Category: Parenting

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On the Receiving End

I have spent the last few years thinking, writing and talking about caregiving and care-receiving. While my perspective has been informed by the challenges, joys and lessons I gleaned as caregiver, I have celebrated the reciprocity of care in many ways. I have paid close attention to the vast amounts of love, humility, and grace available on both the giving and receiving ends of the caring continuum. While I have appreciated this continuum intellectually, most of my life experiences have placed me squarely at the caregiving end of the line. Between parenting and caring for my Dad, I guess I had even gotten comfortable there… until Monday, when I was abruptly reminded that we all move back and forth along this continuum through our lives.

Monday morning, as I was finishing a walk around our field, I stepped onto a patch of ice. I knew I was doing it and I stepped slowly and carefully but, I must have been off balance. The next thing I knew the ice was coming towards my face fast. I put out my hand to break the fall and fortunately did not hit my head. But my left arm throbbed. I laid on the ground limp for a minute and whispered “help”, fully aware there was noone but the dog and the birds to hear. Smiling at the absurdity of it all, I got up and made my way over the ice and snow to the house. I felt held aloft and propelled forward by the same invisible universal integrity and wisdom that holds the sky to the earth and urges seeds to crack open into life. It seemed that all I needed to do was keep breathing, and the rest would take care of itself. Thank goodness for the amygdala!

When I got to the safety of the house though, I felt myself crumble with the pain and disorientation. As soon as I pulled off my mitten, it was obvious that something was wrong. My hand hung limply at an awkward angle from my arm. No wonder I was breaking into a sweat. Thomas sandwiched my arm with frozen bags of coffee (softer than ice packs!) and took me to the ER. Within the next 5 hours, I received three x-rays, one ice pack, two slings, two tylenol, a big shot of something numbing injected into the bone, and dozens of kind words and smiles. I left with my arm in a cast that extends from my hand to my bicep and a 50/50 chance that Monday’s manual manipulation will be sufficient support for the healing process. If it isn’t, surgery will fill in the missing pieces, literally.

Meanwhile, my family members are quietly picking up the pieces of household maintenance that are  usually my responsibility. The pain has subsided, but the inconvenience of only having one arm available is persistent. The physical inconvenience is accompanied by an ongoing internal dialogue exploring my alternating resentment, frustration, disappointment, acceptance and gratitude.

This is a first-hand opportunity to experience the vulnerability of needing to receive care. I have a renewed appreciation for the grace with which my Dad seemed to receive love, care and practical support in his last years. At this far end of the care-receiving continuum, the challenge is to accept the generosity, compassion, and love that is directed towards us. We must know that we are worthy to receive these gifts and also that our gracious acceptance is a gift offered in return.

Each morning this week, I have woken up grateful for the new day, but have eventually been caught by a wave of surprise and sadness when I notice that I’m still broken. After releasing some stress by shedding a few tears, I realize that I am not broken — my wrist is broken. I am whole and I am on the receiving end.

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Perspective

During this afternoon’s rain squall, a vibrant rainbow arced over the back field and ended right in our drainage. I resisted the urge to run out and look for a literal pot of gold. All day, I had been reveling in the treasure that is our life. The rainbow now offered a visual pointer, a reminder to celebrate what is right in front of us and to notice each moment’s gift.

We have just returned home from a west coast vacation, driving from San Francisco to Puget Sound, Washington. We wandered down trails and beaches all along the way. We were nourished, humbled and inspired by tall trees, vast beaches, whales, otters, birds of all sizes, and ever-shifting skies. Our travels offered perspective and clarity to bring back home, lessons that I have learned before but need the earth to refresh within me from time to time.

In forests with dense understory and towering trees, vegetation limited our view to the trail corridor and we noticed delicate millipedes, mosses, lichen and wildflowers at our feet. When a high forest trail with a dense canopy and a needle-laden forest floor opened into a large vista, we savored the open expanse, looking north to Canada. When whales spouted just off-shore from the beachside cliff where we were eating lunch, we lingered for over an hour, relishing our good fortune at finding such noble company.

When we got home, three boxes of my first book, Without a Map: A Caregiver’s Journey through the Wilderness of Heart and Mind, were waiting. They had arrived the day after we left and I had been stewing on how best to get it into people’s hands. The memoir weaves together my experiences providing care for my Dad during his decline with dementia and lessons learned while traveling in the wilderness and parenting. I am hopeful that Without a Map, like vacation and today’s rainbow, will offer perspective and hope to other families.

Meeting each day as an opportunity during vacation, it became clear that the book would be shared in the same way, one individual and one event at a time. Opportunities are all around us and the pot of gold is at our feet! If you have an organization or independent bookstore that might be interested in hosting a reading or simply having a few books on hand, let me know. I am grateful for the opportunity to share this book and look forward to hearing how it resonates with readers.

 

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Holding On, Letting Go

Approaching the woods, a gentle wind stirred the air. Snowballs, crystals, fairy dust, and wonder rose from the tree branches before falling to the ground lightly and playfully. The field was covered in a full, fresh layer of snow. It looked like winter but the temperature of the air and the depth of blue in the sky hinted towards spring. This snow was not destined to last long. It is late winter and the season is more fickle than ever.

The pines and maples surrounding the field at the edge of the forest held piles of heavy snow. Some of the trees held the fresh snow as if in a gentle hug, happy for the temporary companionship. Others seemed burdened by the uninvited guest, holding the unwelcome weight as a burden. The oak trees, which also still held many of their leaves from the previous fall, seemed especially laden. With each gust though, each tree released a little more snow. As the wind whispered through the branches, I heard an audible sigh of relief as the trees let go of the snow.

I sat for a while with the little oak at the top of the drainage. I felt some kinship with this tree and its long, reaching branches. It will hold onto the leaves of the last growing season until emerging buds push them off in the spring. This oak, nestled out of the wind, will also hold the day’s snow longer than most of its neighbors. There does not appear to be any burden in this holding. This little tree seems designed to hold on. Its trunk is straight and solid. The branches grow low and wide. The fibers of each branch are dense. It clings to last season, embraces the snow of this season, and prepares for the growth of spring and summer ahead. This little tree declares that it is possible to have and hold it all.

Like the oak, I too attempt to hold — or at least juggle — it all. There is joy in this rich fullness. It can also be stifling and inhibiting. Dwelling on the regrets, mistakes and successes of the past does not leave space for recognizing the gifts of today. Attending to the longing, anticipation or worry for the future does not allow for living into the potential of each moment. When I am holding too much or too tightly, the present passes without notice and intent.

Holding on can also be can be comforting, serving us well from time to time. I remember helping Dad pack up his condo when he was moving to Maine. I picked up a candy dish that I had never seen before and asked him if he wanted to take it with him. He looked at it for a long time while I watched him drift far into his thoughts. Finally, he returned and said, “Yes, let’s take that. It reminds me of my grandmother.” We packed it up and it stayed by his bedside for the next three years. Dad had lost so much to dementia and would lose so much more. Holding on to that dish and any memories that it carried was a small and tender grace.

Now when I see that dish in my house, it reminds me of Dad. Specifically, it reminds me of holding him close and offering care during the years of his decline. And it reminds me of the paradox that was so strong at his death. After days by his bedside, I finally felt myself letting go of his barely living body. As I did, I remembered that I had felt the power of his spirit releasing into the world several days before he died. Noticing that I had been clinging to physical life and being intentional about letting it go, allowed my awareness of his persistent and expanding essence to return.

I see similar expansion in my boys as they explore the world and create their space within it. As they have become teenagers, they are taking longer, more independent steps into the world. Much of it now happens out of my sight, but the growing strength and freedom feels very similar to those days when they were mastering the monkey bars. It was important to stay close at first but, as strength and confidence grew, it was important to step further and further away. They needed to know that they were capable and that I trusted in their power and ability. They also needed to know that I was nearby if they wanted or needed me. Letting go is not the same as walking away. Letting go is an opening of hugging arms. Letting go honors both past and potential.

By now, the little oak in the drainage was beginning to release her snow. As the sun rose higher, the snow melted away one slow drip at a time. As I walked away from the tree, I began to walk a spiral in the middle of the field. The lithe trees at the edge of the field and the stiff, stoic oak at the top of the drainage had both offered a rich teaching. There are times for holding on and times for letting go.

As I wrapped into the spiral, I felt how closely connected the two actions are. Sometimes we are walking into the center, contracting, focusing and holding. At other times, we are walking towards the edges, expanding, stretching, and letting go. Holding on and letting go are expressions of love on the same continuum. The dance between them becomes the way that we nurture ourselves, our relationships, and the way that we live our life.

Today, I am letting go. The struggles and sorrows of our human family and ailing planet often hang heavily on my heart and I hold them tenderly. But today, the snow and sun are calling for company and I will stay out to play.

What about you? How will you embrace or release your day?

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All Time, No Time

T is taking a year away from school. He is a diligent student but was eager to step away from the traditional flow to give himself a chance to approach high school with greater intention. Stepping away from the treadmill is an opportunity to clarify his personal interests and become more familiar with his strengths and challenges. We once designed an entire program for students wishing to take a year away from traditional school between middle school and high school, similar to a gap year between high school and college. We called it The Bridge Year. Our friend, Frank, described it as “the gift of time”. The program did not launch, but T is now living its potential, a year off of life’s treadmill to identify and live among his own priorities and expectations.

While T found that he needed to get away from school, I have gone back to school. After a full academic career as a young person and 25 post-school years of living and working, I am taking time for personal exploration in a new direction. I needed the structure of a program to focus and guide my inquiry. A year of spiritual study and personal exploration is my opportunity to nurture the emergent, powerful Grace that I feel both in me and around me.

For both T and me, the opportunity to do something different is expanding our sense of possibility. The richness of the possibilities with us now place us very fully within each moment. Within those moments, the tyranny of time has dissolved. Our days are well balanced and organic – filled with reading, playing, walking, working, writing, and rich conversations. At once, we have both all time and no time. This is not timelessness; It is more like a time-full-ness — each moment so full of the now that it also contains future and past without aspiration or regret.

Early in the fall, I caught myself wondering what would be next? Where would these non-traditional paths take us? Those annoying questions still emerge periodically, but they intrude less often. We are simply here, now, living each day fully. That is to say, days are full of will, goodness, presence and meaning.

It seems the gift of time is to simply dwell deeply within it.

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Small, Still Voice

“Centering down” refers to the process of quieting the body and mind in order to attend to the small, still voice that resides within us. That voice is our conscience, our moral compass, that of God within us, Spirit expressed through us. Whatever identity we assign it, that voice is the conduit through which the divine is expressed in our common lives. I think of it as the voice of my true self. In Quaker meeting, centering down requires getting comfortable enough sitting quietly that the internal chatter of our daily lives is replaced by “expectant waiting” for expression of the Spirit. Truth be told, I find it really hard to center down through silence and stillness.

I can, however, find my small, still voice when I am in motion. I figured this out in high school while running long miles to “clear my head” on the weekends. After about 30 minutes of trotting down the road, I would pass a threshhold that I always thought of as the cotton candy line. With my mind enmeshed in soft, fluffy sweetness, my self-conscious deliberations of daily life dissolved and left open space for clearer and more creative exploration of problems and their solutions. In this open space, while still running, I could finish my homework, solve social problems and reflect on potential from a place that had clearly originated beyond my conscious thought. I always assumed this was a result of some hormonal or chemical response that opened neural pathways that would remain closed in the absence of focused exertion. I now realize that it was just my way of centering down. Since high school, I have channeled that compulsion for motion into running, walking, hiking, trailwork and gardening. I have conceived many written pages, designed and led youth programs and built my strongest and deepest relationships while moving. The motion has provided both the catalyst and the foundation for my life’s best work.

In The Book of Joy, Archbishop Desmond Tutu’s daily constitutional is described as meditation in motion, a pathway for accessing the wisdom of the spirit that comes through the wisdom of the body. I think of this as a wisdom of the heart, and it sustains and informs me well beyond the exercise itself. If I jump right into the obligations of a day without taking time for my physically engaged version of centering down, I spend the day reacting to situations and information around me. I am anxious rather than accepting when I notice we will be late for an appointment. I feel anger and sadness when I hear accounts of hate and bigotry rather than feeling the potential for compassion that is the response more likely to actually transform the negative thoughts and energy. These days it feels ever more important to make sure that I am able to speak and act from the place of peace and compassion that can only come from within. My teenage boys are growing ever more engaged in the world outside of the bubble of our family and friends. They consume media reports of world events with the same zeal that they consume large quantities of food. They work to reconcile news headlines with their beliefs about the world and the people of the world. The violent and mean-spirited words and actions at play on the world stage are inconsistent with the acceptance, tolerance and awareness that they have practiced in their short lives. As I try to buffer their absorption of this ugliness in the world, my thoughts get tangled in disbelief and resentment. I shouldn’t have to try to explain intolerance, hatred, racism and bigotry. Further, these irrational behaviors and beliefs don’t hold up well to attempts at rational explanation. My mind can not make any meaning from this madness. I must rely on sharing the wisdom of my heart instead.

I have always ascribed more value to the wisdom of the heart than the efforts of the mind anyway. Lately, I start most days with a walk or a yoga practice in order to open the pathways to the thoughts and feelings that come from deep within. Beginning the day in motion, I have a chance to sink deeply into my own body, listening for the small still voice within me and setting my intentions for the day. From this place, I have the best chance of holding onto my authentic motivations as the external demands and inputs of contemporary life pull me into reflexive responses. Tapped into my own internal energy rather than swept into the frenetic energy of the world around me, I am more likely to be the person that I wish to be for my children and for the wider world. My still, small voice advocates clearly for love, compassion and acceptance. It doesn’t leave room for anything else. Still, I need to refresh my connection to it throughout the day — and that is done best outside. A few minutes walking along the trail, working in the garden, chopping wood, or shoveling snow clarifies my voice. Reconnecting, even briefly, with the rhythms of my body and the rhythms of the natural world refreshes my capacity to hear and abide by the rhythms and wisdom of my heart. The words and actions that come from that heart wisdom are amplified when I have spent even a few minutes in motion under a wide and welcoming sky or a protective canopy of trees.

The more wild the outdoor space and the more time I can spend there, the more profound the positive impact. It is joyful, inspiring and expanding to live and travel with the barest human essentials amidst the bounty and beauty of the earth. A trip deep into a natural place offers a depth of rejuvenation that clarifies and sustains our capacity to hear and act upon our heart’s wisdom. As John Muir invites, “Keep close to Nature’s heart… and break clear away once in awhile, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean.” At Renewal in the Wilderness, Genevieve recently described the strength that she draws from travelling in wild landscapes:: “When I’m in the real Wilderness (with trees and rivers or the vast landscapes of deserts), my heart quiets and my mind stops. I have space to listen. The proverbial Wilderness of the world doesn’t disappear, but somehow becomes more manageable.”

What makes the wilderness of the world more manageable for you? Where do you find space to listen? How do you best hear your small, still voice, that voice that speaks clearly and loudly on behalf of your heart’s wisdom?

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Dry? Freeze? Jam? Give Thanks

The gifts of summer have filled my senses to overflowing.

The air is warm but not hot and constantly refreshed by a gentle breeze that keeps the bugs at bay.  Recently, the wind has carried either the thick, fecund smell of cow manure or a floral smell with origins we can’t identify. This morning, I woke to the drumming of a gentle steady rain. Other mornings, it is the call of birds that pulls me from sleep, declaring territory or announcing food rather than calling for mates as they were a few months ago. The flowers and butterflies are a kaleidoscope of colors, changing from one day to the next as they blossom, mature and decline. The garden is overflowing with fragrant herbs and this short growing season’s crops are at their peak. What am I to do with this abundance?

I began the day trying to reign in the bounty. I cut handfuls of herbs, attempting to save their fresh flavor for the long winter ahead. We built a new drying rack this year and strung a line inside. I am excited to be able to preserve some of the fragrance and flavor for later days. But I’m not fooled, I know the dried herbs will be more subdued than the fresh ones that we put in our salad last night. While it will be nice to have the herbs from our garden in a winter soup as a reminder of summer, they will not bring back the sensory extravagance of the season.

And what about the 10 pounds of local blueberries that I ordered? We have eaten our fill and shared with friends. I need to preserve what’s left before they begin to rot. We can freeze some for winter smoothies and baked goods. But the freezer’s full of the strawberries that we picked in July. It will have to be jam — and blueberry muffins and blueberry pancakes, and…Wait!

Over the course of the morning, I went from fully enjoying the season’s bounty, to attempting to preserve it for future enjoyment, and now struggling for ways to use it lest there be waste. I want to be a good steward of the earth’s resources, but I don’t mean to be clinging to this bounty. I am painfully aware of inequity in the world and always carry the heavy burden of responsibility along with the awareness of my good fortune at being able to maintain the health, safety and happiness of my family. But somehow the preservation of the season’s excess started to feel greedy. Yuck! That’s not right at all. I am holding on too tight. 

The better response to the season’s joys is gratitude. Weeks ago I realized that I could not harness the indulgence of the lazy mornings or giggly late nights of my teenage boys enjoying the freedoms of an unencumbered summer together. I wait patiently for them to greet the day and join me on an adventure in the late morning. I still expect them to do their own laundry, but I love to cook their favorite dinners and appreciate that they are here to eat them. I listen to their late night antics with a smile, even when it is keeping me awake. These could be some of the last carefree summer days of their childhood. Future summers may have work obligations, academic goals or other distractions… Or maybe they won’t. Either way, the time and relationship that is in bloom now will shift and mature. I am simply grateful to observe and appreciate it.

The same is true in the garden and in the kitchen. I will preserve the excess fruits of the summer season, but I cannot retain summer. And I don’t really want to. I want to harvest today’s abundance and store enough to meet tomorrow’s needs without holding too tight. I want to celebrate the smells, tastes, sounds and sights of this day. Preservation for the future is important, but gratitude for the present nourishes even more deeply. Summer’s abundance will soon be gone, but autumn will be full of gifts too. We can welcome each season with joy and preserve its abundance with a gentle hand and light heart. As these long days of summer begin to wane, I will dry, jam, freeze and share the season’s fruits and vegetables. Most importantly, I will give thanks.