Hasten

Spent

   
Hasten

     why should I?
     why shouldn't I?
     they should
     they shouldn't
     why don't they?
     it's not fair
     they don't deserve
     I deserve
     I want
     I give up   

Hasten the moment duality breaks
Shush away the skittish fears
Soothe and whisper calming questions in my ear

Hasten the moment of shining harsh light
Reveal the They alive in Me
Allow the shame to teach then let it be

Hasten the moment of opening sight
Reveal the Me alive in They
Allow the hurt to teach then flow away

When frantic power yields to compassion
I return to love
I return to me

Love manages anger

This week I have evening commitments, so the kids aren't seeing me much. They have a very low tolerance for that, and let me know it. Last night, I got home ten minutes too late to say goodnight - they were both asleep when I kissed their cheeks.

I started thinking about how to fit in more time with them. I realized that I have a webinar Thursday night, and I'm starting my Kung Fu class on Friday evening, so if I wanted time it would have to be my usual yoga/workout time on Thursday evening. Right away, I resented having to give it up. My neck twanged just to reinforce the point that I was not prioritizing self-care. But really, how much self care can I justify. This week, the balance tips the other way because of extra demands and a new "me" activity.

I decided to set the clock a half hour early, even though I was late going to bed, so I could fit yoga into the morning. And of course, I hit the snooze and got up at the usual time. I was so mad at myself, but also really tired and grumpy. As I went down the stairs to start making breakfast, I came upon my husband, taking care of himself and doing his stretches, which he needs to do. And I resented it.

Do you see a theme beginning? I did. But I felt powerless to stop it. Suddenly all the hard things about my life right now started piling themselves up in my mind, building pressure as I rejected them and the feelings they stirred. I just didn't have time! I felt myself growing brittle, detached, resentment seething under my surface. I wanted to stop it. I tried to focus on my breath. The thoughts wouldn't leave me, they poked and jeered.

I should never speak in this state.

I said, "I hope you'll still be on time. I had to give up my workout today and I don't want to be late."

Ouch. To his credit, he just said, "Oh, yes, I"ll be on time."

I went downstairs. I started assembling food, making coffee, resenting and being mad at myself for resenting and half-heartedly trying to stop resenting while starting to weaken against the soothing flow of self-pity. Suddenly, my husband came down the stairs, fast and determined. He removed the container from my hand and wrapped me in a giant hug.

His heart against my heart, his arms supporting my lower back, his sigh and my sigh synchronous. I felt the pressure release, dissipate. The underlying angst that feeds my moods is not gone, but in that moment, he relieved the pressure that would have been an explosion. He noticed it building, and he didn't reject me or judge me for failing to fight it more strongly. He loved me.

Love manages anger. Even mine.

A good mother should be (a Bad Mom installment)

My fingers tingle the need to type.
That energy tugging, tugging my nerves,
demanding of my brain:  give me the words.

Someone there is in me
that refuses and negates
Shall I keep on hating her, keep getting what I get?
How to love that ugly?
(she is afraid)

Yesterday, my daughter (three and a half) was showing me her giraffe, which she had just discovered. She said "It's mine, it's mine forever."

What is it in me that needed to say to her, "Well, it's yours for as long as it lasts."

She looked up at me seriously.

"But I want to keep it for always. For when I'm a grown up."

And still, I persisted.

"It's not likely to last that long, sweetheart," I said, off-handedly.

Her little eyes welled up with tears.

"But I need to keep him! Forever!"

I could not let it go.

"Nothing lasts forever, sweetie. Everything goes back to the earth or sky or water. Everything."

Her eyeballs were getting red, the corners of her mouth turned down. She shook her head.

"No, not everything. Not me."

"Yes, love. You, me, everything, everyone. Nothing lasts forever."

And suddenly I saw it hit her, and I realized that it was too fast, too brutal a revelation. She understood exactly, precisely what I had said to her. She had not known impermanence until this moment, and I had thrust it on her suddenly and cruelly, carelessly. My heart cracked - I felt it crack. I had inflicted a sacred wound on this innocent spirit, as a mother inevitably will in spite of all.

I swept her up in my arms and carried her from the table, to our spot on the stairs where we talk.

"Oh, it's hard! Don't worry. If you take care of your giraffe, you might have him for a long time. I had a teddy bear when I was a baby, and I took care of him and he slept with me until I was 30!"

"But he didn't last?"

"Oh, sweetie, he did last for a very long time."

"I want my giraffe to last forever."

"I know. Me, too. Wouldn't it be great if everything we love could last forever? And all the stuff we don't like, that stuff can go away, right?"

"Right. But do you know? Mountains last forever."

"That's great thinking, but it just seems like that to us. They do wear away, or get changed when the earth moves."

"No. That's not true."

"You don't have to believe it for it to be."

You see, even then, I couldn't let her have it. She came up with MOUNTAINS in her search for forever, and I barely praised her before telling her she was wrong.

I tried to tell her, "We don't need anything to last forever," but she was wriggling away, already finished with this conversation.

Parenting is certainly a strange and interesting process. I'm learning so much. And I'm sure I'm missing half of it.

(Beliefs I hold: A good mother should be kinder than I am. A good mother should be more patient than I am. A good mother should be more selfless than I am. A good mother should be more present than I am. I am a pretty good mother. It's not good enough for them. I am improving.)

What doesn't contribute? (Day 2 #reverb10)

Prompt: What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it?

What doesn't contribute?

Well, I wasn't very inspired (no offense to the prompter). But really, my writing comes from who I am and who I am comes from how I experience life, so really, my experience of everything I do must contribute to my writing, even if it's difficult to draw the direct cause-and-effect. I could say, not being independently wealthy, that all the things I do to earn money and basic maintenance for my lifestyle don't contribute to my writing, since they take up my time, but the possibility for elimination seems highly limited. Okay, I'm done thinking about it.

But it bugged me. There must be a way for me to get somewhere out of this line of thought, since I'm here. My dead-ends could be some kind of defense against something deeper.

I suppose maybe one thing I do is wish things were different. Like, I wish I had more time, especially consecutive time, so I put off writing hard scenes and big research bits.

I wish I had more money, less stress, an easier time with the kids, a fitter body, etc. and that wishing, while it may contribute to my writing (and, in fact, does) doesn't contribute much to my state-of-mind. Wish can be motivating, and wish can rob me of presence when it becomes disappointment that what is real, now, is not what I wish for "when my life is better."

Because I know, more and more and more, just how incredible my life is, even in this moment when my adrenaline is high and my patience is incredibly thin at the end of a long day where not enough got done and my kids are pushing it. Who am I to feel anything but lucky, no matter what the travails of my day? Only a fool.

Alright, that's about the best I'm going to do with this prompt. Now, to tend to the grouchy children who should be sleeping.

(ps. I borrowed the image above - it's not me, nor my photo. if you own it and would like credit, please say so!)

post-script to Day 1 of #reverb10

Earlier I answered the first part of the prompt, which was hard enough (here is the post) but this prompt, day 1, had two hard questions. One word for 2010, okay. But one word for 2011...I've thought all day.

I'd like to say, success! or hope, or happiness. But I think, in the end, it's TOGETHER.

In 2011, I hope to...

make significant strides towards attacking poverty at its root causes, together with people in my community

grow and seek out new experiences together with my husband

become more and more ourselves, together with my children

explore what it means to be human, together with my twitter and other online neighbours

feel more practiced, competent and...well...TOGETHER, overall and just generally.

Ah, friends, I'm tired. And there's more to come tomorrow...

Refactoring - a #Reverb10 reflection

#reverb10 December 1 One Word.

Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you’re choosing that word. Now, imagine it’s one year from today, what would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you?

(Author: Gwen Bell)

Refactoring

Years ago, interested in my then-boyfriend's work, I read a book from his shelf called "Extreme Programming." This is a book about software development for software developers, but it is more than that - it is a philosophical treatise. I was struck, at the time, that despite technical language and limited scope, the approaches described held significant application to human systems, change management, and personal development. One key concept is "refactoring."


Here's the Wikipedia definition:

Code refactoring is the process of changing a computer program's source code without modifying its external functional behavior, in order to improve some of the nonfunctional attributes of the software.

In general, functional attributes define what a system is supposed to do, whereas non-functional attributes define how a system is supposed to be. Behaviours and Values. 


Software is very human in some respects. There is no bug-free software. Period. It's full of old processes and dead ends that used to try to do something, errors in logic, outdated functions, cobbled together ideas from many people of varying competence and vision, and other weirdnesses. The result is instances of spinning wheels, confusion, and sometimes, total and complete shutdown - but only under certain circumstances and demands.  Software isn't complicated - it's complex. Like life. Like us.


And, software is in use - it's not optimal to take it off line (any more than I can go hide out in a monastery for a year). It's not practical to start over. Instead, Extreme suggests refactoring the system - an ongoing, disciplined approach that identifies particular areas of concern, and allocates time to systematically analyze and understand just what the implications might be for changing or removing something that seems problematic (as well as how to do it). There are always side effects. 


Essentially, refactoring involves reflection, understanding, and trial-and-error tinkering with a system within safe spaces and times, in ways that are invisible to the external world. When it's important to take specific areas temporarily off-line, it's done in a planned way that provides detours (preferably invisible) for external needs. The rest of the system continues to function.


Complex systems will always be flawed, just like grass will always grow back when you mow it. I will always be flawed, and I am always growing. I am as complex a system as they come. When I look back over 2010, I realize that I am becoming more skilled at refactoring myself. I create spaces when I need to go offline. I don't try to tackle the whole system at once - I prioritize, and take the time to really understand. All my processes are inextricably linked and hopelessly tangled, and I am untangling the worst ones, often freeing whole sections by undoing a single knot. I am tinkering daily.


How?  Exercise. Music. Yoga. WRITING. Present play with my kids. Intimacy with my husband (this doesn't just mean sex). Connecting on Twitter. Reading outside my zone. Conversing with my universal, sometimes out loud. Laughing. Appreciating. Contemplating the abundance I have in my life, and my outrageous good luck before I go to sleep. 


How? Crying. Freaking out. Facing my own dark pockets where hatred might find a cool place to grow. Feeling despair. Feeling afraid. Feeling futility. Letting my universal be sad with me and comfort me. 


How?  Making a little time and space every day, sometimes throughout the day, to feel deeply and think about what I'm feeling. Checking in with myself regularly. Creating reminders that help me to stop and remember who I am. Checking in with my touchstone people when I start to crumble. 


How? Giving myself permission to be just as I am, and encouraging myself to specific, achievable improvements. Failing, and trying anyway.


How? Practicing presence. Practice.


I'm reprogramming myself, slowly, often painfully, to keep my mind more open, my heart more open, my skin thicker and my core clear and centred enough to withstand the assaults of unskilled "users." These are just a few of the "non-functional attributes" that I want to embody in my system architecture. I'm finding my dead-end paths and disruptive processes, and slowly picking away at removing them safely.


Refactoring tries to make the system more resilient and extensible, easier to read, and more clear about its individual decision points and functions, without impacting functionality. It's a bonus if refactoring improves functionality. 


I always did want to go for the bonus marks.


(the word for 2011? Still thinking...)

Unresolved, or In Progress (?)

I think I should tell you, he starts. I’m always a little suspicious of this breed of conversational starting place. It ranks right up there with “good news/bad news” and “now, don’t worry but….”

Last night, Blaise was very sad. He told me that he didn’t understand why you would give him Theodore and give Simon to Sabine, when Simon is his favourite chipmunk.

Something in me snaps.

Another stupid, petty failure. Another time I put myself out, executed an idea I thought was good, and it flopped. Another time that I tried to create happiness and instead produced the opposite – disappointment.

Fine. I give up (really?). I won’t try to make anyone happy (do you think you can “make” someone else happy?). I won’t try to be thoughtful and caring, because it doesn’t matter anyway (who are you to judge outcomes by only what you see?). It always ends this way (it doesn’t).

SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!

I feel this. I feel it. I feel overwhelmed, disappointed, angry, self-righteous, hard-done-by, put-upon, unappreciated, unloved. I feel regret for the moment where the decision went wrong, angry with myself for not avoiding it, frustrated knowing the exact twist that would have erased this present painful moment from the timeline. That my feelings are wrong only makes shame the cherry on top.

I feel frustrated by the futility of life and effort. I feel this, and it hurts it hurts it hurts and I want it OUT OUT OUT.

I want to SMASH. I want to SLAM. I want to SCREAM.

I want to blame, judge and punish. In this moment, I want it more than anything. It consumes me. It clutches my heart and clamps my lungs, demanding explosive, physical release.

I can’t hold still. Tears are starting to stream and I almost run from the bathroom without a glance at him. Where do I go? To the other bathroom, where I slam the door (wasn't that satisfying?) pace and stew and brush my teeth vehemently while my mind picks over the threads of the memory, once again identifying the moment, renewing and feeding the emotional swell.

I want to eradicate, negate the entire circumstances of this inconvenient, over-compensating pain. I find myself banging out into the hallway, barging into their empty rooms, grabbing the offending chipper chipmunks out of their beds and squeezing their puffy little middles with malice.

I stomp back into his bathroom (you need an audience) stuff the toys violently into the garbage can, and stomp out again. I feel his resigned disapproval as a polluted vapour that gets in my nose, hair, skin, eyes.

Through his eyes I see the level of unbalance between circumstances and my reaction. This knowledge encourages my mind to draw forward previous memories of failure, lack of appreciation, inability to bring happiness. There, see, it’s all reasonable. This moment symbolizes my impotence in the face of the world’s wrongs. Maybe I’m not upset enough.

Back to my bathroom. Wash my face. Water like a warm relief and release.

I hope he takes them out of the garbage. Oh, how stupid. Oh, I can’t believe I did that. What is wrong with me? What is wrong with me? Now I have to live with the shame that he’s seen me so ridiculous, so out of control. I feel defeated by myself.

I walk slowly back to his bathroom. I take the offending chubby-cheeks out of the garbage. I brush them off. Damn. I’ll have to launder them now, won’t I?

Before I even speak I know I’ve come back too soon. I feel it but I don’t leave. I still can’t let it go.

I should give them to charity. Maybe someone will actually appreciate them.

He says nothing. It’s a perfectly reasonable response. I’m so frustrated with him saying nothing (he’s afraid of you). If he loved me he would know what I need (because love makes him a mind reader?). He should help me.

I make the mistake of sharing that thought out loud.

He deftly avoids taking responsibility for my stuff, but I persist in demanding his help as proof of love. THINK ABOUT ME! SPEND SOME TIME THINKING ABOUT HOW TO HELP ME! Don’t just give up with a shrug – oh well, I’ll just wait until you’re calm, then I’ll deal with you.

I don’t know how to deal with you when you’re like that.

So you pull back.

Yes, I pull back. What else would I do?

I feel that as a removal of love. I feel your pulling back as, I love you this far and no further. I love you, but.  I love you except.  I love you despite.  I love the part of you that doesn’t resort to this level of immature behaviour. Not right through your core, just to the outer edges

And I find, as I’m working through all this, that I really do want his help, though I’m sure I’ll be ashamed if he offers it. Maybe having him on my side instead of watching in judgment would make me feel less alone and powerless against my worst self.

He starts the water for the shower, then turns to me.

What do you want me to do? he asks, his voice tired and resigned, borderline dejection. I’m certain he is regretting the moment he told me about the disappointment as much as I regret the moment that created the disappointment. Probably more.

He’s asked a reasonable question. I strain to force my brain to organize around an answer.

Maybe you could…ask me a question?

What question?

Again I feel the swell of annoyance. He’s not willing to put himself out for me (maybe he doesn’t know how). He’s not willing to even try to think about it for himself (it’s not his responsibility, it’s yours).

If I want his support I’ll have to spoon feed him all the steps and make it easy. It smacks of lack of commitment. It feels like lack of caring. (he’s tired too, he’s under so much strain keeping the money coming in, he’s not able to pursue his dreams, he has no energy left. Give him a break).

Fine.

I feel petulant in my wrongness. Alone, ultimately alone. The shower is still wastefully pounding out water, steaming the room and demanding that this conversation come to a close so life can move on.

Okay, I sigh. Have your shower. I’ll go get ready.

I leave. I go back to the other bathroom. I cry. I feel. I stop thinking and feel and feel, and once the thinking lets go its tight fist, the feeling gradually becomes its own vapour and seeps from me, dissipating and leaving me raw, heavy, done.

I long to connect.  I walk back into his bathroom. I peek in the shower curtain.

I’ve changed my mind.

About what?

About leaving without a hug. I need to touch you.

I reach in, put my arm around his wet waist, spray spritzing my face and hair.

Now you’re all wet.

He steps toward me, we hug carefully to minimize my soaking, then I just relax into his chest, not really caring. He sighs heavily, his chin resting on my head. He seems relieved in a sad, confused kind of way.

Okay. This is as far as we’re getting today. I’m no longer convinced there is anything to take further. I'm tired.

Leaving the bathroom, I go to Blaise.“What? What, mom?” he demands in a whiney singsong, his tone hinting at something derogatory about the word mom. I’m struck by his sudden boy-ness, the complete lack of baby in this four-year-old person.

We sit on the red sofa.

I think I let you down.

...

I saw these chipmunks (I hold up Theodore) and thought, Blaise and Sabine would like these!

But you gave Simon to Sabine, and Simon is my FAVOURITE chipmunk, he wails.

Remember, I hid them behind my back, and you picked the one on the left, and Sabine picked the one on the right. That’s how you got Theodore.

….

I didn’t remember that Simon was your favourite. I thought you would like them both equally.

…

I’m actually surprised that you like Simon so much. He’s kinda bossy.

(laughs) Yeah.

I might have thought you’d like Theodore better. He likes to laugh and play and tell jokes.

(lighter, higher voice; quiet) He likes to tell jokes…

What jokes?

Pardon?

What jokes does he tell?

(um…he WOULD ask that, wouldn’t he?)

Maybe knock-knock jokes?

Okay. Thanks mom, thanks anyway.

He gives me an awkward hug.

I’m going downstairs now, okay?

(pause) Yes. Okay.

Bye.

Bye.

Life would be easier if I could just feel less.

Post Script - So, what actually happened the previous day?

We had finally decided that the persistent cough was getting worse, not better, and a doctor must be seen. Anticipating a hectic Good Friday crowd at the walk in clinic, I packed food and, at the last second, remembered the plush chipmunks I’d picked up a few weeks ago for just such an occasion. I threw them in the bag before running out the door.

The crowds weren’t too bad, but the kids were impatient. I decided the time was right to pull out the chipmunks. I wondered for a moment which to give to which child. If I let them choose, they tend to choose the same one and fight. I thought, I’ll avoid all that. I hid them behind my back.

I have a surprise for you, I said. Pick a hand. As I pulled my hands from behind my back, I thought I felt him go for the other hand the instant before I gave them each their own chipmunk. I chose to attribute his lack of enthusiasm to the fever.

Knowing that I knew doesn't exactly help.