Today we laid to rest one of our youth, 21 years old, talented, passionate, and smart. Gui Sobral. His smile has graced our lives, his energy contagious. The only son of dedicated and loving parents, killed in a twisted car crash a week ago. And for the first time in my life, I felt something new, something unexplainable, something so much bigger then myself.
I watched as his mother supported by someone on each side stepped up to read a poem she had written, the kind of raw emotion, grief, loss, pain…the stricken look of devastation, of lost expectations, of memories, of love. I watched as childhood pictures flickered across the screens, simple pictures to us, but to his parents, parts of their lives, parts of everything that he had been. Glimpses into a lifetime of love. And I saw her anguish and something intensely foreign began to well inside of me.
I have to be honest; I haven’t felt attached to this pregnancy. I’ve felt invaded, taken over, not in control. I’ve resented the days and nights of sickness, the limitations, the tiredness, I’ve felt claustrophobic and trapped. I’ve laid awake at night and wondered if somehow I’m missing some vital mothering instinct that is supposed to be apparent in all females. I’ve heard those around me who are pregnant, gush about their feelings of passionate love for their unborn, their excitement, that glow. And I’ve been jealous of it. Worried really. People have asked me everyday how excited I am, and I’ve answered with caution and a simple smile…”I’m getting there” when in reality, I feel very far from it.
But today, I sat there…in that pew and an emotion started to well from within the very depths of my being, a understanding, an agony. As I felt the kicks of my own children, and heard the wail of a mother who had lost hers, I felt it…what must be, has to be, a mothers heart. Nothing so intense, nothing so clear, nothing so pure in feeling , in emotion, has ever overcome me. I had to hold on to the seat, literally, to keep from rushing to a woman I don’t even know, to grasp her to me, to weep with her, to hold her in her loss, to help feel a pain I am now only beginning to understand. And in that moment, I loved my children, they are not just what lives inside of me, but they are why I live. I will be from this moment on, always a mother. They are mine, a part of myself, my responsibility, my inspiration, my motivation, my heart.
They lower Gui into the ground, and as they do, my babies kick. And I feel a holy fear of the sense of protectiveness I feel for these unborn children of mine. A complete abandon of any sense of sacrifice to big or to great for those that I call my own. There is nothing, nothing, that would be to big, or too much for me to give or do, to protect them, to uphold them, to see them succeed, to see them live fulfilled and happy, to have them understand my love. There is nothing that I could even call a sacrifice, because it is what I want to do. Because today…I am a mother.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Sunday, September 5, 2010
A Whole Box of Positive
I just couldn't remember...one line or two lines? I sat there on the edge of the bathtub holding the pregnancy test thinking rather blindly that I thought it was two lines for positive, but that just couldn't be right, because there were two lines on that little sucker and well, I couldn't be pregnant.
I had woke up feeling very odd that morning, and on a hunch had rummaged through my bathroom drawer for that old test I had had from a previous scare years ago. I had long since thrown away the box, and had no idiot proof reference in the instruction book ,that actually gives you a little picture of what it's supposed to look like if it's positive.
I googled the question "what does a positive cvs pregnancy test look like" and wouldn't you know it. Dozens of other women had the same question. And wouldn't you know it, they said it was two lines. And wouldn't you know it, I didn't believe it. I woke Dustan up and told him we needed to go to Rite aid THIS MINUTE and get some pregnancy tests...he was a little to stunned to argue and off we marched. We got a box, and I mean a box of pregnancy test and brought them home.
In a daze I went through the entire box and blinked unbelievably as one after another came up positive, within moments. I'm not a swearing person, I'm a pastor and I was raised with a clean mouth policy...but there is something about finding out you are pregnant that kind of makes you want to swear. I certainly thought it, if I didn't say it...."$&%*"what have we gotten ourselves into. Visions of sleepless nights, screaming children in checkout lines, snotty noses, and dirty diapers whirled through my head. Loss of freedom and flexibility seemed to creep in from the dark corners of my mind as we looked at that bathroom windowsill...at the lineup of our future. A whole box of positive. Yep, a whole box. Not one, not two....a...whole....box. And then Dustan took pictures, and gave me a huge, and told me I was going to be a great mommy. And I cried, because I was so darned sacred. Dustan was all smiles and laughter...and I didn't talk for three days.
Six weeks later we found ourselves in a small maroon and teal office waiting for the Doctor to give us the first glimpse of our baby. He did his job with ease and professionalism right up to the point where he paused and said, "huh". We froze..."look at that, there are two." I wish I had a picture of Dustan's face...the color drained, the eyes dilated...I argued with the Doctor, "no, you don't understand, that is not possible. There are no twins in my family, this was not planned, I'm not an older mother...there can't be twins." He very factually replied that one out of every eighty couples have twins without fertility drugs...ONE OUT OF EIGHTY! Why have I never heard that statistic?!? And then we heard two little heart beats, and visions of forty little fingers and toes flashed through my head, of two little blue eyed blonds, and I laid my head back on that table and laughed and shook my head, and laughed some more....and Dustan didn't talk for three days.
I had woke up feeling very odd that morning, and on a hunch had rummaged through my bathroom drawer for that old test I had had from a previous scare years ago. I had long since thrown away the box, and had no idiot proof reference in the instruction book ,that actually gives you a little picture of what it's supposed to look like if it's positive.
I googled the question "what does a positive cvs pregnancy test look like" and wouldn't you know it. Dozens of other women had the same question. And wouldn't you know it, they said it was two lines. And wouldn't you know it, I didn't believe it. I woke Dustan up and told him we needed to go to Rite aid THIS MINUTE and get some pregnancy tests...he was a little to stunned to argue and off we marched. We got a box, and I mean a box of pregnancy test and brought them home.
In a daze I went through the entire box and blinked unbelievably as one after another came up positive, within moments. I'm not a swearing person, I'm a pastor and I was raised with a clean mouth policy...but there is something about finding out you are pregnant that kind of makes you want to swear. I certainly thought it, if I didn't say it...."$&%*"what have we gotten ourselves into. Visions of sleepless nights, screaming children in checkout lines, snotty noses, and dirty diapers whirled through my head. Loss of freedom and flexibility seemed to creep in from the dark corners of my mind as we looked at that bathroom windowsill...at the lineup of our future. A whole box of positive. Yep, a whole box. Not one, not two....a...whole....box. And then Dustan took pictures, and gave me a huge, and told me I was going to be a great mommy. And I cried, because I was so darned sacred. Dustan was all smiles and laughter...and I didn't talk for three days.
Six weeks later we found ourselves in a small maroon and teal office waiting for the Doctor to give us the first glimpse of our baby. He did his job with ease and professionalism right up to the point where he paused and said, "huh". We froze..."look at that, there are two." I wish I had a picture of Dustan's face...the color drained, the eyes dilated...I argued with the Doctor, "no, you don't understand, that is not possible. There are no twins in my family, this was not planned, I'm not an older mother...there can't be twins." He very factually replied that one out of every eighty couples have twins without fertility drugs...ONE OUT OF EIGHTY! Why have I never heard that statistic?!? And then we heard two little heart beats, and visions of forty little fingers and toes flashed through my head, of two little blue eyed blonds, and I laid my head back on that table and laughed and shook my head, and laughed some more....and Dustan didn't talk for three days.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
The Thing I Fear Most
There is not a lot in life I fear. This is not always a good thing.
When I was just barely big enough to reach the measuring line, stretching my spine as much as I could, I lived for the roller coasters that would go fast and upside down. My mother would stand next to the track and wait for me as I went over and over on the scariest rides with my big cousin. My cousin taught me to wait for the first car and put my hands in the air to make it more exciting, which I did, because more exciting was good.
I've been bitten in the face twice by dogs, once it resulted in several stitches, mainly because I had no fear and put my face right down to that cute, snarling, snapping dog.
I used to climb out my window in Montana in the middle of the night in summer, and roam the dark woods by myself, or lay in the meadow in my night gown and feel very small...and liking that feeling
I've looked bears in the eyes, held a giant bangle tigers head in my lap, played with snakes, and let spiders crawl up my arms.
When I was eighteen I went sky-diving and as I scooted along the bench to jump out of the open door thousands of feet in the air, I just remember being excited, no fear. Not even a little.
I love rock-climbing, and mountaineering, where you can dangle your feet over the side of a ledge thousands of feet up and look at the world below.
I love when your skis leave the ground, and there's nothing but empty space between you and the ground, and just being so close to flying.
I love the feeling of the unknown, the excitement of being surrounded by foreign things, foreign faces, a foreign tongue, and not knowing how in the world I can get from point A to point B. I love that.
I don't fear death. Graveyards are some of my favorite things, I like to lay in a quiet one near my house, deep in the woods and think of how peaceful it will be to rest.
I love driving my motorcycle to fast, feeling the power as an extension of my body, pushing the limits. Being a little wild.
I thrive on public speaking, large groups, and mental challenges. There's not much in life I fear.
But there is one thing that makes my throat go dry. My palms sweat, my breathing speed, my knees weak. And that is something now that I cannot avoid...it is a fear that is growing inside of me, moving within myself, a part, a extension of me....I am terrified of having children.
It's not the labor, the deliver, or the copious amounts of pain that frighten me. I say bring it. But it is the unshakable feeling of being helpless in what my children inherit. It is the overwhelming fear of seeing my weaknesses in my children, and knowing that I am responsible.
It is one thing to have weaknesses that you do battle with daily; that is one thing. It's humbling, and humiliating, and frightening. But it’s something altogether different to watch the people you love most in life, struggle with what you have developed in your own failures. How will I explain my struggles to my children as I watch them deal with them themselves? How will I find an excuse to excuse the suffering that they most endure because of what they have gotten from me? These are questions I cannot answer. I fear.
But the clock keeps ticking, and my body tells me I am changing...and sooner or later I must face this fear. My only malady for my dilemma is that there must be, has to be...grace. And also...that they may turn out like their father.
When I was just barely big enough to reach the measuring line, stretching my spine as much as I could, I lived for the roller coasters that would go fast and upside down. My mother would stand next to the track and wait for me as I went over and over on the scariest rides with my big cousin. My cousin taught me to wait for the first car and put my hands in the air to make it more exciting, which I did, because more exciting was good.
I've been bitten in the face twice by dogs, once it resulted in several stitches, mainly because I had no fear and put my face right down to that cute, snarling, snapping dog.
I used to climb out my window in Montana in the middle of the night in summer, and roam the dark woods by myself, or lay in the meadow in my night gown and feel very small...and liking that feeling
I've looked bears in the eyes, held a giant bangle tigers head in my lap, played with snakes, and let spiders crawl up my arms.
When I was eighteen I went sky-diving and as I scooted along the bench to jump out of the open door thousands of feet in the air, I just remember being excited, no fear. Not even a little.
I love rock-climbing, and mountaineering, where you can dangle your feet over the side of a ledge thousands of feet up and look at the world below.
I love when your skis leave the ground, and there's nothing but empty space between you and the ground, and just being so close to flying.
I love the feeling of the unknown, the excitement of being surrounded by foreign things, foreign faces, a foreign tongue, and not knowing how in the world I can get from point A to point B. I love that.
I don't fear death. Graveyards are some of my favorite things, I like to lay in a quiet one near my house, deep in the woods and think of how peaceful it will be to rest.
I love driving my motorcycle to fast, feeling the power as an extension of my body, pushing the limits. Being a little wild.
I thrive on public speaking, large groups, and mental challenges. There's not much in life I fear.
But there is one thing that makes my throat go dry. My palms sweat, my breathing speed, my knees weak. And that is something now that I cannot avoid...it is a fear that is growing inside of me, moving within myself, a part, a extension of me....I am terrified of having children.
It's not the labor, the deliver, or the copious amounts of pain that frighten me. I say bring it. But it is the unshakable feeling of being helpless in what my children inherit. It is the overwhelming fear of seeing my weaknesses in my children, and knowing that I am responsible.
It is one thing to have weaknesses that you do battle with daily; that is one thing. It's humbling, and humiliating, and frightening. But it’s something altogether different to watch the people you love most in life, struggle with what you have developed in your own failures. How will I explain my struggles to my children as I watch them deal with them themselves? How will I find an excuse to excuse the suffering that they most endure because of what they have gotten from me? These are questions I cannot answer. I fear.
But the clock keeps ticking, and my body tells me I am changing...and sooner or later I must face this fear. My only malady for my dilemma is that there must be, has to be...grace. And also...that they may turn out like their father.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Get a breath...live.
I was born dead. Not a very glamorous start, blue, wrinkly, and no heartbeat. My mother always said that I was her miracle baby. When I was small this somehow gave me the idea that I was worth something, I had purpose, and was meant to be here. But age makes you feel that that might be a form of pride, that really you are just like everyone else and by some freak of nature you beat the odds and pulled through.
My parents are remarkable people and didn’t seem to do anything normally. I was conceived in the middle of some African desert probably in a tent, camped out beside wild animals that really enjoyed eating people; nothing like a little fear to shake up the love life. This was the same trip that my parents Land Rover broke down in the middle of the Serengeti, where wild Hyenas’ stalked my father as he tried to fix the car, and my two older brothers cried in the back seat as small toddlers afraid of the lions roar in the bush. This was the same trip that my father, in his characteristic pursuit of perfection in all things, in effort for perfect photograph, got charged by an elephant, rhinoceros, and ran over by a giant silver back gorilla; with my very pregnant mother in observance. It’s not to shocking then that my mother’s pregnancy was complicated.
My parents had taken a short stint as missionary’s in Rwanda, Africa, where my grandparents had been working as the same for the past 15 years. My two older brothers were two and four at the time and my mother was thrilled to be expecting another, maybe this would be the girl she longed for. It was rough from the start. Only a couple months into her first term she had a massive amount of blood loss and severe cramping, a bad sign, she knew from a previous miscarriage. A trip to the international hospital confirmed her fears as the doctor shock his head and told her she had lost her baby. “We need to do a DNC, its best for you and will clean out any toxins that may be a harm to you”, he said. My mother is a firm believer in the natural course of all things. “If is bad”, she said, “it will come out on its own”.
A while later she was back, this time because she was still sick every morning and wanted to know why. Wouldn’t you know it, I was still hanging on.
It was most likely in an attempt to stay within the comforts of my mother’s womb that I managed to wrap the umbilical cord around my neck multiple times. Or maybe it was an indication of my early interest in rock-climbing, using what was available as a belay device. Either way what was supposed to be the link to my life force became the thing that would take it.
Before the invention of high-tech camera’s that can assess the problems and issues with babies in the womb, the doctors were forced to make their best guesses. On repeated visits in and out of the European hospital in Rwanda, my mother was told that her child did not seem normal. The heart-beat was irregular and didn’t sound right. Understanding the negative affects of a dysfunctional heart in development the doctors warned her of the chances her child would be abnormal. Abortion was always an option they said. “Sometimes it’s the best for both the parents and the child”. “We’ll take it in any shape” my mother replied. Realizing that this pregnancy would be complicated, my parents made the decision to return home to the United States.
On delivery day, July 28th, my mother went into contractions, but something was terribly wrong. With each contraction, my heart rate plummeted sometimes almost disappearing on the black and green monitor. It was clear to the doctors this was an emergency situation and that my life was in the balance, C-section was in order and quickly.
I have pictures of that operation. I don’t quite understand how my dad did this, but he suited up and treated the whole thing as a photo opp; my mom out cold, the doctors slicing her right down the middle. They were in such a hurry that they cut through a major artery, sending blood in a pulsating geyser across the room where it hit the wall in a grotesques rendition of modern art.
For several pictures all you see is blood, then a small bluish lump. That’s me! No heart beat, not breathing, strangled by my umbilical cord. It wasn’t that long, maybe several seconds, but to my dad, it must have been a long time before he heard that first scream. My first lusty breath, granted by the skill and persistence of the doctors and I imagine my own will to survive. It’s in each of us, no matter how small, beat the odds, get a breath, live.
There I was, alive and breathing. The girl they were hoping for. Back from the dead, ready to take on the world. As long as taking on the world included sleeping, eating, burping, and pooping, and as long as my parents were on hand to meet my every need. I was ready.
When my mother came to, her joy on seeing me alive couldn’t help but be dampened by the caution and concern the doctor’s showed about the consequences of lack of oxygen to my brain for the first several moments of life. What the ramifications of that would be, would have to be seen over time. My parents spent the first several months of my life looking for defects and dysfunctions’ in their child. Over time I would develop some… I seemed to be incapable of keeping my room clean during my teenage years...
My parents are remarkable people and didn’t seem to do anything normally. I was conceived in the middle of some African desert probably in a tent, camped out beside wild animals that really enjoyed eating people; nothing like a little fear to shake up the love life. This was the same trip that my parents Land Rover broke down in the middle of the Serengeti, where wild Hyenas’ stalked my father as he tried to fix the car, and my two older brothers cried in the back seat as small toddlers afraid of the lions roar in the bush. This was the same trip that my father, in his characteristic pursuit of perfection in all things, in effort for perfect photograph, got charged by an elephant, rhinoceros, and ran over by a giant silver back gorilla; with my very pregnant mother in observance. It’s not to shocking then that my mother’s pregnancy was complicated.
My parents had taken a short stint as missionary’s in Rwanda, Africa, where my grandparents had been working as the same for the past 15 years. My two older brothers were two and four at the time and my mother was thrilled to be expecting another, maybe this would be the girl she longed for. It was rough from the start. Only a couple months into her first term she had a massive amount of blood loss and severe cramping, a bad sign, she knew from a previous miscarriage. A trip to the international hospital confirmed her fears as the doctor shock his head and told her she had lost her baby. “We need to do a DNC, its best for you and will clean out any toxins that may be a harm to you”, he said. My mother is a firm believer in the natural course of all things. “If is bad”, she said, “it will come out on its own”.
A while later she was back, this time because she was still sick every morning and wanted to know why. Wouldn’t you know it, I was still hanging on.
It was most likely in an attempt to stay within the comforts of my mother’s womb that I managed to wrap the umbilical cord around my neck multiple times. Or maybe it was an indication of my early interest in rock-climbing, using what was available as a belay device. Either way what was supposed to be the link to my life force became the thing that would take it.
Before the invention of high-tech camera’s that can assess the problems and issues with babies in the womb, the doctors were forced to make their best guesses. On repeated visits in and out of the European hospital in Rwanda, my mother was told that her child did not seem normal. The heart-beat was irregular and didn’t sound right. Understanding the negative affects of a dysfunctional heart in development the doctors warned her of the chances her child would be abnormal. Abortion was always an option they said. “Sometimes it’s the best for both the parents and the child”. “We’ll take it in any shape” my mother replied. Realizing that this pregnancy would be complicated, my parents made the decision to return home to the United States.
On delivery day, July 28th, my mother went into contractions, but something was terribly wrong. With each contraction, my heart rate plummeted sometimes almost disappearing on the black and green monitor. It was clear to the doctors this was an emergency situation and that my life was in the balance, C-section was in order and quickly.
I have pictures of that operation. I don’t quite understand how my dad did this, but he suited up and treated the whole thing as a photo opp; my mom out cold, the doctors slicing her right down the middle. They were in such a hurry that they cut through a major artery, sending blood in a pulsating geyser across the room where it hit the wall in a grotesques rendition of modern art.
For several pictures all you see is blood, then a small bluish lump. That’s me! No heart beat, not breathing, strangled by my umbilical cord. It wasn’t that long, maybe several seconds, but to my dad, it must have been a long time before he heard that first scream. My first lusty breath, granted by the skill and persistence of the doctors and I imagine my own will to survive. It’s in each of us, no matter how small, beat the odds, get a breath, live.
There I was, alive and breathing. The girl they were hoping for. Back from the dead, ready to take on the world. As long as taking on the world included sleeping, eating, burping, and pooping, and as long as my parents were on hand to meet my every need. I was ready.
When my mother came to, her joy on seeing me alive couldn’t help but be dampened by the caution and concern the doctor’s showed about the consequences of lack of oxygen to my brain for the first several moments of life. What the ramifications of that would be, would have to be seen over time. My parents spent the first several months of my life looking for defects and dysfunctions’ in their child. Over time I would develop some… I seemed to be incapable of keeping my room clean during my teenage years...
Monday, June 7, 2010
The color of my life...
I was thinking the other day, about the things that make me…me. About the memories that stand out in life and seem unique in some way. A part of tapestry that makes us colorful. In the end I’m just an average girl. Had a fairly unique life to a lot of people. But to me it was normal so thus not that remarkable. Had a really great childhood I think. Despite a few black marks and struggles…generally speaking it was really blessed.
Moved to Montana when I was four…lived in a log cabin on the banks of the North Fork river…looked across to the Rocky Mountains. It had no electricity or telephone. Heated our food, water, and house with wood. Almost lost our house to the great forest fire of ’88, but fire stopped on our property line and burned around it…believed in miracles then. Got snowed in in the winter of ’89. Dad rode my horse Starbuck to the nearest telephone 15 miles away at the local mercantile to make an emergency call. Cars couldn’t get out for weeks.
Learned how to work hard and play hard. Never got an allowance, never needed one. Played in the river in the summer-time…pulled giant leeches of my legs and watched the blood run down. Woke up in the middle of the night to -60 degrees F, in winter, crawled in my parents bed with my brothers just to stay warm. Saw the most incredible vivid display of the northern lights drawn in massive curtains across the sky and reflected back on the river and snow. Gathered firewood in the fall, got scrapped off on a tree by my Shetland pony Coco, multiple times. Had a lamb named Heidi. Found it with a big chunk taken out of its side by a Timber wolf. Had to put her down. Got stopped on my way home from the neighbors by a Timber wolf, twice my size. Looked into my soul…can shut my eyes and see those steely blue eyes staring me down. Didn’t turn around couldn’t, frozen in mid step. Stayed there for 5 minutes until it turned around and disappeared back into the woods. Then I ran.
Had a Grizzly bear try to break into our house, had a Grizzly raid our trash, our garden, our garage. Had a Grizzly bear swipe at my Golden Retriever named Goldie. Had a cat get eaten by a mountain lion. Had friend who had a pet mountain lion. Lived outdoors. Ran barefoot…got browned like a little Indian. Had an Indian show up on our door-step. A REAL Indian. Showed us how to track and light a fire, set up a teepee and clean a buck-skin. Stayed with us a while. Had a neighbor who was in the Vietnam war and lost his mind…thought the government was after him. Tried to kill my dad one night by running him off a cliff in the car. Had a lot of neighbors who thought the government was after them.
Loved my brothers like best friends, still do. Fought with my brothers like best friends, still do. Talked back to my mom and dad every day of my life, still do.
My early days, some of the memories have laid down roots taken hold. Is it unique? Sure, but yours is too…if you think about it. It’s tantalizing to think that each person holds the stories to a rich and varied life, unique to only them and just sitting there waiting for the telling.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
I will love
"A wise girl kisses but never loves...listens but doesn't believe...and leaves before she is left." Marilyn Monroe.
One of my teenage mentees posted this on her facebook last week and I just have to wonder...what kind of crack was Marilyn Monroe smoking, and since when was this wrapped up and dished out as good advice? Since when was stupidity sold as wisdom? I should be gentler, but it worries me that young people today, or I suppose, not just today, are on-slotted with the idea that happiness can only be had in self preservation. More like a death sentence to cold hearted isolation.
Now, let me clarify that I certainly understand where this is coming from; and am sensitive to it. The concept of it, and the affinity to it, is most likely the result of some unbelievably painful heartbreak that leaves one feeling like the nerve endings to their heart have been ripped out and frozen and then plugged back in for a nice little reminder. I get that. Been there. But what an awful thing to come out the other side saying! What an awful way to take a life lesson and toss it in the trash, put it in lock down, and give up on experiencing one of the greatest gifts in life! Would you like me to tell you how I really feel?
I love people. Plain and simple. If I didn't have people to love, if their weren't people for me to love, then life would be pretty desperate for me. You cannot ask me to partially love someone, or be reserved with how I love someone, trust me, my parents have been giving me that lecture since I discovered romantic relationships. Doesn't work that way with me. If I love you...I'll love you, hook, line, and sinker. Doesn't matter who you are either. You want to put up walls and get all tough? All the better, I'll try my hardest to smash em down. You want to be difficult and play hard to get? Go ahead...I like the challenge. I live to love people. That's my job, my passion, my gift. So when you tell me that it's safer, better not to love, you will excuse me if I disregard you. You will excuse me if I laugh when you tell me that the pain isn't worth it. I say bring it. Let me hurt, let me break, but don't tell me I cannot love.
It is what makes humans human. It is what makes life richer. It is what gives life purpose. And it certainly is what makes it beautiful. What would I have missed if I was safely tucked in isolation? I cannot even begin to tell you! I would have missed the understanding of safety in the unwavering love of my parents. I would have missed the protection and laughter of my brothers. I would have missed the friends-forever of my childhood. I would have missed the childhood imagination of romance, my prince charming. I would have missed feeling like my real life prince charming had ridden into my life and swept me off my feet that Montana winter, even though he turned me out into the cold a few months later. But to miss that? Never. I would have missed the lifelong friendships that I've built. The ones that I fall back on when things are tough. I would have missed the heady thrill of really being taken with someone...so much fun. I would have missed the needs of the kids I worked with, the things that only love can see. I would have missed out on finding someone behind a disguise, because love was the only thing that could see it. I would have missed my wedding day, my friends funeral, my Crystal's baptism, my best friends wedding, the chubby cheeks of my nieces, the broken sobs of a teenager, late night laughter, early morning smiles, knowledge of the safety of being known by another...I would have missed life.
Would I have missed some pain? Of course. I would have missed the breath taking, gut wrenching, devastation of my first heart break. I would have missed the helplessness of loving but not being able to help. I would have missed a few tears. Some sad stories. But how could I take any one of these things away and still be who I am today? How could I choose to sacrifice all that has been gained from pain? Never.
I do not fear love, or the loss of it rather. It is a part of life to love and loose. In the worlds of the famous poet..."it is better to have loved and lossed then to have never loved at all" I resonate. I will love those around me. It is my pleasure, my duty. We cannot call ourselves Christians until we can love. I hate to think what would have happened if the fear of pain had kept Christ from loving. He knew what would happen, he knew that his love would be rejected...but he loved anyway. Because it is who he is and what he does. You can tell me, that rejection is ahead of me and loss is eminent. I know this. No need to state. But don't try to tell me that the solution is in what people call independence and safety. There is no freedom in being tied to yourself. I will not take that road.
I will love.
One of my teenage mentees posted this on her facebook last week and I just have to wonder...what kind of crack was Marilyn Monroe smoking, and since when was this wrapped up and dished out as good advice? Since when was stupidity sold as wisdom? I should be gentler, but it worries me that young people today, or I suppose, not just today, are on-slotted with the idea that happiness can only be had in self preservation. More like a death sentence to cold hearted isolation.
Now, let me clarify that I certainly understand where this is coming from; and am sensitive to it. The concept of it, and the affinity to it, is most likely the result of some unbelievably painful heartbreak that leaves one feeling like the nerve endings to their heart have been ripped out and frozen and then plugged back in for a nice little reminder. I get that. Been there. But what an awful thing to come out the other side saying! What an awful way to take a life lesson and toss it in the trash, put it in lock down, and give up on experiencing one of the greatest gifts in life! Would you like me to tell you how I really feel?
I love people. Plain and simple. If I didn't have people to love, if their weren't people for me to love, then life would be pretty desperate for me. You cannot ask me to partially love someone, or be reserved with how I love someone, trust me, my parents have been giving me that lecture since I discovered romantic relationships. Doesn't work that way with me. If I love you...I'll love you, hook, line, and sinker. Doesn't matter who you are either. You want to put up walls and get all tough? All the better, I'll try my hardest to smash em down. You want to be difficult and play hard to get? Go ahead...I like the challenge. I live to love people. That's my job, my passion, my gift. So when you tell me that it's safer, better not to love, you will excuse me if I disregard you. You will excuse me if I laugh when you tell me that the pain isn't worth it. I say bring it. Let me hurt, let me break, but don't tell me I cannot love.
It is what makes humans human. It is what makes life richer. It is what gives life purpose. And it certainly is what makes it beautiful. What would I have missed if I was safely tucked in isolation? I cannot even begin to tell you! I would have missed the understanding of safety in the unwavering love of my parents. I would have missed the protection and laughter of my brothers. I would have missed the friends-forever of my childhood. I would have missed the childhood imagination of romance, my prince charming. I would have missed feeling like my real life prince charming had ridden into my life and swept me off my feet that Montana winter, even though he turned me out into the cold a few months later. But to miss that? Never. I would have missed the lifelong friendships that I've built. The ones that I fall back on when things are tough. I would have missed the heady thrill of really being taken with someone...so much fun. I would have missed the needs of the kids I worked with, the things that only love can see. I would have missed out on finding someone behind a disguise, because love was the only thing that could see it. I would have missed my wedding day, my friends funeral, my Crystal's baptism, my best friends wedding, the chubby cheeks of my nieces, the broken sobs of a teenager, late night laughter, early morning smiles, knowledge of the safety of being known by another...I would have missed life.
Would I have missed some pain? Of course. I would have missed the breath taking, gut wrenching, devastation of my first heart break. I would have missed the helplessness of loving but not being able to help. I would have missed a few tears. Some sad stories. But how could I take any one of these things away and still be who I am today? How could I choose to sacrifice all that has been gained from pain? Never.
I do not fear love, or the loss of it rather. It is a part of life to love and loose. In the worlds of the famous poet..."it is better to have loved and lossed then to have never loved at all" I resonate. I will love those around me. It is my pleasure, my duty. We cannot call ourselves Christians until we can love. I hate to think what would have happened if the fear of pain had kept Christ from loving. He knew what would happen, he knew that his love would be rejected...but he loved anyway. Because it is who he is and what he does. You can tell me, that rejection is ahead of me and loss is eminent. I know this. No need to state. But don't try to tell me that the solution is in what people call independence and safety. There is no freedom in being tied to yourself. I will not take that road.
I will love.
The House By the Side of the Road
Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by -
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban;
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
I see from my house by the side of the road,
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife.
But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears -
Both parts of an infinite plan;
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead
And mountains of wearisome height;
And the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by -
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish - so am I.
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat
Or hurl the cynic's ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Where I find myself
I think I will never be satisfied. It's a blessing and a curse. I want to see the world, breath it in, see it all. But I want to settle in, send down roots, have a family. It is much like the concept of Yin and Yang, each in opposition to each-other, but in compliment. One cannot exists without the other. I cannot exists without both. They take turns within me. Each clamoring for my attention. Each having to take turns.
This time last year, I was packing up all I had in life, getting ready to move back to the country I call home. But it didn't feel like home. It felt like a foreign land of excess and convenience. Where my own language hurt my ears and overwhelmed me because suddenly I could understand everything that was being said. The sweet silence of ignorance had been robbed from me. I found myself searching for the sing-song roughness of the Chinese language that I had grown accustomed to ignoring. Here understanding was forced on me. Familiarity bred contempt and I wanted earplugs.
There are so many things to love about America, so many things I had missed. Like green grass, and Taco Bell, big trucks, and being able to drive. So many things you can do here that you cannot do else where and that I wanted to do. But leaving Hong Kong broke my heart. It's uniqueness, it's intensity, the memories, the people. I cried as our jet plane dipped its wings to the South and the Hong Kong skyline disappeared below me. I left part of my heart there...and I felt it leave me. When you love in life, you hurt. And I had loved living in Hong Kong.
I suppose I could have withstrained myself, I knew it was only temporary, but to fall in love with a place, or even a person, and withstrain yourself from investing your heart because of safety issues; is to limit yourself to mere surface level understanding. To get dirty in something, someone, to see all that it is, they are, is to love them. And I loved living in Hong Kong.
To be outside of my comfort zone, is to be in my comfort zone...to challenge normality. Here? here I'm somewhat normal. And its hard. Hard feeling tied to a place. Hard knowing that people expect things of me that I am not qualified to deliver. It's even hard driving two minutes to the grocery store and having my pick of five different kinds of taco sauce...hard because it's so easy. In Hong Kong, taco sauce came by an epic journey of an hour by three different modes of transportation and a mile of walking, till you found the one store, that had the one kind....and let me tell you, there was nothing better then that one kind of hard earned taco sauce.
But it's wonderful here too, wonderful because it is also unique. Only in America can you sit in the grandstands of Fenway park and watch the Redsox play ball and sing the national anthem to the flag flying under the Coca Cola sign. Only in America can you live in a four bedroom, two and a half bath house and still refer to it as small. Only in America, am I truly an American. And I love my country.
Come to think about it, I love every place I've lived. I've loved Montana because it's where I found myself grounded in simplicity and drawn to adventure. And I've loved Tennessee because its where I found myself learning how to slow down for relationships, for life. And I've loved Connecticut because it's where I found myself learning that people can change and hope is stronger then desperation. And I loved Hong Kong because it's where I found myself intoxicated with life's complexity and how small I really am. And I love South Lancaster Massachusetts, because...it's where I find myself.
This time last year, I was packing up all I had in life, getting ready to move back to the country I call home. But it didn't feel like home. It felt like a foreign land of excess and convenience. Where my own language hurt my ears and overwhelmed me because suddenly I could understand everything that was being said. The sweet silence of ignorance had been robbed from me. I found myself searching for the sing-song roughness of the Chinese language that I had grown accustomed to ignoring. Here understanding was forced on me. Familiarity bred contempt and I wanted earplugs.
There are so many things to love about America, so many things I had missed. Like green grass, and Taco Bell, big trucks, and being able to drive. So many things you can do here that you cannot do else where and that I wanted to do. But leaving Hong Kong broke my heart. It's uniqueness, it's intensity, the memories, the people. I cried as our jet plane dipped its wings to the South and the Hong Kong skyline disappeared below me. I left part of my heart there...and I felt it leave me. When you love in life, you hurt. And I had loved living in Hong Kong.
I suppose I could have withstrained myself, I knew it was only temporary, but to fall in love with a place, or even a person, and withstrain yourself from investing your heart because of safety issues; is to limit yourself to mere surface level understanding. To get dirty in something, someone, to see all that it is, they are, is to love them. And I loved living in Hong Kong.
To be outside of my comfort zone, is to be in my comfort zone...to challenge normality. Here? here I'm somewhat normal. And its hard. Hard feeling tied to a place. Hard knowing that people expect things of me that I am not qualified to deliver. It's even hard driving two minutes to the grocery store and having my pick of five different kinds of taco sauce...hard because it's so easy. In Hong Kong, taco sauce came by an epic journey of an hour by three different modes of transportation and a mile of walking, till you found the one store, that had the one kind....and let me tell you, there was nothing better then that one kind of hard earned taco sauce.
But it's wonderful here too, wonderful because it is also unique. Only in America can you sit in the grandstands of Fenway park and watch the Redsox play ball and sing the national anthem to the flag flying under the Coca Cola sign. Only in America can you live in a four bedroom, two and a half bath house and still refer to it as small. Only in America, am I truly an American. And I love my country.
Come to think about it, I love every place I've lived. I've loved Montana because it's where I found myself grounded in simplicity and drawn to adventure. And I've loved Tennessee because its where I found myself learning how to slow down for relationships, for life. And I've loved Connecticut because it's where I found myself learning that people can change and hope is stronger then desperation. And I loved Hong Kong because it's where I found myself intoxicated with life's complexity and how small I really am. And I love South Lancaster Massachusetts, because...it's where I find myself.
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