio
I have a picture called Il Bacio that hangs in my dining room. It shows three children. Two girls and a boy. The boy is sitting in the middle of the girls and is kissing the cheek of one little girl and the other little girl is scowling at him. I bought the picture because I identified with the scowling little girl. I wanted to be the one who got kissed but the boys always seemed to choose the other little girl instead of me. One day when my daughter was about five years old she looked at the painting and exclaimed, “Mommy! Look at that!” She pointed at the picture. I responded, “Yes?” She continued, “The little girl getting kissed is wearing SHINY SHOES!” She was right. That little girl was wearing patent leather shoes and the scowling one had on ratty sneakers. My daughter identified with and focused on the attributes of the girl getting kissed. I promptly replaced my ratty sneakers with patent leather shoes. I rarely scowl anymore.
Growing older, not as much fun as it seems sometimes...
Sometimes it sucks to grow old. And I’m not talking about just the physical changes you go through that indicate you are moving past your prime. I recently had to get my first pair of reading glasses. That sucked but now I don’t get headaches from too much computer work or reading. I noticed in the mirror that I have developed what I call “old lady skin” right at the top of my cleavage. That happened overnight! One day I had really nice, lustrous, soft-as-a-baby’s-bottom cleavage skin. The next day, it was gone. I don’t’ have to describe it to you, you know what old lady skin looks like. And, I’m not talking about how when after a nice couple mile jog through the park, your knees rebel as if you’d just finished a 100-mile hike through the mountainous wilderness. No, the physical changes are well documented and are not really all that shocking when they happen. They are not necessarily welcomed but they do not shock you.
What sucks about getting older is that death becomes a larger part of your circle of experiences. In my 20s, it was a time for attending weddings, college graduations, baby showers and baby’s first birthday parties. I remember attending two funerals in my 20s and those were for elderly relatives on my husband’s side of the family. I had never met them. Their deaths were just events and didn’t affect my outlook on life. Death still seemed very far away.
However in my 30s and now 40s, the occurrence of death among people I know is becoming more frequent. I told my daughter that is what I hate the most about getting old, attending more funerals than baptisms. And with every funeral I attend, it brings into a sharper and crisper focus my own mortality. I don’t want to acknowledge that I will not live forever. I don’t want to acknowledge that someday I won’t be here to laugh with my kids. I don’t want to acknowledge that someday I will no longer be able to dance tango or to love another person with my body and soul. I don’t want to acknowledge any of those things. It hurts too much.
A friend called me today with news that a friend of hers had died yesterday. Her friend was young and left behind three kids. My friend is in shock. Although she knew her friend was sick, she still was in shock. Death of a family member or friend no matter how prepared you are still seems too abrupt.
When my grandmother died this year, it was too sudden. She was 94 years old and had been having issues with not eating enough food, not being able to see well, not having anything to ‘live for’ anymore. I visited with her one Sunday afternoon and we just sat together on her red velvet chaise lounge. I held her hand and we talked. It was harder for her to talk because she couldn’t find the words as quickly as she wanted to. I could tell she hated that. She sighed to me that she wished it was all over. That she was ready. I held her hand and pleaded in a whisper “but I’m not ready for you to go, Grandma.” She squeezed my hand and said “I know.” I was not ready for her to leave me and not be a part of my life. I still wanted her to be happy for me when good things happened. I still wanted her to smile as she listened to my stories or saw my kids. I still wanted to hear her tell me about growing up and how she was so smart that she skipped several grades in school and graduated high school at 15. I still wanted her to tell me about being the first woman on the executive payroll when women were supposed to be staying home raising their kids. I wanted her to still be able to take us to the swimming pool and watch me jump off the high dive. I wanted her to still be able to play bingo with us. I still wanted to be able to hug her and smell her cologne. I didn’t want her to leave me. I was not ready.
We had a difficult few months trying to get her to move into another apartment or assisted living facility. Well, difficult is an understatement. It was an emotionally draining, frustratingly painful, hair-pulling, eyes-rolling, no roll-over minutes left on my cell phone couple of months. And it hurt. It hurt to fight to keep her alive when she was ready to go a long time before. It hurt because I didn’t understand why my grandmother would want to leave me, to leave us. It hurt because didn’t she know we were only doing what was in her best interests. It hurt. It just hurt.
And then on one Saturday afternoon in November at 3 p.m, the call came. Grandma had died. What? My sister repeated herself. “Grandma has died.” It took several minutes to sink in. Grandma had been in the hospital. My aunt was holding her hand and told her it was okay to go, that daddy (my grandpa) was waiting for her in heaven. And Grandma took three breaths and died.
And that was that. She was gone. And I’m here still wishing she were with me. Still wishing I could hear her sing “Meet Me In St. Louis”. Still wishing I could hold her hand.
Instead I have to heal from the loss. I have to go through all the steps of the grief cycle. I have to get older, accept it and grow up. And that sucks.
What sucks about getting older is that death becomes a larger part of your circle of experiences. In my 20s, it was a time for attending weddings, college graduations, baby showers and baby’s first birthday parties. I remember attending two funerals in my 20s and those were for elderly relatives on my husband’s side of the family. I had never met them. Their deaths were just events and didn’t affect my outlook on life. Death still seemed very far away.
However in my 30s and now 40s, the occurrence of death among people I know is becoming more frequent. I told my daughter that is what I hate the most about getting old, attending more funerals than baptisms. And with every funeral I attend, it brings into a sharper and crisper focus my own mortality. I don’t want to acknowledge that I will not live forever. I don’t want to acknowledge that someday I won’t be here to laugh with my kids. I don’t want to acknowledge that someday I will no longer be able to dance tango or to love another person with my body and soul. I don’t want to acknowledge any of those things. It hurts too much.
A friend called me today with news that a friend of hers had died yesterday. Her friend was young and left behind three kids. My friend is in shock. Although she knew her friend was sick, she still was in shock. Death of a family member or friend no matter how prepared you are still seems too abrupt.
When my grandmother died this year, it was too sudden. She was 94 years old and had been having issues with not eating enough food, not being able to see well, not having anything to ‘live for’ anymore. I visited with her one Sunday afternoon and we just sat together on her red velvet chaise lounge. I held her hand and we talked. It was harder for her to talk because she couldn’t find the words as quickly as she wanted to. I could tell she hated that. She sighed to me that she wished it was all over. That she was ready. I held her hand and pleaded in a whisper “but I’m not ready for you to go, Grandma.” She squeezed my hand and said “I know.” I was not ready for her to leave me and not be a part of my life. I still wanted her to be happy for me when good things happened. I still wanted her to smile as she listened to my stories or saw my kids. I still wanted to hear her tell me about growing up and how she was so smart that she skipped several grades in school and graduated high school at 15. I still wanted her to tell me about being the first woman on the executive payroll when women were supposed to be staying home raising their kids. I wanted her to still be able to take us to the swimming pool and watch me jump off the high dive. I wanted her to still be able to play bingo with us. I still wanted to be able to hug her and smell her cologne. I didn’t want her to leave me. I was not ready.
We had a difficult few months trying to get her to move into another apartment or assisted living facility. Well, difficult is an understatement. It was an emotionally draining, frustratingly painful, hair-pulling, eyes-rolling, no roll-over minutes left on my cell phone couple of months. And it hurt. It hurt to fight to keep her alive when she was ready to go a long time before. It hurt because I didn’t understand why my grandmother would want to leave me, to leave us. It hurt because didn’t she know we were only doing what was in her best interests. It hurt. It just hurt.
And then on one Saturday afternoon in November at 3 p.m, the call came. Grandma had died. What? My sister repeated herself. “Grandma has died.” It took several minutes to sink in. Grandma had been in the hospital. My aunt was holding her hand and told her it was okay to go, that daddy (my grandpa) was waiting for her in heaven. And Grandma took three breaths and died.
And that was that. She was gone. And I’m here still wishing she were with me. Still wishing I could hear her sing “Meet Me In St. Louis”. Still wishing I could hold her hand.
Instead I have to heal from the loss. I have to go through all the steps of the grief cycle. I have to get older, accept it and grow up. And that sucks.
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