Wherever I go, there I am

This blog is something of an ice breaker.  Between upending our lives, and settling in half way across the state, over a month has passed since my last post.

Truth be told, I am experiencing a roller coaster of emotions.  If the first week is shock, the second week is grief, fear, and sometimes joy.  I am uncertain what most people experience upon moving, but this move involved leaving most of my support system: my therapist, friends, and mom (although “mommy” seems more appropriate in this context).  Some days I know it was a good idea, some days I am tempted to find a sweet little home in West Seattle and move back.

Inevitably I underestimated a few things.  I underestimated how lonely I would feel.  I underestimated how comforting the familiar is.  I underestimated how much this place would remind me of my father, and how many negative emotions would be triggered.  Even while typing, I am reminded not to judge my emotions too harshly.

Wherever I go, there I am.  It seems I am still me, even here.  I still have PTSD, I still need to write, I still want a confidant, I still need to work out to stay sane, I still love silence, red wine, my family, and coffee (in no particular order).

Eli and Sofia adore it here.  They get to adventure outside every day, make new friends, play with their peers, and be adored by countless adults.

The beauty is incomparable.  Walking outside each morning, I am taken aback at the spectacular place we are privileged to live.  Wednesday after work I ran through Glacier Peak Wilderness, with wind raging through the valley.  The only sounds being that of my feet pushing through leaves already on the ground, and the wind which sounded more like a beast.  First warning me not to go deeper into the wilderness and then chasing me back to the village.  By the time I was within 2 miles of the village I felt like I was flying, part wind and part beast myself. 

Our living space is perfect.  A lot of thought went into making us feel welcome and at home.  I’m thankful for that.  Inside my closet door, the previous tenant left a gift.  Large black letters formed by electrical tape say, “BREATHE”.  Next to those letters is a small note card: 

“Breathing in I calm my body, breathing out I smile. 

Dwelling in the present moment, I know this is a wonderful moment.”

It appears the previous occupant and I have more in common than this bedroom.  I silently repeat the mantra several times a day.

Parenting is

Crying on the living room floor isn't going to get me my Americano.  Moments like this I know stopping at two kids is the right decision.

This morning I found myself cursing under my breath, hoping to god my 4 year old would finish his breakfast so I could let him watch cartoons, thus allowing me to get my coffee.  He did 1 hour 45 minutes, a naughty spot, and all my sanity later.  This is parenting.

Parenting is your 1 year old concertedly frowning at her blubbering heap of a mother.  Then climbing on top of said mess to give kisses until giggles erupt.

Parenting is requiring your 4 year old to rephrase in the form of a question fifty times a day, until he understands you're not his servant.
Parenting is realizing he learned it from you, and changing the way you speak to your spouse.

Parenting is apologizing to your child for yelling, and acting like a 4 year old yourself.

Parenting is giving up on a clean kitchen and reading Violet the Pilot for the hundredth time.

Parenting is learning to have compassion for yourself, so your children will grow up knowing how to have compassion towards themselves and others.

Parenting is vulnerability.  Unparalleled joy and simultaneous sadness that these moments won't last forever.

Parenting is knowing you will have regrets but trying your best anyways.

What is parenting to you?

Beauty and The Beast part 1

"The thing that is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect and beginning the work of becoming yourself."  -Anna Quindlen

This quote pervaded my week.  Reading it in Brene Brown's book The Gifts of Imperfection (http://www.brenebrown.com/), I felt acutely aware of its significance.  Even if translating the significance to specifics proved challenging.  I know what the first part means.  Being perfect is what I've devoted most of my life to.  So stop doing that.

For several weeks prior I pondered the subject of perfectionism.  More specifically, the birthplace of perfectionism.  Shame.  Perfectionism is born to keep shame at bay.  Control it, appease it, offer a human sacrifice, feed the beast.

The quote also reveals, attempting to become perfect is a deterrent to becoming yourself.  What the f#ck!  If someone told me this years ago, I might have bailed on the perfectionism shtick.  My therapist recently mentioned that everything I do, I try to do perfectly.  Inevitably when I fail, because perfection is not achievable, I beat myself over the head (bring on the shame).  She said I have to be the perfect client (for my personal trainer), perfect wife, perfect daughter, perfect mom, perfect student, perfect marathon runner.  Heck, I even try to be the perfect therapy patient.  Her putting it in those words clarified things somehow.

Perfectionism revolves around how I appear to others.  It is unconcerned with who I actually am or what I want.  To be a perfectionist is to be inauthentic.  Because perfectionism is always more concerned with feeding the beast, than with me.

So I'm giving notice.  I surrender all attempts at perfection.  Things are going to get messy.  Living authentically is the goal.  This may seem obvious to some, or self-indulgent to others.  But that's no longer my concern.  I am going to do things because I want to, because I love to do them, not in an effort to prove anything, not to feed the beast.  

Wonder Woman and me

Most of my energy, time, and effort goes into everything I have NOT done.  What is already accomplished falls to the wayside, wreckage left in the shadow of everything that "should" be done.  However, it occurs to me this morning, as I contemplate how to get packing done, study for my personal trainer certification, train for my half marathon, write this blog, practice my guitar, and make healthy meals for my beautiful children, that I am infinitely more productive than I give myself credit for.

How many women are like me?  We get up early with the kids, make breakfast, give kisses, make sure they use the restroom, start laundry, turn on cartoons so we can study or work for an hour, while the kids get their daily dose of brain to mush.  If we are at all similar, you inevitably feel bad you allowed them to watch "too much" TV and play with them next.  After which, one child takes a nap, and you take the rare opportunity to load the dishwasher (and remove food particles from the living room rug).  We do have standards.

Maybe you need to run to the bank today, or go grocery shopping (to keep at least one daily serving of vegetables in your children's diet).  Maybe you're hoping to work out later, get work done, give a few moments to that self help book, or the dearly loved but neglected hobby that always sits at the bottom of your "To Do" list.  Maybe your child is screaming and hitting your keyboard as you read this (like mine is).

The point is, you're not going to finish everything on your list today.  Whether the list is attached to your fridge or in your mind is irrelevant.  Accept it, let it sink in, embrace it, love it.  Wonder Woman couldn't dent that damn list.

You will get one or two things done.  Celebrate that!  Give attention to what you accomplished.  You gave hugs, kisses, time, food, wiped noses (and maybe bottoms).  You may have found time for that work out, even if it only included a walk around the block with the stroller.  The point is, focus on what you did do.  This is the human experience, we're meant to be imperfect, beautiful messes.  Wonder Woman has nothing on you.

Moving on (almost, sort of, not quite)

Recently we decided to move.  For reasons I now find difficult to recall.

We are moving for the first time since beginning our little family.  Eli has never known a room, other than the nursery we painted in gender neutral cream and green.  Paint colors chosen, not because the baby's sex was ambiguous.  We knew months before painting we were having a boy.  I chose the colors to avoid gender stereotypes.  Ingrained with the firm suspicion that averting blue or pink would allow our child to define himself apart from societal pressure.  Fanciful and ridiculous?  I know.

Photo by Studio Elise

After birthing Eli at the hospital, we decided a home birth would be the best fit for our second child.  More accurately, I insisted a water birth at home was the only way for me.  My husband conceded it was my body, my decision.  I birthed Sofia in our bedroom.  She came into the world, directly into my arms, and immediately fell asleep.

Sometimes I panic and completely forget all the reasons we decided this was a good idea.  I had no idea how attached one could be to a house, until breastfeeding Sofia a few days ago and the tears began to fall.  It completely took me by surprise.  Multiple times I complained about living in one place for too long, insisting I am built for change and excitement.  Now all I want is to stay here forever.  I love this house.  The unfinished molding, and painting that will never be complete.  The boxes my husband built for me in the backyard when I told him we were growing our own produce from now on.  The garden I tended for the first time, as I also cared for the growing child inside me.  The first steps, first words, first "I love you" from my son.

Can a place, a building, a structure be sacred?  All of a sudden, the unwashed dishes, and piling laundry look sacred in this place.  Maybe I'm having a mental breakdown, or just experiencing the natural grieving process.  

Do what you're afraid of doing...over and over and over

This is the advice from my therapist.  I've tried to wrap my head around what that means to me.  In many ways friends and family consider me fearless.  Physically, I feel like nothing is out of reach, and there's nothing to fear.  Last year I delivered my baby girl into this world with my own hands, in my own home.  Six months later I ran my first full marathon.

Despite that confidence, I find myself disabled periodically by anxiety and depression.  It's strange.  When you write things like that, the words seem BIG.  So heady.  But when you live it, the feelings just seem like old friends.  Your life.  The only way you've ever lived.  I never considered myself an anxious person, or a depressed one, until recently.  Sometimes you have no idea how low you've set the bar.

So tonight it struck me across the mind.  What I'm afraid of.  What I avoid at all costs, and thus should do over and over and over.

Feel.  

Of course I'm not alone.  Our society specializes in enabling us to avoid feelings we find intolerable.  Everyone has their preferred method, or several.  Be it TV or alcohol, drugs or church.  We continue to hope, once we come back to consciousness, the feelings will have vanished as quickly as they appeared.  The uninvited guests in our brain and body.

But contrary to popular opinion (mine), emotions are not terrorists of the soul.  They are messengers.  Trying to inform us what works, what doesn't, when something is amiss within us, or outside us.  Ultimately emotions tell us what assumptions and beliefs we hold about ourselves, and the world.  Because of course, each emotion is only a by-product of an assumption, interpretation, or belief (conscious or unconscious).

The TV is off.  Facebook is closed.  My glass of wine has lost its affect.

So I practice feeling.  Allowing these guests to wash over me like waves.  Completely immersed one moment, and receding the next.  Observing, but not judging.  Somehow the feelings are no longer intolerable.  In fact, they never were.  I was intolerant, judgmental.  There is peace in acceptance.

Few people excel at this feeling business.  Most of us confuse one emotion for another, or won't admit to any feeling whatsoever.  We excel at avoidance.  Maybe we should all practice.  Stop avoiding us.  You stop avoiding you.  I stop avoiding me.


Maybe if we tolerate ourselves, we will prove more tolerant of one another.

Turn or burn, a choice?

One of the mantras I heard over and over and over again within my church culture was, "God has given us free will."  This mantra was often used in reference to choosing salvation or damnation.  Not uncommonly it was used to assuage our guilt over those who were "choosing" damnation.

However, I'd like to clarify something.  "Turn or burn" is not a choice.  No matter how much you dress it up, twist it, or neatly place it between platitudes.  That's like saying the child being abused by a trusted adult has a choice.  

Many I know disagree, but I'd challenge you to consider how to bring people to Christ without hanging hell over their heads.  Try to comment on this blog without hanging it over mine.  If you have to drop the "H" bomb while sharing your faith, or the "You don't know what happens after you die" line, all it shows me is that your particular brand of faith is founded on fear.  Your "god" doesn't have anything better to offer than a veiled threat.

I love faith.  I LOVE people of faith.  But it seems to me, there's a version of "Christianity" in America today that has substituted the character of Christ with the character of the devil, and called it good.

"Do this or burn forever" is not a choice.  Love wouldn't insist it is.