My mother was diagnosed with lung cancer in 1999. It wasn't a really great surprise, as she had quit smoking fifteen years prior, but had been quite a heavy smoker before that. She fought long and hard and she lived two years longer than we thought, that we ever could have imagined.
I remember the last time I saw her alive. My three daughters, and husband, and I had made the trip to New York for an extended stay. We had more or less anticipated that this would be the last time that we would have any time with her. She was in good spirits. It was my three years olds birthday, and she still, even at 12, remembers the cake from that day. It was a difficult two weeks, fraught with many taboo subjects that come when one is facing death, and the others are being left behind.
I remember one morning, my two sisters and I stood in the driveway, after our three husbands had driven off to get some necessity like bagels, because of course, when you're in New York, one must always have a bagel every day. Suddenly, there we stood, my sisters and I, realizing that it was time for us to go in to her. To go in and face the reality of the situation. The reality of saying goodbye. Saying goodbye to my mother, who I adored all my life, truly, was mind boggling. But realizing that she had to say goodbye to her daughters, her babies, as she put it, was nothing less than devestating, and even that couldn't explain the magnitude of this conversation. She said a kind of goodbye, as best that we could all handle. It was so emotionally charged, but we were truthful and I think when we walked out of there we felt that we had connected on the levels we needed to.
It was as if all at once we three realized that the conversation had to be started, and we walked down the short hallway to her room, knocked softly on her bedroom door. "Come in", she quietly, hoarsely said. In we filed, like soldiers, ready for whatever we had to face. But in reality, we had no idea of what we were going to face. One sister sat on the bed next to her, one of us sat in the empty wheelchair, and one kneeled on the floor. She said, "I don't know how to say goodbye to my babies."
There was a silence in the air. A complete and total vacuum. She quietly pointed out how each one of us had positives in our lives -- our children, our spouses, etc. But she specifically said to me, "I know you'll be okay, because you have Pat (my mother-in-law". You will be okay because you have Pat." She continued on her converstaion with my sisters, giving them the same assessment of their home life. But I realized at that moment, that I would be okay because I truly did have Pat. Pat was my husband's mother. She grew up on the other side of the a few states. We were vastly different in many ways. But the reality was, that from the moment my mother met her, she knew that I was safe with Pat and that Pat would always take care of me.
Losing my mother was the most devestating thing that has ever happened to me. She was my mentor, my supporter, she, like most mothers, loved my unconditionally. But here I was -- with Pat, who was different from me. But she loved my husband, saw his flaws, adored our children, and truly loved me. So, yes, I would be okay becaues I have Pat. It makes me breath easier because Pat is much younger than my parents are/would be. She is amazing with my children. She is thoughtful. She lets me vent about my kids, and even my husband, her own son. She understands that I love them no less, but am just tired. She truly "gets my back". She is ultimately a gift from my mother.
This is a hard season. This holiday season, with it's truthfulness, and it's falsieties is hard. But my mother was right. I will always be all right as long as I have Pat. And when, God forbid, it's Pat's time to pass on, I hope to be able to care for her in a way that I didn't get to care for my own mother because she lived 1,000 miles away. I hope that I can ease her pain, and that I can thank her for the amazing things she has done for my family, and for me, for the last 21 years. I truly love her.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Green Plastic Trash bag "Suitcases" and Mary Poppins
Every summer, the day after school ended, my mother would hand each one of my sisters and I a large, green black plastic bag. She'd merely hand it over, and say "Pack your clothes." This meant we were leaving for our small cabin in the middle of the New Hampshire woods, with no phone, no TV, and the tiny radio that my parents had convinced us only play "Muzak". We were going until the week before school came back into session because my father was a teacher and this is where we spent our summers. It was a love/hate relationship at any time, and any moment.
But, we'd pack. Haphazardly, tossing all kinds of things that ended up in our dresser drawers since we first bought our spring/summer clothing. I remember finding things in the corner of my wooden drawers that I'd throw in for good measure, because when you're stuck in the woods, sharing a really small room with your two sisters, one never knows what one will need. My second chore was to pack all the writing gear I would need to write to all my friends. I would faithfully write to them, every day almost. They would faithfully write back. Once during the entire summer, if I was lucky. I would walk the mile to the mailbox every day. Every single day. The funny thing was that even though it truly was a mile, and they truly only wrote once, I still was hopeful each and every time I left for the mailbox, and even when I came back empty handed. Because tomorrow the mail carrier would come again, and I would make that mile trek. Yes, it really was a mile to our mailbox. The address was merely RR2, and the town name. So, a mile was a breeze compared to those further down the Rural Route delivery. I packed a calendar, handy for crossing off each day (sometimes I'd add in the hours) that passed because Goddess forgive me if I ever enjoyed a moment in NH with my family. I gathered and packed pens, pencils, small useless pencils sharpeners. A clipboard was imperative, as were numerous envelopes. I wasn't worried about stamps because I could always hit my father up for the 10 cents it cost back then to mail a letter.
Over the next few days we'd assemble the items that were to be packed into the Suburban -- ivory, complete with "wood" paneling. My guitar, and my fife. Yes, I had a fife, and while it's not a common known fact, I could and still probably still can, play my fife along with the John Denver cassettes my parents would play for most of the six hours up there. Honestly, I could not tell you what my sisters packed to take with them. Krissy was only two years younger, Kerry was four and a half years younger. Not a large difference, but being a young teenager, I truly believed that no one other than myself and my friends existed, nor mattered in the grand scheme of things. They had their plastic bags, and a few other assundry items, and I had mine. Mine were important. Theirs got in the way of mine.
Inevitably, we'd leave early in the morning, getting up at six am. I was never sure why we had to leave at this ungodly hour, as we were to spend two and a half months there. Surely a few less hours there and a few more hours of sleep wouldn't have made a difference. Nonetheless, there would be my mother at the kitchen table, dawn breaking through the windows, making everyone's favorite sandwiches, no matter how bizarre they might be. I always had the most bizarre, and she always made sure all the orders were filled to perfection. There would be one large bag of potato chips, and one bottle of soda that had to last us all the way there. There were no stops for water, chips or candy along the way. My mother had her "bag", a cordoroy bag, much like Mary Poppins, that she always, always kept right at her feet during that trip and any trip we took my entire childhood. Among thousands of things, she kept her thermos of coffee. She'd fill it to the brim and that was the only reason my father would stop. My mother would have to use the restroom two times on the six hour trip. He'd complain, but in truth, we were all glad that she had her Mary Poppins bag and that thermos. There were several times that things came out of that bag that unfolded into something the size far larger than our Suburban and brought hours of entertainment. Every few years we might stop at a rest stop and buy those books with the silly questions, and the "magic" pen that you could use to find the answers. Getting this was like a coup de grace. It was a special, special thing, and we knew it, and we never, ever took it for granted. I still love those books, even though I know how they work... They still seem magical to me.
In fact, in truth, green plastic trash bags hold a special place in my heart. I hate that these days they've been deemed suitable for "leaves", mere collections of old, dead leaves. My bag held treasures, hopes and entertainment for months in the greenery of New Hampshire. I won't buy them to put dead leaves in. When I rake my leaves, I lay them back at the foot of the tree from where they fell. Green plastic bags are far too useful, as are those leaves.
Haven't found that perfect Mary Poppins bag yet, but I'm still on the lookout.
But, we'd pack. Haphazardly, tossing all kinds of things that ended up in our dresser drawers since we first bought our spring/summer clothing. I remember finding things in the corner of my wooden drawers that I'd throw in for good measure, because when you're stuck in the woods, sharing a really small room with your two sisters, one never knows what one will need. My second chore was to pack all the writing gear I would need to write to all my friends. I would faithfully write to them, every day almost. They would faithfully write back. Once during the entire summer, if I was lucky. I would walk the mile to the mailbox every day. Every single day. The funny thing was that even though it truly was a mile, and they truly only wrote once, I still was hopeful each and every time I left for the mailbox, and even when I came back empty handed. Because tomorrow the mail carrier would come again, and I would make that mile trek. Yes, it really was a mile to our mailbox. The address was merely RR2, and the town name. So, a mile was a breeze compared to those further down the Rural Route delivery. I packed a calendar, handy for crossing off each day (sometimes I'd add in the hours) that passed because Goddess forgive me if I ever enjoyed a moment in NH with my family. I gathered and packed pens, pencils, small useless pencils sharpeners. A clipboard was imperative, as were numerous envelopes. I wasn't worried about stamps because I could always hit my father up for the 10 cents it cost back then to mail a letter.
Over the next few days we'd assemble the items that were to be packed into the Suburban -- ivory, complete with "wood" paneling. My guitar, and my fife. Yes, I had a fife, and while it's not a common known fact, I could and still probably still can, play my fife along with the John Denver cassettes my parents would play for most of the six hours up there. Honestly, I could not tell you what my sisters packed to take with them. Krissy was only two years younger, Kerry was four and a half years younger. Not a large difference, but being a young teenager, I truly believed that no one other than myself and my friends existed, nor mattered in the grand scheme of things. They had their plastic bags, and a few other assundry items, and I had mine. Mine were important. Theirs got in the way of mine.
Inevitably, we'd leave early in the morning, getting up at six am. I was never sure why we had to leave at this ungodly hour, as we were to spend two and a half months there. Surely a few less hours there and a few more hours of sleep wouldn't have made a difference. Nonetheless, there would be my mother at the kitchen table, dawn breaking through the windows, making everyone's favorite sandwiches, no matter how bizarre they might be. I always had the most bizarre, and she always made sure all the orders were filled to perfection. There would be one large bag of potato chips, and one bottle of soda that had to last us all the way there. There were no stops for water, chips or candy along the way. My mother had her "bag", a cordoroy bag, much like Mary Poppins, that she always, always kept right at her feet during that trip and any trip we took my entire childhood. Among thousands of things, she kept her thermos of coffee. She'd fill it to the brim and that was the only reason my father would stop. My mother would have to use the restroom two times on the six hour trip. He'd complain, but in truth, we were all glad that she had her Mary Poppins bag and that thermos. There were several times that things came out of that bag that unfolded into something the size far larger than our Suburban and brought hours of entertainment. Every few years we might stop at a rest stop and buy those books with the silly questions, and the "magic" pen that you could use to find the answers. Getting this was like a coup de grace. It was a special, special thing, and we knew it, and we never, ever took it for granted. I still love those books, even though I know how they work... They still seem magical to me.
In fact, in truth, green plastic trash bags hold a special place in my heart. I hate that these days they've been deemed suitable for "leaves", mere collections of old, dead leaves. My bag held treasures, hopes and entertainment for months in the greenery of New Hampshire. I won't buy them to put dead leaves in. When I rake my leaves, I lay them back at the foot of the tree from where they fell. Green plastic bags are far too useful, as are those leaves.
Haven't found that perfect Mary Poppins bag yet, but I'm still on the lookout.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Wedged Between A Headrest and A Ceiling
Like every Sunday night, I drove the half hour to feed our horses their evening meal. I got to the farm, muddled around a bit, fed the horses and left to head home. Completely and totally uneventful, I enjoyed the peaceful drive home. It was as it always had been --quiet and unassuming.
As I'm driving down the windy country road in the middle of nowhere I notice that the light that indicates that one of the doors is open is on. Immediately, I remember that my hatch didn't quite catch when I took out the bag of food. I put my hazards on, jump out of the car, shut my door, and quickly check the back hatch. It hadn’t been shut tightly. I slammed it close with gusto. I'm pleased because I didn't stop any traffic, which typically would consist of one car on a busy day. The added pleasure is that I accomplished this without the remnants of my days littering the country roads and with no one there to witness my stupidity.
I walk back to the front and pull on the front door. It's locked. I have now managed to secure not only the remnants of my life, but, apparently, everything else in my car. Obviously, no one is going to steal anything, but neither can I move, or call anyone. As I'm wondering how many miles I'm going to have to walk to "civilization", a beat up old pick-up truck drives down the road pulling a trailer with a rusty old washing machine strapped on to it. The car is swerving a bit, but I, naively, presume this is because I'm standing there dead center of the road waving my hands. Kindly, if not forced to, rather than run me over, the man stops. I quickly explain what happened. Politely, I ask if he could phone my husband. He looks at me like I’m an idiot, rolls his eyes, and hands me his phone. As I am taking his phone, I notice his cup with an unidentifiable liquid has just been lowered, presumably out of my eyesight. I phone home, but no one picks up. Within minutes, another car comes from behind. For this road, this is an in veritable traffic jam. The first car pulls over to further assess the situation. The woman in the second car asks me if I'm okay, and motions backwards as if to suggest that everything might not be really okay because now I'm in the middle of the road with two odd looking men, a pick-up truck with the rusted washing machine, and a car, running and locked in the middle of the road. I assure that I'm fine and explain that I just locked my keys in the car. She suggests that her and her husband drive me home.
First guy says, "No. You do’ wanna leave dat car in the road. The po-lease will come and then y'all really be sad." In an effort to spare me from sadness, the husband of the woman suggests that his wife takes me home to pick up my keys. He will stay, secure my car for any unwanted attention from the po-lease, and save me from the despair that might ensue should a police car ride by on this totally desolate road.
The first guy kindly suggests that perhaps the back window is not locked. I quickly walk over, squeeze the lever and miraculously, he is right. I open it, and wave back to both cars, assuring them that all is, indeed, okay. I then proceed to climb through the window, over three bags of grain and the tremendous amounts of garbage in the back of my car. This would be the time when all parties involved, except me, should leave the scene. However, they did not. They continued to watch in amazement.
Obviously, I've not thought this process through. I quickly recognize that perhaps I should have come up with a better plan because after I throw my right leg over the back of the seat, I find myself wedged between the seat, the three headrests and the ceiling of the car. This is not one of my more flattering moments. All the while, I'm merrily saying, "I'm okay. I'm all right. Don't worry. I'll be fine." as if I really believe it. This goes on for two minutes, or more. I'm stuck and flailing my arms and legs like a turtle being picked up in the middle of a road.
Now the third car pulls up -- a pick-up truck filled with hunters and towing a fishing boat. Okay, now we really have a party and I am the freak attraction. No one can get by any of the cars, yet no one is really sure what to do. There is an overweight middle age woman stuck to the ceiling of her car, and, by all outward appearances, is okay with this arrangement. I continue to reassure my rescuers, with that same lilt in my voice, that I'm convinced I’ll be fine. My arms and legs are still waving frantically back and forth as I try to wiggle myself free from the rock and the hard place. And I still look like a turtle.
Finally, I am able to hoist myself over the headrests and I land among old candy wrappers in the back seat of my car. I open the passenger door while still on my stomach, and stick my head out slightly from the back seat, waving my hands and cheerily saying "I'm okay. I'm okay." Sitting up, I realize that I am now going to have to get into the front seat because I don't actually know how to open the door from the inside unless I'm sitting in the front seat. It occurs to me that this might have been something I should have ascertained prior to this situation.
While I ready myself to once again attempt this feat, the onlookers are astonished. They peer into the back window of the car wondering why I wouldn’t just reach over, unlock the front door from inside, get out and open the front door from the outside, with whatever dignity is remaining. As I’m not convinced that method is going to work, I decide to climb into the front seat. This time the interior design is on my side and I am able to haul my middle age large self, sagging breasts, which, for all intensive purposes, have now become one with my stomach, into the front seat. I right myself in the driver’s seat, open the door, merrily calling out, “I’m fine! Thanks for stopping! Y’all have a good day!” They all stand together in amazement at what they have just witnessed. I drive slowly down the country lane leaving the scene where I publically humiliated myself and watch as each driver and passenger gets back into their vehicle, shaking their heads. I’m reminded that perhaps I shouldn’t have been quite so concerned with someone witnessing my stupidity of forgetting to close my hatch, and more concerned with my actual stupidity.
As I'm driving down the windy country road in the middle of nowhere I notice that the light that indicates that one of the doors is open is on. Immediately, I remember that my hatch didn't quite catch when I took out the bag of food. I put my hazards on, jump out of the car, shut my door, and quickly check the back hatch. It hadn’t been shut tightly. I slammed it close with gusto. I'm pleased because I didn't stop any traffic, which typically would consist of one car on a busy day. The added pleasure is that I accomplished this without the remnants of my days littering the country roads and with no one there to witness my stupidity.
I walk back to the front and pull on the front door. It's locked. I have now managed to secure not only the remnants of my life, but, apparently, everything else in my car. Obviously, no one is going to steal anything, but neither can I move, or call anyone. As I'm wondering how many miles I'm going to have to walk to "civilization", a beat up old pick-up truck drives down the road pulling a trailer with a rusty old washing machine strapped on to it. The car is swerving a bit, but I, naively, presume this is because I'm standing there dead center of the road waving my hands. Kindly, if not forced to, rather than run me over, the man stops. I quickly explain what happened. Politely, I ask if he could phone my husband. He looks at me like I’m an idiot, rolls his eyes, and hands me his phone. As I am taking his phone, I notice his cup with an unidentifiable liquid has just been lowered, presumably out of my eyesight. I phone home, but no one picks up. Within minutes, another car comes from behind. For this road, this is an in veritable traffic jam. The first car pulls over to further assess the situation. The woman in the second car asks me if I'm okay, and motions backwards as if to suggest that everything might not be really okay because now I'm in the middle of the road with two odd looking men, a pick-up truck with the rusted washing machine, and a car, running and locked in the middle of the road. I assure that I'm fine and explain that I just locked my keys in the car. She suggests that her and her husband drive me home.
First guy says, "No. You do’ wanna leave dat car in the road. The po-lease will come and then y'all really be sad." In an effort to spare me from sadness, the husband of the woman suggests that his wife takes me home to pick up my keys. He will stay, secure my car for any unwanted attention from the po-lease, and save me from the despair that might ensue should a police car ride by on this totally desolate road.
The first guy kindly suggests that perhaps the back window is not locked. I quickly walk over, squeeze the lever and miraculously, he is right. I open it, and wave back to both cars, assuring them that all is, indeed, okay. I then proceed to climb through the window, over three bags of grain and the tremendous amounts of garbage in the back of my car. This would be the time when all parties involved, except me, should leave the scene. However, they did not. They continued to watch in amazement.
Obviously, I've not thought this process through. I quickly recognize that perhaps I should have come up with a better plan because after I throw my right leg over the back of the seat, I find myself wedged between the seat, the three headrests and the ceiling of the car. This is not one of my more flattering moments. All the while, I'm merrily saying, "I'm okay. I'm all right. Don't worry. I'll be fine." as if I really believe it. This goes on for two minutes, or more. I'm stuck and flailing my arms and legs like a turtle being picked up in the middle of a road.
Now the third car pulls up -- a pick-up truck filled with hunters and towing a fishing boat. Okay, now we really have a party and I am the freak attraction. No one can get by any of the cars, yet no one is really sure what to do. There is an overweight middle age woman stuck to the ceiling of her car, and, by all outward appearances, is okay with this arrangement. I continue to reassure my rescuers, with that same lilt in my voice, that I'm convinced I’ll be fine. My arms and legs are still waving frantically back and forth as I try to wiggle myself free from the rock and the hard place. And I still look like a turtle.
Finally, I am able to hoist myself over the headrests and I land among old candy wrappers in the back seat of my car. I open the passenger door while still on my stomach, and stick my head out slightly from the back seat, waving my hands and cheerily saying "I'm okay. I'm okay." Sitting up, I realize that I am now going to have to get into the front seat because I don't actually know how to open the door from the inside unless I'm sitting in the front seat. It occurs to me that this might have been something I should have ascertained prior to this situation.
While I ready myself to once again attempt this feat, the onlookers are astonished. They peer into the back window of the car wondering why I wouldn’t just reach over, unlock the front door from inside, get out and open the front door from the outside, with whatever dignity is remaining. As I’m not convinced that method is going to work, I decide to climb into the front seat. This time the interior design is on my side and I am able to haul my middle age large self, sagging breasts, which, for all intensive purposes, have now become one with my stomach, into the front seat. I right myself in the driver’s seat, open the door, merrily calling out, “I’m fine! Thanks for stopping! Y’all have a good day!” They all stand together in amazement at what they have just witnessed. I drive slowly down the country lane leaving the scene where I publically humiliated myself and watch as each driver and passenger gets back into their vehicle, shaking their heads. I’m reminded that perhaps I shouldn’t have been quite so concerned with someone witnessing my stupidity of forgetting to close my hatch, and more concerned with my actual stupidity.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Pancakes, Doughnuts, All Things Round and Unexpected
I happened upon the job. It was a brief search, a casual one. I logged onto to Craigslist thinking that I would just look around. Actually, I thought I might find something unusual to buy, not a job. There in front of me was a job description that sounded perfect to cure those "I-wanna-baby-blues" I'd been having as I got closer and closer to menopause. So, I applied. The baby room job was filled. But then, she added, there was another position in a classroom with older children. I truly doubted that I would like it. After all, when you've wiped a series of four snotty noses, changed hundreds of diapers over the years, and scraped off more dried up pasta off the walls, floor and ceiling then anyone could imagine, why would I want to be with two year olds again?
I went the first day, with trepidation and a bottle of water. You just never know when you'll need that bottle of water. They eyed me with caution. They smiled slyly at first. Just a small glance over the paper plate holding their perfectly cut diagonal piece of American cheese and a few Wheat thins. Before long there were exclamations about the orange nail polish one little girl adorned. Her eyes were earnest as she exclaimed in a mostly misunderstood language, that someone had painted her nails "orwange" the night before. I nodded my sincere approval. I would have gone on to talk about the color of her dress and how it perfectly matched her nails, but my attention was quickly needed in the area of a very serious discussion of a fire truck and a motorcycle. It became apparent that Ms. Orange Nails had a father that had a motorcycle and this brought a community show of admiration. I'm not quite sure they really understood each other, but the admiration was there regardless.
Snack time was over. Each child brought their empty, or half-full, plate to the trash along with their cup and deposited them in the garbage. The story was about to begin, and they quickly took to their seats on the carpets. "Bottoms on the carpet, Friends." Each child was earnest in their desire to be sure that their friends had the space to sit for both their bottoms and however their feet needed to be. Some were sincere in their desire to hear the story. Some were used to the routine, and though they liked the story and the routine, comfort was the more important matter at hand. One boy stood quietly by the bookshelf, running his hand over and over the ridge on the very edge. He never joined the group, but neither did he leave it. He merely listened from afar, within ear shot, but not closely tucked into his classmates.
I was in awe at the efficiency, and more importantly, the kindness genuinely given to each child. There were only twelve. But for the attention that each one was given, there might as well been two. It was time to line up to take the leisurely stroll outside. The rope that I had seen in other day cares over the years and found so offensive was not any where to be seen. Out came a long plastic line, about every foot or so was a round circle in which each child could loop their arm. They stood in line, which at two, or less, is a very difficult task to manage. It requires much concentration, as well as patience. There was bit of foot moving, some arm waving, but out the door they walked. First to the tune of "ABC"s and then quietly with their forefinger to their mouths as they passed the infant room so not to wake the babies. I have no idea if the babies actually were asleep, but this kept them engaged for a few more minutes, until the next door opened and into the lobby they went. Outside they sang children's songs as they attempted to walk in a line. They were learning a skill that they truly would need in a school room setting. They were serious in their attempts, but in truth there were a few domino disturbances along the way. One stopped to gaze at a butterfly, which normally would be completely acceptable and welcome had the leader seen it. But since she didn't catch that moment and child number seven did, this small stop in step was enough to cause a severe domino effect. No one was mortally wounded and all were dusted off and moved on in the line. The conversation of the butterfly still went down the line. They had forgotten the wounded knee.
They day went on. I was only there for three short hours, at the end of the day. As each parent came and each class become smaller, they were consolidated into one classroom with two teachers. There he was. The beautiful boy I had seen on the playground running over his classmates. He didn't seem to engage in their play, neither did he stand aside. When he came into my classroom at the end of the day he wandered over to the play kitchen and found a plastic pancake. This was his security blanket. When he repeatedly said, "Mommy, Daddy come." I would answer that, indeed, they would come and what a fabulous pancake he had. I would redirect his attention to the yellow block, the pictures in a book, or a different piece of plastic food. But as the minutes passed and each child left with their parents, his concerns became more apparent. So did his conversations about his pancake, and the picture of a doughnut he had found in a book. I hugged him, sang to him, talked about the yellow block, the fire engine, the playground, as he continued to talk about his pancake. His mother came, and though giving up his pancake was hard, he left with true joy in his beautiful green eyes.
The next day I came back to the job. I came back because I said I would "try it out" for two days to see how it felt. But I knew how it felt. I knew that there are very few times in a child's life that you can be the be all and end all. That you are their immediate world, even if, for the moment, you are not their parent or grandparent. I brought my guinea pig and some broccoli to feed him. Honest to goodness, it was like God had handed the tablets to Moses. Nothing else was more important at that moment. This fuzzy guinea pig sat there, nibbled a bit, and they used their "gentle" hands to softly touch him. I thought I was hooked. I put the guinea pig up. We wrangled twelve arms into twelve colorful rings and we sang about that Itsy Bitsy Spider until we got to the playground gate. I gathered my rings, closed the gate, and heard and felt something from behind.
"Pancakes. Doughnuts?" with a small hand wrapped around my leg. Yes, m'am. I want the job. Under first name, please put Pancakes. Under last name, please put Doughnuts. Nothing more to say.
I went the first day, with trepidation and a bottle of water. You just never know when you'll need that bottle of water. They eyed me with caution. They smiled slyly at first. Just a small glance over the paper plate holding their perfectly cut diagonal piece of American cheese and a few Wheat thins. Before long there were exclamations about the orange nail polish one little girl adorned. Her eyes were earnest as she exclaimed in a mostly misunderstood language, that someone had painted her nails "orwange" the night before. I nodded my sincere approval. I would have gone on to talk about the color of her dress and how it perfectly matched her nails, but my attention was quickly needed in the area of a very serious discussion of a fire truck and a motorcycle. It became apparent that Ms. Orange Nails had a father that had a motorcycle and this brought a community show of admiration. I'm not quite sure they really understood each other, but the admiration was there regardless.
Snack time was over. Each child brought their empty, or half-full, plate to the trash along with their cup and deposited them in the garbage. The story was about to begin, and they quickly took to their seats on the carpets. "Bottoms on the carpet, Friends." Each child was earnest in their desire to be sure that their friends had the space to sit for both their bottoms and however their feet needed to be. Some were sincere in their desire to hear the story. Some were used to the routine, and though they liked the story and the routine, comfort was the more important matter at hand. One boy stood quietly by the bookshelf, running his hand over and over the ridge on the very edge. He never joined the group, but neither did he leave it. He merely listened from afar, within ear shot, but not closely tucked into his classmates.
I was in awe at the efficiency, and more importantly, the kindness genuinely given to each child. There were only twelve. But for the attention that each one was given, there might as well been two. It was time to line up to take the leisurely stroll outside. The rope that I had seen in other day cares over the years and found so offensive was not any where to be seen. Out came a long plastic line, about every foot or so was a round circle in which each child could loop their arm. They stood in line, which at two, or less, is a very difficult task to manage. It requires much concentration, as well as patience. There was bit of foot moving, some arm waving, but out the door they walked. First to the tune of "ABC"s and then quietly with their forefinger to their mouths as they passed the infant room so not to wake the babies. I have no idea if the babies actually were asleep, but this kept them engaged for a few more minutes, until the next door opened and into the lobby they went. Outside they sang children's songs as they attempted to walk in a line. They were learning a skill that they truly would need in a school room setting. They were serious in their attempts, but in truth there were a few domino disturbances along the way. One stopped to gaze at a butterfly, which normally would be completely acceptable and welcome had the leader seen it. But since she didn't catch that moment and child number seven did, this small stop in step was enough to cause a severe domino effect. No one was mortally wounded and all were dusted off and moved on in the line. The conversation of the butterfly still went down the line. They had forgotten the wounded knee.
They day went on. I was only there for three short hours, at the end of the day. As each parent came and each class become smaller, they were consolidated into one classroom with two teachers. There he was. The beautiful boy I had seen on the playground running over his classmates. He didn't seem to engage in their play, neither did he stand aside. When he came into my classroom at the end of the day he wandered over to the play kitchen and found a plastic pancake. This was his security blanket. When he repeatedly said, "Mommy, Daddy come." I would answer that, indeed, they would come and what a fabulous pancake he had. I would redirect his attention to the yellow block, the pictures in a book, or a different piece of plastic food. But as the minutes passed and each child left with their parents, his concerns became more apparent. So did his conversations about his pancake, and the picture of a doughnut he had found in a book. I hugged him, sang to him, talked about the yellow block, the fire engine, the playground, as he continued to talk about his pancake. His mother came, and though giving up his pancake was hard, he left with true joy in his beautiful green eyes.
The next day I came back to the job. I came back because I said I would "try it out" for two days to see how it felt. But I knew how it felt. I knew that there are very few times in a child's life that you can be the be all and end all. That you are their immediate world, even if, for the moment, you are not their parent or grandparent. I brought my guinea pig and some broccoli to feed him. Honest to goodness, it was like God had handed the tablets to Moses. Nothing else was more important at that moment. This fuzzy guinea pig sat there, nibbled a bit, and they used their "gentle" hands to softly touch him. I thought I was hooked. I put the guinea pig up. We wrangled twelve arms into twelve colorful rings and we sang about that Itsy Bitsy Spider until we got to the playground gate. I gathered my rings, closed the gate, and heard and felt something from behind.
"Pancakes. Doughnuts?" with a small hand wrapped around my leg. Yes, m'am. I want the job. Under first name, please put Pancakes. Under last name, please put Doughnuts. Nothing more to say.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Sanka, Sweet 'N Lo, And Peanut Butter Crackers
(reprint from Skirt Magazine, May 2001)
I still expected long meaningful conversations, peppered with anecdotes from my childhood. I imagined my mother and I would sit for hours on a windless day as we watched my girls play in the yard. The days would seem endless. It would be just like a scene out of a Donna Reed show. We would smile, and pat each other knowingly on the shoulder, or better yet, on the well-manicured hand. Of course, there would always brownies baking in the oven.
In reality, things were different. We would plan my parent's visit around my mother's rheumatologist, oncologist and cardiologist appointments. I would clean for days then begin the ridiculous, yet completely self-inflicted, cooking ritual. After days of preparation, they would show up, thrilled to see us. My father and I would carry my mother in her wheelchair up the steps into the house. She would sit at the dining room table with her instant coffee, take all her medications and visit with her granddaughters. She would read to them, color with them, marvel at their creations. Then she would sleep. After a few hours of sleep she would be rejuvenated and come and join us again. Most of the time she was content to just be. To be with those she loved. To eat peanut butter and crackers and watch the girls - whether they played with each other or read quietly to themselves. She enjoyed them. She appreciated them not for what they did or what they wore, but just that they were. She and I spoke - in bits and pieces - sometimes something meaningful, sometimes nothing more than which one of my sisters and I liked hard boiled eggs, who had the stuffed elephant named Lisa and which one renamed her Ellie, a seemingly more appropriate name in the opinion of my two oldest girls. Then she would retire to the guest room to sleep some more, maybe to ward off the cancer, maybe to escape the constant pain of the arthritis.
Throughout their visit I would wonder when that moment would arise, that moment when she would impart her 66 years of wisdom. I would find myself waiting for the night we would sit up endlessly for hours, talking deep into the night about profound and meaningful things. Somehow the visit would pass and the most we would accomplish is a trip to Wal-Mart. This was immediately followed by a trip to Publix for more goodies. I would run in quickly while she sat in the car with my girls. We both thought that we got the best end of the deal. I was alone, free to gaze longingly at exotic foods and eat a candy bar on the sly. She would wait in the car, captivated by her granddaughters as they told her their thoughts and secrets.
No matter how mixed my feelings were before they came, I was always sad when it ended. I had anticipated the visit. I had stressed, cleaned, cooked and then stressed some more. The day would arrive and all would settle down into a soothing rhythm. Despite all the preparation before their visit, we both had few and insignificant requirements for our time together. She liked her instant coffee with Sweet and Low and some crackers with peanut butter on this side. I have an obsession for diet Coke. We would sit, sometimes, silently in the same house, passing the time together. Then she would sleep some more. Of course, inevitably the last night would come, no matter how hard I tried to pretend it wouldn't. She always said the same thing in a falsely happy voice making me promise not to cry, saying they'd be back again soon. She'd claim that the girls and I needed our routine and our lives back. Then she'd be gone. They would get into their car, loaded with suitcases, her medications, and her wheelchair, and would drive down our driveway, waving out the window. I stood on the front porch, tears streaming down my face, hoping my girls wouldn't see that saying goodbye to your mother never gets easier, and how difficult and sometimes scary it can be. The chance for the visit that I'd planned in my mind was gone. No endless nights, no long deep conversations, no Donna Reed moments.
Then one day as I watched her board the plane to leave us once again, I suddenly realized that we did have our moments. They were just in snippets - over a crying child, between the pages of coloring books, during the stirring of the pasta, and the sharing of peanut butter crackers. The most glorious thing about these visits and this woman is the continuity and reliability of her presence and her being. It is the thing that will remain with us long after she is gone from this earth. It is her appreciation for the simplicity in things around her, her love for her grandchildren, her daughters, and our father - the love of her life. These are a constant, never to be changed or erased, from our lives. For the very first time since I've lived away from home, I was much more at peace with my mother's departure. I was able to revel in her beauty, her spirit and the loveliness that is, and always will be, my mother.
I still expected long meaningful conversations, peppered with anecdotes from my childhood. I imagined my mother and I would sit for hours on a windless day as we watched my girls play in the yard. The days would seem endless. It would be just like a scene out of a Donna Reed show. We would smile, and pat each other knowingly on the shoulder, or better yet, on the well-manicured hand. Of course, there would always brownies baking in the oven.
In reality, things were different. We would plan my parent's visit around my mother's rheumatologist, oncologist and cardiologist appointments. I would clean for days then begin the ridiculous, yet completely self-inflicted, cooking ritual. After days of preparation, they would show up, thrilled to see us. My father and I would carry my mother in her wheelchair up the steps into the house. She would sit at the dining room table with her instant coffee, take all her medications and visit with her granddaughters. She would read to them, color with them, marvel at their creations. Then she would sleep. After a few hours of sleep she would be rejuvenated and come and join us again. Most of the time she was content to just be. To be with those she loved. To eat peanut butter and crackers and watch the girls - whether they played with each other or read quietly to themselves. She enjoyed them. She appreciated them not for what they did or what they wore, but just that they were. She and I spoke - in bits and pieces - sometimes something meaningful, sometimes nothing more than which one of my sisters and I liked hard boiled eggs, who had the stuffed elephant named Lisa and which one renamed her Ellie, a seemingly more appropriate name in the opinion of my two oldest girls. Then she would retire to the guest room to sleep some more, maybe to ward off the cancer, maybe to escape the constant pain of the arthritis.
Throughout their visit I would wonder when that moment would arise, that moment when she would impart her 66 years of wisdom. I would find myself waiting for the night we would sit up endlessly for hours, talking deep into the night about profound and meaningful things. Somehow the visit would pass and the most we would accomplish is a trip to Wal-Mart. This was immediately followed by a trip to Publix for more goodies. I would run in quickly while she sat in the car with my girls. We both thought that we got the best end of the deal. I was alone, free to gaze longingly at exotic foods and eat a candy bar on the sly. She would wait in the car, captivated by her granddaughters as they told her their thoughts and secrets.
No matter how mixed my feelings were before they came, I was always sad when it ended. I had anticipated the visit. I had stressed, cleaned, cooked and then stressed some more. The day would arrive and all would settle down into a soothing rhythm. Despite all the preparation before their visit, we both had few and insignificant requirements for our time together. She liked her instant coffee with Sweet and Low and some crackers with peanut butter on this side. I have an obsession for diet Coke. We would sit, sometimes, silently in the same house, passing the time together. Then she would sleep some more. Of course, inevitably the last night would come, no matter how hard I tried to pretend it wouldn't. She always said the same thing in a falsely happy voice making me promise not to cry, saying they'd be back again soon. She'd claim that the girls and I needed our routine and our lives back. Then she'd be gone. They would get into their car, loaded with suitcases, her medications, and her wheelchair, and would drive down our driveway, waving out the window. I stood on the front porch, tears streaming down my face, hoping my girls wouldn't see that saying goodbye to your mother never gets easier, and how difficult and sometimes scary it can be. The chance for the visit that I'd planned in my mind was gone. No endless nights, no long deep conversations, no Donna Reed moments.
Then one day as I watched her board the plane to leave us once again, I suddenly realized that we did have our moments. They were just in snippets - over a crying child, between the pages of coloring books, during the stirring of the pasta, and the sharing of peanut butter crackers. The most glorious thing about these visits and this woman is the continuity and reliability of her presence and her being. It is the thing that will remain with us long after she is gone from this earth. It is her appreciation for the simplicity in things around her, her love for her grandchildren, her daughters, and our father - the love of her life. These are a constant, never to be changed or erased, from our lives. For the very first time since I've lived away from home, I was much more at peace with my mother's departure. I was able to revel in her beauty, her spirit and the loveliness that is, and always will be, my mother.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Thank Goodness I Don't Have to Wake Up and Be Her!
I recently decided that part time employment might be a good option for our family right now. So, I got online and looked for jobs. A bit of research on Craigs List and up pops what seems like a great part time job -- a part time innkeeper. It appears to be mostly part time on the weekends, and some times during on the week. Not ideal but the organization they promote is a leading one that puts on local workshops for women on varying topics, from writing workshops to spirituality, to finding inner peace. I was excited because I like their image, and what they stand for. They want a resume but after 25 years at home, and only working running a barn with 30 horses, and a lesson program for 75 kids I knew they wouldn't call me. So I sent them a very basic email outlining my experience and what I could bring to the job and I hoped for the best.
Completely by surprise I got a phone call to come and an interview. I spoke to him, but after a few days thought that I really didn't want to interview. I don't have a wardrobe that would be good for this type of position, and for a part-time job, I didn't really want to invest in one. However, a day later the same man calls me back and wants to set up a time. Okay, I'll go. What can I lose? I'll get some interview experience after being out of the work force for a number of years.
I show up on the day of the interview, dressed in my only nice outfit. Funky, but neat. Large funky earrings, purple silk shirt, and leggings. I'm comfortable and I feel confident. The gentleman who called was meeting me, and we were both there on time. We spent thirty minutes together. It was lovely. We talked about my life, about my children, about the job. And then thirty minutes late, the Founder of the organization comes flying in, claiming she first has to settle her mail somewhere. Both he and I were taken aback by her response but I had no real idea at that point who she was.
She comes in, sits down and immediately asks for my resume. I clearly state my reasoning for not having one, but she insists I must have one. Okay, make a mental note -- send resume. She then goes on to talk about herself and her role in the Foundation. The arrogance is exuding from her every pore, and I find the hairs on my neck standing up. But I continue on with the interview because maybe I'm reading it wrong. She asks if I'm proficient in computers. I clearly state, once again, that yes, I am quite proficient. She then proceeds to chuckle and remind the man I had been speaking to about the woman who said the same thing, but "was afraid to hit the send button on an email". By now, she has insulted me twice. Still, we move on and I'm eyeing the door knowing there is no way on God's green earth that I want to have anything at all to do with her. I can endure only a few more minutes in this room with her arrogance, and condescending ways.
Her next question should have caused me to stand up from my seat and walk out immediately. But I was so shocked. She had the audacity to question how my husband felt about my working on the weekends. I was flabbergasted. Number one, my husband doesn't make decisions about my employment. We're in a partnership and we discuss these major changes in lifestyles prior to pursuing them. It was an incredible sexist, rude and offensive question. I tried to silence myself from pointing out that she was running an entire foundation based on aiding women to become stronger in themselves, yet she was tearing them down while she was trying to hire them. She wanted the ones that paid her to be strong, but the ones that actually worked for her needed to be weak enough so that she could manipulate them. It was disgusting.
The interview ended. I knew, without a doubt, the institute they so bragged about what not the institute I thought it was. Nor did I want the job. All night I mulled it over in my head. The more I thought about it, the more I stewed. Finally, at first morning's light I wrote an email thanking him for the opportunity to interview after all these years. Then I addressed each and every question, or comment she had. I further wrote that when I said I was proficient, that's what I meant. I do not feather the truth -- I felt that she essentially questioned my integrity. I addressed my absolute outrage at her sexist, insulting, and surely illegal question regarding my husband's liking my seeking a weekend job. I ended it with assuring them that while I was absolutely positive I was the right candidate, but there was no way in good conscious could I work with someone so narrow minded. It was a difficult letter to send -- and not because I couldn't hit the "send" button, but because I really wanted it to be read for what it was. The truth. I wanted her to know that you cannot go around and be so arrogant and condescending while walking through life.
I am reminded of a saying from an old friend from many years ago. "Just be thankful you don't have to wake up and be her." Thank my lucky stars! I cannot believe my good fortune!
Completely by surprise I got a phone call to come and an interview. I spoke to him, but after a few days thought that I really didn't want to interview. I don't have a wardrobe that would be good for this type of position, and for a part-time job, I didn't really want to invest in one. However, a day later the same man calls me back and wants to set up a time. Okay, I'll go. What can I lose? I'll get some interview experience after being out of the work force for a number of years.
I show up on the day of the interview, dressed in my only nice outfit. Funky, but neat. Large funky earrings, purple silk shirt, and leggings. I'm comfortable and I feel confident. The gentleman who called was meeting me, and we were both there on time. We spent thirty minutes together. It was lovely. We talked about my life, about my children, about the job. And then thirty minutes late, the Founder of the organization comes flying in, claiming she first has to settle her mail somewhere. Both he and I were taken aback by her response but I had no real idea at that point who she was.
She comes in, sits down and immediately asks for my resume. I clearly state my reasoning for not having one, but she insists I must have one. Okay, make a mental note -- send resume. She then goes on to talk about herself and her role in the Foundation. The arrogance is exuding from her every pore, and I find the hairs on my neck standing up. But I continue on with the interview because maybe I'm reading it wrong. She asks if I'm proficient in computers. I clearly state, once again, that yes, I am quite proficient. She then proceeds to chuckle and remind the man I had been speaking to about the woman who said the same thing, but "was afraid to hit the send button on an email". By now, she has insulted me twice. Still, we move on and I'm eyeing the door knowing there is no way on God's green earth that I want to have anything at all to do with her. I can endure only a few more minutes in this room with her arrogance, and condescending ways.
Her next question should have caused me to stand up from my seat and walk out immediately. But I was so shocked. She had the audacity to question how my husband felt about my working on the weekends. I was flabbergasted. Number one, my husband doesn't make decisions about my employment. We're in a partnership and we discuss these major changes in lifestyles prior to pursuing them. It was an incredible sexist, rude and offensive question. I tried to silence myself from pointing out that she was running an entire foundation based on aiding women to become stronger in themselves, yet she was tearing them down while she was trying to hire them. She wanted the ones that paid her to be strong, but the ones that actually worked for her needed to be weak enough so that she could manipulate them. It was disgusting.
The interview ended. I knew, without a doubt, the institute they so bragged about what not the institute I thought it was. Nor did I want the job. All night I mulled it over in my head. The more I thought about it, the more I stewed. Finally, at first morning's light I wrote an email thanking him for the opportunity to interview after all these years. Then I addressed each and every question, or comment she had. I further wrote that when I said I was proficient, that's what I meant. I do not feather the truth -- I felt that she essentially questioned my integrity. I addressed my absolute outrage at her sexist, insulting, and surely illegal question regarding my husband's liking my seeking a weekend job. I ended it with assuring them that while I was absolutely positive I was the right candidate, but there was no way in good conscious could I work with someone so narrow minded. It was a difficult letter to send -- and not because I couldn't hit the "send" button, but because I really wanted it to be read for what it was. The truth. I wanted her to know that you cannot go around and be so arrogant and condescending while walking through life.
I am reminded of a saying from an old friend from many years ago. "Just be thankful you don't have to wake up and be her." Thank my lucky stars! I cannot believe my good fortune!
Unplugged, in Silence
There was a quiet sense of serene peace, if not silently awkward at first, when I arrived at the monastery for my weekend retreat. I made it to my very clean, but very minimalist room. Waited patiently for the five o'clock supper hour and set out about my way to find the dining hall. There was one woman, quietly walking with a book in hand who obviously didn't want to be disturbed, but I was lost. So I whispered was she also going to the dining hall, she nodded, once again silently. I stepped in a few yards behind her to respect her privacy.
The retreatant's dining room was made up four wooden tables with four chairs each. There was one table lining the wall with basic breads, a toaster, peanut & butter, and jelly, and a small crock of butter. A table on another wall had two bowls of soup and a crock pot of delicious vegetable rice soup. You were to get your own drink in the galley style kitchen. This was one of the things that surprised me about the retreat. The kitchen was tiny, barely a hallway. There were nine of us. Yet nine of us moved around in there like we'd be married for 30 years. No talking. Soundlessly -- just a passing of cups, or milk. A slide down when someone needed the cereal cupboard, but all totally still. It wasn't as awful as when you get into the elevator and you realize with a horrid, panicky feeling that you're going to be stuck going four floors, jammed up against people you have never seen or quite possibly, will see again. That's awkward. Here, as we went about the basic rituals of assembling our meal with complete strangers there was a sense of sereneness.
We sat across from people we didn't know and ate our meals, in complete silence. During the main meal at noon, the French doors between the monks dining hall and the main hall were opened and one of the monks read from a book. Other than that, or one sign up for a spiritual counsel with one of the monks, you had very little to do with the Brothers. We were in their home, and we did what was expected. Noiselessly.
There was a series of services. Vigils started at 3:20 a.m. until 4:10. (Yes, 3:20 a.m.) I got up the first morning and went. Then there was meditation at 4:10 until 4:30. Then there was Lauds at 5:30, breakfast at 6:00. The Eucharist at 7:30, followed by Terce at 8:30. At noon there was Sext, then the main meal. Free until dinner at 5:00 and then Vespers at 5:30, ending with Compline at 7:30. Then there was Grand Silence. No one must speak at all. Everyone was completely foreign to me as if I spoke another language all together, though it was all in English, not Latin.
It was intimidating at first. The first night I swore I'd leave. But when I woke up at 3 am Saturday morning, I decided to go because I had never truly experienced anything like this. The services were new to me. The chanting between brothers and retreatants. The beautiful guitar playing was so soothing. It was comforting on a level I'd never expect. After attending Vigils, Meditation, and Lauds on Saturday morning I realized that I didn't want nor need to speak. I was horribly offended when someone who was also new tried to speak to me. The world got so much simpler. It was basic, and I could focus on the spirituality book I brought. I had brought a twelve pack of diet coke, and since we were not allowed food or drink in our room, I spent a lot of room journaling in the dining hall. I wrote and wrote and wrote. About the peace around me, about things that I was in turmoil over. It was completely not at all how I thought I would feel.
Truly, the idea of not talking seemed great at first, and then immediately following that "great" feeling, I thought there's no possible way. But I felt like I really had some insight into why silence in our cultural is so vastly more important than the iPods, the tvs, the computers, the radios, and so much more that comes "at" us in our daily lives. I was almost fearful of returning home.
Unfortunately for me, I had the worst nightmare in my entire life one evening, and was totally incapacitated by it. I was too scared to go to sleep for a nap during the day, and so after two days, I left my little slice of heaven, and went home. Going home meant more noise, questions, a messy house, craziness. And since I was coming home a day earlier I knew that the arrival could be that much the worse. But I took my chances.
I arrived home to a silent house. No one was home, and no one would be home for an hour and a half. I came home to a clean, and spotless house. The laundry was away. My husband and 12 year old had bought me a lovely old reading chair that my 12 year old had recovered for me. They created a writing haven for me. For an hour and a half I walked around my house in the silence and appreciated it in a way that never had before. It was amazing.
I know it won't last, but I do know I'll go back the abbey and as a "veteran" this time, I truly won't talk. I'll make every single service. One of the most special experiences was on Sunday at Mass. I was asked to "bring the gifts" during Sunday's mass. They handed my the chalice filled with wine. This beautiful piece of art, so important to their ritual. It was not my religion, nor even close to mine, but there was tremendous sense of importance. When I handed it to the silent but smiling Abbot, I could see the kindness in his eyes. He had welcomed me into his home, perhaps loving me just because I was there to join in the journey to open one more closed set of eyes, to silence one more iPod -- even for a bit. Just to breath. Just to notice the amazing amount of butterflies around us sometimes.
I know the next time I get into that quiet, awkward elevator I'm not going to even try to make small talk. I'm going to merely enjoy the journey. From here to there, and all that it entails. Silently.
The retreatant's dining room was made up four wooden tables with four chairs each. There was one table lining the wall with basic breads, a toaster, peanut & butter, and jelly, and a small crock of butter. A table on another wall had two bowls of soup and a crock pot of delicious vegetable rice soup. You were to get your own drink in the galley style kitchen. This was one of the things that surprised me about the retreat. The kitchen was tiny, barely a hallway. There were nine of us. Yet nine of us moved around in there like we'd be married for 30 years. No talking. Soundlessly -- just a passing of cups, or milk. A slide down when someone needed the cereal cupboard, but all totally still. It wasn't as awful as when you get into the elevator and you realize with a horrid, panicky feeling that you're going to be stuck going four floors, jammed up against people you have never seen or quite possibly, will see again. That's awkward. Here, as we went about the basic rituals of assembling our meal with complete strangers there was a sense of sereneness.
We sat across from people we didn't know and ate our meals, in complete silence. During the main meal at noon, the French doors between the monks dining hall and the main hall were opened and one of the monks read from a book. Other than that, or one sign up for a spiritual counsel with one of the monks, you had very little to do with the Brothers. We were in their home, and we did what was expected. Noiselessly.
There was a series of services. Vigils started at 3:20 a.m. until 4:10. (Yes, 3:20 a.m.) I got up the first morning and went. Then there was meditation at 4:10 until 4:30. Then there was Lauds at 5:30, breakfast at 6:00. The Eucharist at 7:30, followed by Terce at 8:30. At noon there was Sext, then the main meal. Free until dinner at 5:00 and then Vespers at 5:30, ending with Compline at 7:30. Then there was Grand Silence. No one must speak at all. Everyone was completely foreign to me as if I spoke another language all together, though it was all in English, not Latin.
It was intimidating at first. The first night I swore I'd leave. But when I woke up at 3 am Saturday morning, I decided to go because I had never truly experienced anything like this. The services were new to me. The chanting between brothers and retreatants. The beautiful guitar playing was so soothing. It was comforting on a level I'd never expect. After attending Vigils, Meditation, and Lauds on Saturday morning I realized that I didn't want nor need to speak. I was horribly offended when someone who was also new tried to speak to me. The world got so much simpler. It was basic, and I could focus on the spirituality book I brought. I had brought a twelve pack of diet coke, and since we were not allowed food or drink in our room, I spent a lot of room journaling in the dining hall. I wrote and wrote and wrote. About the peace around me, about things that I was in turmoil over. It was completely not at all how I thought I would feel.
Truly, the idea of not talking seemed great at first, and then immediately following that "great" feeling, I thought there's no possible way. But I felt like I really had some insight into why silence in our cultural is so vastly more important than the iPods, the tvs, the computers, the radios, and so much more that comes "at" us in our daily lives. I was almost fearful of returning home.
Unfortunately for me, I had the worst nightmare in my entire life one evening, and was totally incapacitated by it. I was too scared to go to sleep for a nap during the day, and so after two days, I left my little slice of heaven, and went home. Going home meant more noise, questions, a messy house, craziness. And since I was coming home a day earlier I knew that the arrival could be that much the worse. But I took my chances.
I arrived home to a silent house. No one was home, and no one would be home for an hour and a half. I came home to a clean, and spotless house. The laundry was away. My husband and 12 year old had bought me a lovely old reading chair that my 12 year old had recovered for me. They created a writing haven for me. For an hour and a half I walked around my house in the silence and appreciated it in a way that never had before. It was amazing.
I know it won't last, but I do know I'll go back the abbey and as a "veteran" this time, I truly won't talk. I'll make every single service. One of the most special experiences was on Sunday at Mass. I was asked to "bring the gifts" during Sunday's mass. They handed my the chalice filled with wine. This beautiful piece of art, so important to their ritual. It was not my religion, nor even close to mine, but there was tremendous sense of importance. When I handed it to the silent but smiling Abbot, I could see the kindness in his eyes. He had welcomed me into his home, perhaps loving me just because I was there to join in the journey to open one more closed set of eyes, to silence one more iPod -- even for a bit. Just to breath. Just to notice the amazing amount of butterflies around us sometimes.
I know the next time I get into that quiet, awkward elevator I'm not going to even try to make small talk. I'm going to merely enjoy the journey. From here to there, and all that it entails. Silently.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
A New Day, A New Night, A New Fright
Oh my. In just a few hours I'll be... "there". The place that I've wanted to be for a few months. Okay, maybe I've actually thought I wanted to be there for a few years. But I'm not really sure I actually wanted to be there. Kind of like thinking that being Angelina Jolie would be cool. But not really. Because then you'd have all those kids, and that husband that every woman thinks they want -- but he still farts in bed. And of course, then you have to lug around those big lips that all women are envious about. Nope, I didn't really want to be Angelina Jolie, and I'm not sure how much I really wanted to go on this retreat. Three nights? In virtual silence? Okay, if there were other retreatants that might want to make a comment or two as you passed them in the communal bathroom it would be okay. But I'm not even sure I like sharing my bathroom with my husband of 21 years, nor the four daughters that I've had for quite some time now.
So, it's the eve of... well, you know. The "RETREAT". My bags are kind of packed. I went to the dollar store to buy toothpaste, soap, shampoo... I wanted to buy a Winnie the Pooh puzzle, but that just didn't seem right. I'm supposed to be communing with God, Goddess, or someone. I'm pretty sure it's not a 24 piece puzzle of good 'ole Winnie. Man, I love that guy. However, I passed him by, bought my "stuff" for said RETREAT, and came home. I've lugged out the suitcase. I've packed all my "stuff". Outfits that match, that are comfortable -- because I'm sure the monks will be all too concerned about my attire. I'm mostly packed. I hope I remember my pillow. And then there's my mom's quilt that I can't sleep without. Actually, I'm just this close to packing Boo-boo, my steadfast companion from my youth, a worn, once pink but now gray small bear. But no. Boo-boo stays behind.
What comes are some freshly sharpened pencils. A new journal. A sketch pad, with a heavy back and front so you can lean on it anywhere. Some almonds (just in case I find myself protein starved),butter flavored pretzels (just in case I find myself junk food starved), and the old Diet Coke. Well, just in case. My computer with its networks disabled, so I can truly only write. Not play Farkle online, or check my mundane email. Not check Ebay, or do anything else that will make facing the quiet easier, or easier to ignore. The solitude that I crave, and more importantly, I need.
I'm a bit concerned about leaving the girls. I haven't been alone without all four of them in eighteen years. That's one whole heck of a long time. I think they'll be fine. My husband has big plans. Big plans. I'm not sure what they are, nor am I sure he knows what they are, but I know they'll be laughing their butts off over jokes I would find offensive. The big girls have made plans to do something more civilized with their girlfriends, but my youngest has major big plans. Life with Dad, for a few days, is heaven.
That, in itself, will be worth the awkward moment when I can't remember how to sing phonetically in Latin. I asked one of the monks can I bring my fan so I can sleep. He said yes. So, that bad daddy is packed, and other than that, I'm good to go. Nervous, scared about what I may discover. Maybe more nervous about what I may not discover. But this too shall pass... just like a few good fart jokes that will be passed around the house while I'm gone. I'm thinking I'm not going to be sorry I missed them, and I'm pretty sure the monks wouldn't appreciate them if I told them.
Here's to three days of just me. For better or for worse.
One Step Closer to Home
Tomorrow I leave for three nights. All by myself. All alone, and completely terrified of what I'm going to face within the walls that are my body. I have this little fear in the back of my head or heart that I'll be empty inside. That there really will be nothing left of a person of any decency inside my soul. Egads -- what if I don't actually have a soul? Now, there's a thought that hadn't yet crossed my mind.
The monestary is quiet, reflective and the monks read during the entirely vegetarian, silent meals. You are welcome to go to services, which start at 3:20 am. I've challenged myself to at least once get up and go to services all day and just be within myself, quietly.
It's just one step. But one step closer to me, to home.
The monestary is quiet, reflective and the monks read during the entirely vegetarian, silent meals. You are welcome to go to services, which start at 3:20 am. I've challenged myself to at least once get up and go to services all day and just be within myself, quietly.
It's just one step. But one step closer to me, to home.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
It's Really Just a Small Loan
When they were five and three years old and every book caught their attention I had a rule -- if you could carry the books out, you could check them out. This worked for years, as their arms really never grew. Ever notice how dinosaurs arms are so much shorter than than the rest of their body? It's much the same for small children. But before I knew it, and before I had the energy to care, their arms grew, and their abilities to stretch their necks way over the books in their arms grew to proportions only a circus act could follow. But I, being the over-tired, homeschooling mom, allowed them to check them all out. I thought I was doing them a favor. After all, they were library books, were they not? What could go wrong with taking out an excessive amount of library books? How little did I know.
Before long their arms were long enough to reach around a high school track twice. The numbers were soaring. Generally speaking, we went to the library at least once a week, at the very least once every 10 days. But every once in a while, due to sickness, holidays, sheer neglect on my part, there would be a lapse in visits. And then.... well, then, you know what would happen. Ms. Librarian would come around with her little stamper that had that date that rolled up and down. It would re-ink itself when it came down. Remember those cards from the library when you had to actually sign the card out on your own name. Really and truly -- your own name. There was no mistaking you for your sister, your parents, the milkman. Nope, just you. And after a while, the libraries realized that this system didn't work and they needed to get up to speed and in this millinium. They had to become automated. It was horrid. And scary. But it worked. Those silly little library cards with the stickers on top that stated the title and author, and the call numbers of the Dewey Decimal system. Well, they were disbanded. Just tossed aside. There was the new and improved version. You merely had to scan your card and presto -- you took home all the library books you wanted.
For most people, this was great. It was a bit like scratching an itch that you just couldn't quite reach. You finally got it, and it felt good, but once you got it, you didn't put much more thought into it. Not my family. Not the homeschooling family with arms that went for miles. It was nothing short of a disaster.
It snuck up on us, actually. Casually, we took a couple of extra books out. No big deal. We deposited them into our library crate that had wheels and we toted home. It lived in the corner of the dining room. Books were removed and returned accordingly. We went merrily along our way.
For years. I mean, for years, we went on our way. Make a trip to the library. Two kids -- well, we'll take out twenty-five books. Wait, now we have three kids -- oops, take out fifty books. Oh no, we have four kids, and Mom's kind of feeling like she needs to escape into the realm of really cheesy romance novels -- take out one hundred books.
What? What?
Yup. One hundred books, and then a couple. This happened a few times. And, for a few times, it was fine. Take out the books. The books that needed to be renewed - hop online, renew them, and then in the appropriate manner, return said library books. Why -- this was a system an idiot could follow.
Until Mom had a mental breakdown. A literal mental breakdown. And then those one hundred books were late by four weeks. But, you know what happens when they're late for a month-- why that's fifty cents a day. Multiplied by one hundred. Well then, we have five hundred dollars. For most people, this would immediately cause them to break down the doors at the library and beg and plead and promise to not only not take out a library book, but to give them every child they ever had in their lineage. However, Mom was having a breakdown.
So, she got up one day. And she made breakfast. For all four kids. They laughed and they smiled. They talked about their day. They made an ever-loving mess in the living room. And then when Mom got sad, they knew to grab a book and read because Mom couldn't quite keep up with the laughter, and the chaos.
A year went by. Life was good. Mom found a decent doctor with some good thoughts, but not quite on target. And then Mom found a great doctor who diagnosed a serious illness. Up and down and round about they went, not unlike some of the Dr. Seuss books. Meds here, meds there, meds everywhere. But finally meds for breakfast, meds for dinner, and life was good. Really, really good. Mom made breakfast. She made lunch. She made dinner. She laughed. She sang. She homeschooled. She was thankful for the days that when the sun set she didn't feel the need to crawl under the covers and cry.
And then she was fined. For overdue library books. There were a few lost books in there. There are bound to be a few books lost when one takes out a hundred books. Regardless, there she was. And there was the library. But Mom was feeling good. So, she figured it out because that's what Mom's do. Even if it's just because the library wanted a letter from her doctor proving that Mom actually almost lost her soul to the demons inside. They needed proof that she wasn't fabricating her breakdown. That indeed she had truly lost her marbles, and had done so in public.
Ultimately, it's okay. Because Mom's still making breakfast, still reading crappy novels, among great ones. Her daughters are still loving reading. But she still has to fax that letter to the library to prove that she did have a mental breakdown, and didn't harbor over one hundred books in her home just to keep other patrons from borrowing the books. She has to prove that she wasn't fabricating her story, because a lot of people must use this story to get by the library system and the late fines. This too shall pass and she'll get over the humilation of having to send a doctor's note in for proof of library fines. She's weathered worse storms. This too shall pass, and really it's just a library and they're just doing their jobs. Their jobs of taking a book, scanning it under a blue light, plopping a library card in the pocket and handing it back. That's their job. She gets the job of watching her daughter's eyes light up when they find a great book, or hearing the slam of a cover when the books is disappointing.
Nonetheless, she gets the joy of reading it, sharing it, and laughing over it. Now that she can laugh again.
Before long their arms were long enough to reach around a high school track twice. The numbers were soaring. Generally speaking, we went to the library at least once a week, at the very least once every 10 days. But every once in a while, due to sickness, holidays, sheer neglect on my part, there would be a lapse in visits. And then.... well, then, you know what would happen. Ms. Librarian would come around with her little stamper that had that date that rolled up and down. It would re-ink itself when it came down. Remember those cards from the library when you had to actually sign the card out on your own name. Really and truly -- your own name. There was no mistaking you for your sister, your parents, the milkman. Nope, just you. And after a while, the libraries realized that this system didn't work and they needed to get up to speed and in this millinium. They had to become automated. It was horrid. And scary. But it worked. Those silly little library cards with the stickers on top that stated the title and author, and the call numbers of the Dewey Decimal system. Well, they were disbanded. Just tossed aside. There was the new and improved version. You merely had to scan your card and presto -- you took home all the library books you wanted.
For most people, this was great. It was a bit like scratching an itch that you just couldn't quite reach. You finally got it, and it felt good, but once you got it, you didn't put much more thought into it. Not my family. Not the homeschooling family with arms that went for miles. It was nothing short of a disaster.
It snuck up on us, actually. Casually, we took a couple of extra books out. No big deal. We deposited them into our library crate that had wheels and we toted home. It lived in the corner of the dining room. Books were removed and returned accordingly. We went merrily along our way.
For years. I mean, for years, we went on our way. Make a trip to the library. Two kids -- well, we'll take out twenty-five books. Wait, now we have three kids -- oops, take out fifty books. Oh no, we have four kids, and Mom's kind of feeling like she needs to escape into the realm of really cheesy romance novels -- take out one hundred books.
What? What?
Yup. One hundred books, and then a couple. This happened a few times. And, for a few times, it was fine. Take out the books. The books that needed to be renewed - hop online, renew them, and then in the appropriate manner, return said library books. Why -- this was a system an idiot could follow.
Until Mom had a mental breakdown. A literal mental breakdown. And then those one hundred books were late by four weeks. But, you know what happens when they're late for a month-- why that's fifty cents a day. Multiplied by one hundred. Well then, we have five hundred dollars. For most people, this would immediately cause them to break down the doors at the library and beg and plead and promise to not only not take out a library book, but to give them every child they ever had in their lineage. However, Mom was having a breakdown.
So, she got up one day. And she made breakfast. For all four kids. They laughed and they smiled. They talked about their day. They made an ever-loving mess in the living room. And then when Mom got sad, they knew to grab a book and read because Mom couldn't quite keep up with the laughter, and the chaos.
A year went by. Life was good. Mom found a decent doctor with some good thoughts, but not quite on target. And then Mom found a great doctor who diagnosed a serious illness. Up and down and round about they went, not unlike some of the Dr. Seuss books. Meds here, meds there, meds everywhere. But finally meds for breakfast, meds for dinner, and life was good. Really, really good. Mom made breakfast. She made lunch. She made dinner. She laughed. She sang. She homeschooled. She was thankful for the days that when the sun set she didn't feel the need to crawl under the covers and cry.
And then she was fined. For overdue library books. There were a few lost books in there. There are bound to be a few books lost when one takes out a hundred books. Regardless, there she was. And there was the library. But Mom was feeling good. So, she figured it out because that's what Mom's do. Even if it's just because the library wanted a letter from her doctor proving that Mom actually almost lost her soul to the demons inside. They needed proof that she wasn't fabricating her breakdown. That indeed she had truly lost her marbles, and had done so in public.
Ultimately, it's okay. Because Mom's still making breakfast, still reading crappy novels, among great ones. Her daughters are still loving reading. But she still has to fax that letter to the library to prove that she did have a mental breakdown, and didn't harbor over one hundred books in her home just to keep other patrons from borrowing the books. She has to prove that she wasn't fabricating her story, because a lot of people must use this story to get by the library system and the late fines. This too shall pass and she'll get over the humilation of having to send a doctor's note in for proof of library fines. She's weathered worse storms. This too shall pass, and really it's just a library and they're just doing their jobs. Their jobs of taking a book, scanning it under a blue light, plopping a library card in the pocket and handing it back. That's their job. She gets the job of watching her daughter's eyes light up when they find a great book, or hearing the slam of a cover when the books is disappointing.
Nonetheless, she gets the joy of reading it, sharing it, and laughing over it. Now that she can laugh again.
Monday, August 30, 2010
A Race to the Finish, or at least until Teeth Brushing
After having four daughters, I am within days of turning 46 and also within days of going away from my children for the first time in 18 years. I recognize that 46 isn't old. I can overlook the hypertension that I've had for years, as it runs in the family and is part of the "family gene pool". I can overlook the osteoarthritis in the hips, as that may be part of the "family gene pool". I can recognize that this may be made much more challenging by one too many raviolis, or even better, that large bowl of angel hair pasta, butter and just a touch of salt. I consider my gray hair a badge of honor. I earned them. Each one was earned learning a lesson, whether it be critical, three visits to the NICU or just the hurt feelings of a child. Sometimes it was less so -- and I had to realize that one more week of dirty sheets won't really matter.
Still, some days seem just a tad bit longer. Bedtime can seem like it's getting later and later for the smallest member of our family. Her sisters had a strict bedtime of 7 pm until my sister suggested that perhaps at 9 years of age they ought to be able to stay up at least until 8, when the sun actually went down. However, now I have this five year old who thinks bedtime comes when we all go to bed. Unacceptable on every level. And so our nighttime routines start earlier, are somewhat more regimented than they used to be, but still are longer than her sisters were.
Tonight I went out with a friend and left the "kids" at home with my husband. The only one that is really of age to need some assistance at bedtime is the youngest. On my way home from my dinner, I phoned home. I know, I know. Dumb decision. I was immediately informed that someone, who shall remain nameless, but is small and wears size 5T, refused to use the potty and brush her teeth. It was time to admit to my secret method. I knew it was time, but I didn't want to give up "the card". "The card" was the game that could be, if played correctly, the thing that ensured a timely bedtime, complete with a visit to the bathroom and brushing of the teeth. I call it the race card.
This child is competitive in nature. I have no idea where she got it. It must be from my husband. I'd sooner give in than to compete against anyone for anything, just in case someone's feelings might get hurt somewhere in the world, merely because I brushed my teeth faster. However, this kid loves a good race. So, casually, I mentioned on speaker phone that I doubted that Daddy could make it to the bathroom, efficiently, and get back to her room before she did. I mentioned that maybe I was wrong. Maybe he had practiced. That incentive was all she needed. On speakerphone, I heard the race ensue. It was a flurry of excitement, and giggling and feet pattering all around. Breathlessly, I heard her little voice squeaking "I won. I won. Daddy can't pee as fast as I can!" This is probably not the information that he would use in his new ad campaign for his business, but it did get the job done.
Next came the brushing of the "choppers", as we call it. Another race ensued. This time it was more precarious as the right toothpaste had to be located, then it had to be established that she could not, indeed, grab any random toothbrush and use it. Fortunately, after having four daughters, my husband put his competitive side aside and slowed down his brushing. She once again won the race, and was easily convinced to curl up in bed with the dog in between her and dad as he told a story from his childhood.
My night away was relaxing. It was inspiring as I sat with another woman and discussed our journeys, however varying. But my ride home, the rush and adrenaline gave me hope that the upcoming retreat I had planned would be okay. I could leave my daughters home with their father. The bigger ones had their routine. And that little one. . . Well, she had her races. God bless my husband because it's going to be a race to the finish for three whole days and nights. The only thing that will keep him going are the giggles that followed each and every accomplishment as she kicked his butt over and over again.
Nothing like a giggle from your child to reassure you as you go off for a first and scary weekend away from home. I'll bring my toothbrush and be ready for any races that may take place at the retreat. It's always good to be prepared. And my husband will get to compete, hear the giggles, and get those final quiet moments of the day, snuggled in with her and a silly little dog.
Still, some days seem just a tad bit longer. Bedtime can seem like it's getting later and later for the smallest member of our family. Her sisters had a strict bedtime of 7 pm until my sister suggested that perhaps at 9 years of age they ought to be able to stay up at least until 8, when the sun actually went down. However, now I have this five year old who thinks bedtime comes when we all go to bed. Unacceptable on every level. And so our nighttime routines start earlier, are somewhat more regimented than they used to be, but still are longer than her sisters were.
Tonight I went out with a friend and left the "kids" at home with my husband. The only one that is really of age to need some assistance at bedtime is the youngest. On my way home from my dinner, I phoned home. I know, I know. Dumb decision. I was immediately informed that someone, who shall remain nameless, but is small and wears size 5T, refused to use the potty and brush her teeth. It was time to admit to my secret method. I knew it was time, but I didn't want to give up "the card". "The card" was the game that could be, if played correctly, the thing that ensured a timely bedtime, complete with a visit to the bathroom and brushing of the teeth. I call it the race card.
This child is competitive in nature. I have no idea where she got it. It must be from my husband. I'd sooner give in than to compete against anyone for anything, just in case someone's feelings might get hurt somewhere in the world, merely because I brushed my teeth faster. However, this kid loves a good race. So, casually, I mentioned on speaker phone that I doubted that Daddy could make it to the bathroom, efficiently, and get back to her room before she did. I mentioned that maybe I was wrong. Maybe he had practiced. That incentive was all she needed. On speakerphone, I heard the race ensue. It was a flurry of excitement, and giggling and feet pattering all around. Breathlessly, I heard her little voice squeaking "I won. I won. Daddy can't pee as fast as I can!" This is probably not the information that he would use in his new ad campaign for his business, but it did get the job done.
Next came the brushing of the "choppers", as we call it. Another race ensued. This time it was more precarious as the right toothpaste had to be located, then it had to be established that she could not, indeed, grab any random toothbrush and use it. Fortunately, after having four daughters, my husband put his competitive side aside and slowed down his brushing. She once again won the race, and was easily convinced to curl up in bed with the dog in between her and dad as he told a story from his childhood.
My night away was relaxing. It was inspiring as I sat with another woman and discussed our journeys, however varying. But my ride home, the rush and adrenaline gave me hope that the upcoming retreat I had planned would be okay. I could leave my daughters home with their father. The bigger ones had their routine. And that little one. . . Well, she had her races. God bless my husband because it's going to be a race to the finish for three whole days and nights. The only thing that will keep him going are the giggles that followed each and every accomplishment as she kicked his butt over and over again.
Nothing like a giggle from your child to reassure you as you go off for a first and scary weekend away from home. I'll bring my toothbrush and be ready for any races that may take place at the retreat. It's always good to be prepared. And my husband will get to compete, hear the giggles, and get those final quiet moments of the day, snuggled in with her and a silly little dog.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
What Was I Listening For?
The time had come. I had reached my saturation point. Four homeschooled daughters, one family owned business, a multitude of pets and I knew the time had come. I was ready to venture out for a retreat. Actually, truth be told, I knew if I didn’t venture out to something, there would be nothing left of me. I no longer had a sense of self.
In a perfect world, we’re able to book those posh retreats that celebrities enjoy. The retreatant shows up, a suitcase filled with brand new luxury “retreat” clothing. I always pictured a lot of soft yoga-style clothing in varying shades of muted grays and blues, maybe even a beige sweater added in for variety. Regardless, I’m sure the material is soft and forgiving. I’m sure it looks fabulous on the thin, toned body I will also have acquired for my retreat. I’ll arrive, as all good stars do, with my entourage, who will also stay here in their own yoga clothing in a dwelling far from my own. My room will be quiet and serene with candles that stay lit all the time, with no concern for fire hazards. There are no fire hazards because this, of course, is the perfect retreat when I will become immediately enlightened. Fire hazards weigh too heavy on those who want to become enlightened quickly.
I’ll check in, sign my name on the dotted line and bliss will follow. Immediately, no questions asked, no work required. Bliss will become apparent as soon as I sign my name. I really won’t even have to do the work to find peace. I’ll just wear those cool yoga pants, and tank top, sign my name and presto-chango, I’m blissful.
The reality is I’m escaping to a quiet monastery located not far from my home. Retreatants are asked to check in at the gift shop. So, I’m to arrive between 1 and 4 pm on a Friday. I’m assigned a room, basic with a bed, perhaps a desk. I may get my own bath, but I may also have to share. Since I’ve shared a bath with five other people for quite a number of years, in addition to numerous bath toys, and pet shampoos, sharing a bath seemed like the least of my concerns. Regardless, the basic comforts will be met.
My real and main concern was that I would actually have to be alone with myself. All alone. Just me, myself and I, with no one to break the silence, ask silly questions like what did I like on my French fries, what time I went to bed, or what picture book would I look to read prior to bed. You gather for the meals at a precise time, in silence, and one of the monks reads. Everyone else is quiet. This took me back for a moment. I’m not sure I know what silence is. I haven’t been silent in almost forty-six years. But it’s mandatory. So, I would be silent – whether it killed me or not. I had already started to plan my demise caused merely by being silent. I took a deep breath, and plunged right in. I emailed, and made the reservation. There was no turning back.
I knew that the only way to find myself was to truly be with myself. The thought of it scared me far more than I thought it would. For years, I thought I craved being alone. But maybe what I really wanted was two hours during nap time to read, or a few hours in the evening to have control of the television remote. Three days and nights in silence was terrifying. I questioned the monk in charge of the retreat more often than he ever heard from his own mother, I’m sure. I asked questions ranging from the obvious and ridiculous – “Could I bring my fan because I can’t sleep without it?” And then “May I bring my diet Coke 12 pack?” Patiently. every question was answered with no obvious discord. Yes, I may bring my fan as long as it didn't bother other retreatants, and of course, I could bring my diet Coke. Phew, I thought. I’ll survive.
But eventually, after a few days, I worked myself up into a frenzy. An all-night, come-to-Jesus kind of frenzy. What was I doing? I didn't even like myself for the afternoon, how was I going to be alone with myself for three days? But slowly, really slowly, like a slug, a sense of peace came over me.
Then suddenly, before the retreat, I decided maybe it was time to create a small space in my home for just me. Without “stuff”. No television. No iPod. No papers, bills, dirty dishes, or picture books. Just a chair, a lamp, maybe a table to hold the infamous diet Coke. I found a s mall spot, in the corner of my laundry room, which I cleaned in a whirlwind. Now, I thought, now, I was ready for the silence. I had practiced in my little corner of the house. It was humbling, but it was okay. Mostly the washing machine noise drowned out the other distractions in the house.
I’m still a bit nervous, perhaps scared. When I sit in this small spot with only the hum of the washing machine, I’m not quite as fearful of the sense of peace I might actually find during that retreat. If it’s not there during that weekend, I’m sure I’ll come home with a bit more sense of self than I’ve had in a very long time. I’m hoping I’ll come back with an entirely new appreciation for silence. Perhaps I can pass that appreciation on to my girls. Or maybe I’ll just be able to mimic the hum of the washing machine, which will then, over time, teach them that it’s okay to be silent, even if we don’t know what we’re listening for.
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