A year is too short. I don't know about you, but it takes me decades to change. Yet here we are at the end of the year, hearing everyone chirp on about their resolutions. And I am thinking, a year is too short.
At some level, four or five years ago, I decided I was ready to start becoming me. And when I consider the last few years, I can see I have moved in that direction. But the changes are gradual, incremental. I may have made lots of steps forwards, but I've taken almost as many back. And so the very idea of a new year's resolution leaves me cold. It sets me up for failure and self-blame, yet another area in my life where I can judge myself harshly.
On the other hand, having an ongoing commitment to become myself, to explore my capabilities, and to discover new things: now that has possibility. It doesn't rely on adherence to a policy or principle, and I can't stuff it up too badly. The worst I can say of a decision is that I should have trusted my instinct, and perhaps I can do better next time. This approach is about freedom and openings, rather than achievements and obedience. And it's borne all kinds of fruit.
Where once I was brittle, I am becoming tender. Once I shied away from babies, and turned down all offers to hold them; now I cuddle them for hours. If I can't hold my own, I hold someone else's.
From never singing, I now sing with other people often. I have discovered I can hold a tune, even an alto part in a choir. I sing to my children and teach them rounds, I sing as we walk to school, I sing late at night as I ride my bike through the dark streets. I have quite literally found my voice.
Once I felt weak. Now I visit the gym regularly. It's made me physically strong; and it's made me more confident and sure of myself in other areas of life. It's even changed my appetite so that I want to eat the sort of food new year's resolutions are made of.
I thought I was lousy with little kids. Now twenty of them crowd around me when I walk into a classroom, stroking my arms and telling me stories; my eyes fill with tears of gratitude.
I've been teaching myself to draw, craft and write, with satisfying results. I can sketch a recognisable portrait; I can make an Advent calendar; I can write a blog.
I don't know what's next. I have no ambition, no plans. The last few years have been so joy-filled in all their random areas of growth that I am content to stay on this track, with all its shuffling forward and stumbling back.
But it's good to discover that in so many areas where I thought I was hopeless, in so many areas I never explored - well, it seems my teachers underestimated me.
Perhaps they underestimated thee, too. And maybe that's the opportunity of the new year: to reflect and explore. But instead of resolving to avoid this or do that, reflect on ways of being, ways of becoming. Find a loose approach that is open to mystery and surprise. What calls you? What lies dormant but longs for expression? What is that gentle voice whispering now, what are its thyme-scented suggestions? What hope swirls in on the sea breeze and cuts through the stuffy house like a knife? Draw a deep breath. Relax. Listen.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
A crash course in joy
Our home is being turned upside down and inside out as we sort. The kitchen table is littered with lists. We're scribbling over itineraries and covering slips of paper in sums, because in less than three weeks, we'll shove everything into bags, sit on the bags, zip them up, and leave for a trip around the world.
Clearly, we are completely mad. We have three young children, and we are going to spend nine weeks visiting four countries, many friends, and several exquisite dumpling shops. Or lugging sleeping children and snow gear through airport lines, if you prefer to think of it that way.
It all started because friends of ours asked me to facilitate a marriage ritual for them in Berlin, where they live. We linked it in with my husband's long holiday leave, a couple of months every five years, during which time he has to go away (or he doesn't stop working). We are interested in ideas of home and landscape, so we thought that from Berlin we would visit the UK and see where our ancestors came from. And we have many dear friends in the US, and once one has an air ticket from Australia to Europe it is no more expensive to keep going round the world. So we're travelling there too.
I am acutely aware of our inconsistency. I am passionately committed to the idea of home, to putting down roots wherever one is and learning to love it. I believe in living simply and slowly, finding life in depth rather than breadth of experience. I hate many aspects of travel; it is so often just another form of consumption. It's hideously expensive and an environmental disaster - and it's terrible for my garden: the tomatoes and corn will fruit while we're away; the salads will get all buggy, then wither; the young trees will probably die in the February heat. It's hard on our little church to have a family of five away, and our kids will miss the first month of school and kinder. Travel is an ethically grey area, to say the least. I try not to think about it too much.
Because on the other hand, travel can be so life-giving. Five years ago, on our last long holiday, we spent some months with our first baby girl in Italy. We stayed on a small farm, and friends came for a week or two at a time to visit with us and roam the area. Our hosts grew, baked, cured and preserved most of their food, and lived and ate according to the season. They gave us tomatoes and eggs and squash, bread and soup and salami, and taught me to make focaccia. Watching and learning from them had an enormous impact on us. We now grow a proportion of our own food, and make many of our jams and canned tomatoes and other preserves; our eating is much more seasonal than it ever was before.
There, I had my first visceral experience of belonging to a landscape. I'm not Italian, but even so the European light, the fields, the woods, the hills, the churches, the villages, made me feel deeply relaxed. The patterns of seed time and harvest, roads and valleys, sun and rain, the spreading trees and the food growing by the wayside, resonated somewhere deep in my guts. Everything smelled of home.
I was very moved by the constant presence of people of all ages in the squares and playgrounds. People used public space to chat, shell peas, jog, play ball, skip, read - and even hang out washing. Greetings flowed constantly, and children were supervised by many adults. I felt a great sense of neighbourhood and public life there, something that our empty Australian suburbs often seem to lack.
My daughter was pinched and kissed and feted and fed by a hundred security guards, shopkeepers and people at bus stops; and held and photographed again and again. I learned so much about enjoying children, and life, from the way others delighted in her.
Catching up, too, with precious friends from all over the world was wonderful. I lived overseas as a teenager and young adult; friends have since moved internationally; and if we are to continue the relationships, we have to travel from time to time to see each other. And these relationships are important. I can't discard them just because people have moved away, and I can't maintain them solely via email and Skype.
During that trip, for the first time I wrote an essay which was not for a class, sent it off, and had it accepted for publication. Somehow there I found the space and courage to try something new. All my subsequent writing has been a slow, very slow, growth out of that quiet space I first found sitting in a garden in Italy.
I'm aware of the ethical problems with travel, but I'm so grateful for the experience I had. It changed me in so many areas of life - in gardening, food production, child rearing, writing, listening to the quiet voice, thinking about home. I may have been on those paths already, but Italy accelerated the learning no end. I think of it now as a crash course in joy.
So we're off on another trip, and I'm wondering what will grow out of this one. A hundred stories to knit the family together; a dozen friendships renewed. And what else? I wait. I look for the quiet spaces. I know only that out of them something new will emerge, some mystery yet to unfold. I wait.
Clearly, we are completely mad. We have three young children, and we are going to spend nine weeks visiting four countries, many friends, and several exquisite dumpling shops. Or lugging sleeping children and snow gear through airport lines, if you prefer to think of it that way.
It all started because friends of ours asked me to facilitate a marriage ritual for them in Berlin, where they live. We linked it in with my husband's long holiday leave, a couple of months every five years, during which time he has to go away (or he doesn't stop working). We are interested in ideas of home and landscape, so we thought that from Berlin we would visit the UK and see where our ancestors came from. And we have many dear friends in the US, and once one has an air ticket from Australia to Europe it is no more expensive to keep going round the world. So we're travelling there too.
I am acutely aware of our inconsistency. I am passionately committed to the idea of home, to putting down roots wherever one is and learning to love it. I believe in living simply and slowly, finding life in depth rather than breadth of experience. I hate many aspects of travel; it is so often just another form of consumption. It's hideously expensive and an environmental disaster - and it's terrible for my garden: the tomatoes and corn will fruit while we're away; the salads will get all buggy, then wither; the young trees will probably die in the February heat. It's hard on our little church to have a family of five away, and our kids will miss the first month of school and kinder. Travel is an ethically grey area, to say the least. I try not to think about it too much.
Because on the other hand, travel can be so life-giving. Five years ago, on our last long holiday, we spent some months with our first baby girl in Italy. We stayed on a small farm, and friends came for a week or two at a time to visit with us and roam the area. Our hosts grew, baked, cured and preserved most of their food, and lived and ate according to the season. They gave us tomatoes and eggs and squash, bread and soup and salami, and taught me to make focaccia. Watching and learning from them had an enormous impact on us. We now grow a proportion of our own food, and make many of our jams and canned tomatoes and other preserves; our eating is much more seasonal than it ever was before.
There, I had my first visceral experience of belonging to a landscape. I'm not Italian, but even so the European light, the fields, the woods, the hills, the churches, the villages, made me feel deeply relaxed. The patterns of seed time and harvest, roads and valleys, sun and rain, the spreading trees and the food growing by the wayside, resonated somewhere deep in my guts. Everything smelled of home.
I was very moved by the constant presence of people of all ages in the squares and playgrounds. People used public space to chat, shell peas, jog, play ball, skip, read - and even hang out washing. Greetings flowed constantly, and children were supervised by many adults. I felt a great sense of neighbourhood and public life there, something that our empty Australian suburbs often seem to lack.
My daughter was pinched and kissed and feted and fed by a hundred security guards, shopkeepers and people at bus stops; and held and photographed again and again. I learned so much about enjoying children, and life, from the way others delighted in her.
Catching up, too, with precious friends from all over the world was wonderful. I lived overseas as a teenager and young adult; friends have since moved internationally; and if we are to continue the relationships, we have to travel from time to time to see each other. And these relationships are important. I can't discard them just because people have moved away, and I can't maintain them solely via email and Skype.
During that trip, for the first time I wrote an essay which was not for a class, sent it off, and had it accepted for publication. Somehow there I found the space and courage to try something new. All my subsequent writing has been a slow, very slow, growth out of that quiet space I first found sitting in a garden in Italy.
I'm aware of the ethical problems with travel, but I'm so grateful for the experience I had. It changed me in so many areas of life - in gardening, food production, child rearing, writing, listening to the quiet voice, thinking about home. I may have been on those paths already, but Italy accelerated the learning no end. I think of it now as a crash course in joy.
So we're off on another trip, and I'm wondering what will grow out of this one. A hundred stories to knit the family together; a dozen friendships renewed. And what else? I wait. I look for the quiet spaces. I know only that out of them something new will emerge, some mystery yet to unfold. I wait.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Haunting
As I bang out the dishmop against the kitchen sink, I glance down and see my mother's hands. Sometimes it's so real, it's shocking.
I am telling a story and hear my voice soar up and out, too loud, too loud, but I can't control it; my mother is taking over.
I'm drawing the broom the wrong way; her voice scolds me impatiently.
I find myself preaching sermons, preparing kids' sheets, affecting a congregation, just like her.
I walk into the theological library, and someone greets me with her name. As do old family friends, time and again.
Her enormous eyes are reflected in the bathroom mirror. I lift weights at the gym; she gazes back at me from the mirrored wall.
Whenever I see a small housefly, I think instantly of her. The colour and the texture evoke her grey rollneck jumper. That, and the fact it's buzzing around like a mad thing.
I make scones out of sour milk, quick and fast. I breathe in her impatience and whip the knife blade through the sticky dough; knead lightly with her hands; slide the scones into the oven. They puff into teetering towers. I pull one apart. The steam rises and I am a child again, sitting at a blue kitchen table.
My sister discovers me gardening in the rain. I'm not saying anything, she hollers out the door from the kitchen. But I've become Mum, I yell back. She often gardened when it rained; once, when it was snowing, she made us plant two hundred tulip bulbs before the ground froze.
Whoever said she was dead? Whoever thought she was laid to rest? Because here she is, right here. Her hands are typing, her eyes are looking at the screen. She buzzes around the room, checking up on me, nagging at times. She inhabits my body, takes over my stories, urges me into the pouring rain to pull out weeds, and laughs as the water runs down my neck. A basket of her scones sits on the kitchen table.
It's been nine years since she died. Just when I think she's fading away, her ghost slips back and surprises me again. And I'm grateful for the scones, and the big eyes, and the nice fingernails. I do like gardening in the rain. But I'm ambivalent about preaching, and teaching, and all that - she could have kept those gifts to herself. I wish her voice wouldn't take over my stories. I have to tell her to stop scolding as I sweep the house; be quiet, I say, you're dead.
I am telling a story and hear my voice soar up and out, too loud, too loud, but I can't control it; my mother is taking over.
I'm drawing the broom the wrong way; her voice scolds me impatiently.
I find myself preaching sermons, preparing kids' sheets, affecting a congregation, just like her.
I walk into the theological library, and someone greets me with her name. As do old family friends, time and again.
Her enormous eyes are reflected in the bathroom mirror. I lift weights at the gym; she gazes back at me from the mirrored wall.
Whenever I see a small housefly, I think instantly of her. The colour and the texture evoke her grey rollneck jumper. That, and the fact it's buzzing around like a mad thing.
I make scones out of sour milk, quick and fast. I breathe in her impatience and whip the knife blade through the sticky dough; knead lightly with her hands; slide the scones into the oven. They puff into teetering towers. I pull one apart. The steam rises and I am a child again, sitting at a blue kitchen table.
My sister discovers me gardening in the rain. I'm not saying anything, she hollers out the door from the kitchen. But I've become Mum, I yell back. She often gardened when it rained; once, when it was snowing, she made us plant two hundred tulip bulbs before the ground froze.
Whoever said she was dead? Whoever thought she was laid to rest? Because here she is, right here. Her hands are typing, her eyes are looking at the screen. She buzzes around the room, checking up on me, nagging at times. She inhabits my body, takes over my stories, urges me into the pouring rain to pull out weeds, and laughs as the water runs down my neck. A basket of her scones sits on the kitchen table.
It's been nine years since she died. Just when I think she's fading away, her ghost slips back and surprises me again. And I'm grateful for the scones, and the big eyes, and the nice fingernails. I do like gardening in the rain. But I'm ambivalent about preaching, and teaching, and all that - she could have kept those gifts to herself. I wish her voice wouldn't take over my stories. I have to tell her to stop scolding as I sweep the house; be quiet, I say, you're dead.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
A season of rainbows
It's the end of a season, a season of rainbows. Rainbow chard, to be precise. After six months of growth on a sprinkling of water and a handful of compost, after feeding our family of five a couple of meals every week, after shooting up to glorious seed, their time is over. The plants, too tall in their seeding, withered and toppled in a hot wind; and I pulled them out.
But before they disappear completely into compost, I would like to remember them. Red, yellow, pink, orange, cream. Blazing stalks holding up impossibly large leaves, deep green and glossy. They force their roots into our worst soil, rock hard clay, breaking it up as they grow. I starve them, and withhold water, and still they produce leaf after leaf after leaf.
Every few days I collect an armload of stems for quiche, for spanakopita, for frittata, for bruschetta. It's free food, an abundance just outside the back door. I find my children chewing in the garden, bright green leaves jutting out their mouths as they sneak an illicit snack. Tsk tsk, I say, pretending to be horrifed, while they giggle green and juicy. They gnaw on the stalks, and try to decide which colour tastes best.
At seeding time, the chard shoots up seven feet tall. There it stands, swaying and catching the late afternoon sun. Pixies! says a friend, amazed. Those plants must harbour pixies! Pixies in the garden!
Beyond them swings a hammock, red, green and gold. The chard grows thick; the hammock disappears behind a leafy camouflage.
Now, the seeds are collected in a brown paper bag. The stems poke out of the compost heap, bright yellow, ruby red, creamy pink. The ground is cleared. And it's time to fall back on lettuces, baby rocket, and spinach from the market while the seedlings grow.*
As I sadly mused the end of my leafy rainbows, at least for now, a harsh shriek pierced my thoughts. I looked up. Lorikeets were hanging in the pear tree; they took off with a crimson flash of their wings, calling to each other. They are annual visitors; they have returned. To my delight, I realised that we have rainbows in the garden even now, but this time, they are rainbows with wings.
*Of course, I haven't managed to grow seedlings ready for the time the old plants are finished. Sigh.
But before they disappear completely into compost, I would like to remember them. Red, yellow, pink, orange, cream. Blazing stalks holding up impossibly large leaves, deep green and glossy. They force their roots into our worst soil, rock hard clay, breaking it up as they grow. I starve them, and withhold water, and still they produce leaf after leaf after leaf.
Every few days I collect an armload of stems for quiche, for spanakopita, for frittata, for bruschetta. It's free food, an abundance just outside the back door. I find my children chewing in the garden, bright green leaves jutting out their mouths as they sneak an illicit snack. Tsk tsk, I say, pretending to be horrifed, while they giggle green and juicy. They gnaw on the stalks, and try to decide which colour tastes best.
At seeding time, the chard shoots up seven feet tall. There it stands, swaying and catching the late afternoon sun. Pixies! says a friend, amazed. Those plants must harbour pixies! Pixies in the garden!
Beyond them swings a hammock, red, green and gold. The chard grows thick; the hammock disappears behind a leafy camouflage.
Now, the seeds are collected in a brown paper bag. The stems poke out of the compost heap, bright yellow, ruby red, creamy pink. The ground is cleared. And it's time to fall back on lettuces, baby rocket, and spinach from the market while the seedlings grow.*
As I sadly mused the end of my leafy rainbows, at least for now, a harsh shriek pierced my thoughts. I looked up. Lorikeets were hanging in the pear tree; they took off with a crimson flash of their wings, calling to each other. They are annual visitors; they have returned. To my delight, I realised that we have rainbows in the garden even now, but this time, they are rainbows with wings.
*Of course, I haven't managed to grow seedlings ready for the time the old plants are finished. Sigh.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Let's pretend this is a craft blog
It was so hot last week that I gave up writing and thinking, and did cutting and pasting instead. Nothing like an effortless and totally absorbing activity on a hot day. Gotta love it. So let's pretend this is a craft blog for a change.Because here comes Christmas. I hate Christmas. I hate the shrieking signs in the shop windows and the fake snow spray paint when it's 35C. I hate the tinny Christmas carols that begin in October, and the urge to buy buy buy. I hate the plastic toys and the wrapping that bowls down the street when the northerly blows. I hate not having a big extended family or cousins with children and thereby an automatic Christmas crowd. I hate not knowing quite what we'll do on Christmas Day, or who we will spend it with. I hate Christmas trees in a hot climate, and roast meats in summer, and the obligatory Christmas pudding. And, probably, I hate that I had a minister for a parent. Christmas Day was always a work day, and the weeks leading up to it were unbelievably busy and stressful. Thinking about those days can make me still feel a little sick.
For the last few years, we've done everything we can to ignore it. We go to church on Christmas Eve (and I do like that); have lunch with family and friends (organised last minute so I don't stress too much about it); and give each child a book, another gift and a few hair ties and chocolates. That's about it.
But the holiday season still looms. And, really, it's not Christmas that I hate but all the gross consumerism around it. It's loud, powerful, insistent. And I'm beginning to realise that ignoring it isn't working; it just makes me depressed. Instead, my family needs some rituals which will help us challenge the dominant ethos.
Going to church is one ritual. Our church is thoughtful about how it approaches Christmas or, indeed, any church season, and has given us the language and opportunity to think and talk about Christmas in ways that aren't absolutely mindless fake joy.
But since we are pretending momentarily that this is a craft blog, I want to tell you about another ritual. I was thinking about Advent calendars, and how I loathe them too - at least, the ones with gifts or chocolate in every pocket. How much junk do my kids need?, I wonder.
But it occurred to me that we could have a different type of Advent calendar. We could make our own and, in each pocket, slip a suggestion for an activity which will help us anticipate Christmas. Some ideas I have are: read a story; write a letter together; choose a gift from the TEAR gift catalogue; set up a Christmas tableau; make cookies (because hey! we have kids and we can't be too earnest); shop for the Asylum Seeker Resource Centre; and so on and so forth.
I had a look online and found a suggestion for a gorgeous Advent calendar here. It's right up my alley: easy peasy, and 100% recycled. The backing is a paper grocery bag, and the pockets (with gussets!) are decorated from our scrap paper tub. I will write the activities on little luggage style tags and slip them in the pockets; and my kids can take one out each day and act on it.
Heading up this post is a photo of my very own creation. I feel like a little kid with a painting on the fridge: inordinately proud, tugging at the adults' legs to come take a look. I particularly like pocket 21, decorated with a square from a road map which includes our street, my sister's street, and our favourite park. And my kids love the idea. They recognise the provenance of most of the pictures: paper which enclosed a gift from a friend; the tag from our favourite muslin baby wrap; a special card; strips from a torn paper lantern. They gently touch the calendar, and beg me to fill the pockets with activities right now. My children are joyfully anticipating Advent, and so, for once, am I. And for that, I am grateful.
PS Click here for some creative ways to consume less at Christmas.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Growing up, moving out
My daughter just turned six. When she's good, she's very very good. And when she's bad, well... But yesterday, as we were ambling home from school, she was good. More than good; she was farsighted, thoughtful, generous, compassionate.
We were walking and talking, when she suddenly leaned into me. 'I love you, Mama,' she said. She went on to say that when she gets older, she might go and live near the beach for a while, or perhaps go away and 'have some adventures'. But, she warned, even after she left she still wanted her father and me to stay in our house 'because we're doing such good things with the garden' - and because after her adventures she'd like to come home and live with us again and look after us in our old age.
Only a month ago we visited my grandparents. They live in another city, so we rarely see them. My grandfather is very frail; my grandmother has advanced Alzheimers, and scarcely moves, let alone speaks. She sits in a dream, flashing out a random smile now and then on a good day, but otherwise completely passive. My daughters watched me feed her with a spoon, and wipe her nose, and clean up her dribble. And my six year old notices and remembers everything.
I found myself wondering, does she mean this? even this? would she really want to feed me and wipe at my snot and dab at my dribble? Even if she imagines a more benign aging process, will she really cook for me one day?
And it raised other memories, painful memories. My mother had a very aggressive form of multiple sclerosis and was quadriplegic for a couple of years before she died. She needed people to brush her hair and clean her teeth, wipe her nose, wash her, dress her, and do everything else. My father and a carer did most of the work, all praise to them.
My mother and I had a fraught relationship; always at war, I had moved out. Even then, we struggled to negotiate the most basic aspects of care. If I came over and brushed her hair, I'd do it too soft or too hard or in some way other wrong. I couldn't even wipe her nose right. I fled to the kitchen and cooked, instead.
When the disease became acute, I suggested that I move home to help out in a bigger way. It seemed the only thing to do. But she, very rightly, refused. We had never got along when she was well; the chances of us negotiating her dependency were close to zilch. More importantly, for her, she believed I had to become fully adult and would be warped by returning home. It was crucial to her that I had space to expand and grow, and she couldn't see that happening under her roof.
My daughter's comment yesterday recalled all this. And it made me wonder, will she and I end up in a fraught relationship, too? She is brittle and fragile, like me, and could easily freeze over for a decade, like me. I already see the shoals ahead. Then again, I have learned some things my mother never knew: that when my daughter's aggressive and rude, pushing me away, the best thing I can do is give her a hug. She thaws every time. Maybe, just maybe we can negotiate a softer, more generous relationship. Maybe she could brush my hair, and I could enjoy it.
We've often made jokes that when she grows up, she and her family can live downstairs and cook for me, and I'll live upstairs and play with all the babies - she says she wants five. And I'm touched by her suggestion, and thrilled that she thinks of me as a person who ages and changes and will one day need care. It means that I'm not just mum to her.
Given all this, if we can find a gentle way to be together, would I want her to look after me? Would I really want my daughter to move back home to cook, clean and attend to my personal needs? And I realise that, at this stage, I wouldn't. No matter how bad things get, and I've sat with my mother through years of pain and suffering so I've a fair idea, I can't imagine I would want my daughter to shrink her life back down to me.
Like my mother, I want my daughter to grow up and out. I want her to explore the world, ever expanding her circles of experience. I want her to go live by her beach, or travel and 'have some adventures'; I want her to form independent relationships and build her own tribe; I want her to move out from under my shadow and grow tall and true. When I enter my doddery old age, I don't want my daughter to be warped, submissive or thwarted by me. I prefer to think of her picking grapes on an Italian hillside, or hiking through the jungle, or sitting on a mountain top, reflecting. And as I sit in my quiet room, I will flick through her postcards and smile.
We were walking and talking, when she suddenly leaned into me. 'I love you, Mama,' she said. She went on to say that when she gets older, she might go and live near the beach for a while, or perhaps go away and 'have some adventures'. But, she warned, even after she left she still wanted her father and me to stay in our house 'because we're doing such good things with the garden' - and because after her adventures she'd like to come home and live with us again and look after us in our old age.
Only a month ago we visited my grandparents. They live in another city, so we rarely see them. My grandfather is very frail; my grandmother has advanced Alzheimers, and scarcely moves, let alone speaks. She sits in a dream, flashing out a random smile now and then on a good day, but otherwise completely passive. My daughters watched me feed her with a spoon, and wipe her nose, and clean up her dribble. And my six year old notices and remembers everything.
I found myself wondering, does she mean this? even this? would she really want to feed me and wipe at my snot and dab at my dribble? Even if she imagines a more benign aging process, will she really cook for me one day?
And it raised other memories, painful memories. My mother had a very aggressive form of multiple sclerosis and was quadriplegic for a couple of years before she died. She needed people to brush her hair and clean her teeth, wipe her nose, wash her, dress her, and do everything else. My father and a carer did most of the work, all praise to them.
My mother and I had a fraught relationship; always at war, I had moved out. Even then, we struggled to negotiate the most basic aspects of care. If I came over and brushed her hair, I'd do it too soft or too hard or in some way other wrong. I couldn't even wipe her nose right. I fled to the kitchen and cooked, instead.
When the disease became acute, I suggested that I move home to help out in a bigger way. It seemed the only thing to do. But she, very rightly, refused. We had never got along when she was well; the chances of us negotiating her dependency were close to zilch. More importantly, for her, she believed I had to become fully adult and would be warped by returning home. It was crucial to her that I had space to expand and grow, and she couldn't see that happening under her roof.
My daughter's comment yesterday recalled all this. And it made me wonder, will she and I end up in a fraught relationship, too? She is brittle and fragile, like me, and could easily freeze over for a decade, like me. I already see the shoals ahead. Then again, I have learned some things my mother never knew: that when my daughter's aggressive and rude, pushing me away, the best thing I can do is give her a hug. She thaws every time. Maybe, just maybe we can negotiate a softer, more generous relationship. Maybe she could brush my hair, and I could enjoy it.
We've often made jokes that when she grows up, she and her family can live downstairs and cook for me, and I'll live upstairs and play with all the babies - she says she wants five. And I'm touched by her suggestion, and thrilled that she thinks of me as a person who ages and changes and will one day need care. It means that I'm not just mum to her.
Given all this, if we can find a gentle way to be together, would I want her to look after me? Would I really want my daughter to move back home to cook, clean and attend to my personal needs? And I realise that, at this stage, I wouldn't. No matter how bad things get, and I've sat with my mother through years of pain and suffering so I've a fair idea, I can't imagine I would want my daughter to shrink her life back down to me.
Like my mother, I want my daughter to grow up and out. I want her to explore the world, ever expanding her circles of experience. I want her to go live by her beach, or travel and 'have some adventures'; I want her to form independent relationships and build her own tribe; I want her to move out from under my shadow and grow tall and true. When I enter my doddery old age, I don't want my daughter to be warped, submissive or thwarted by me. I prefer to think of her picking grapes on an Italian hillside, or hiking through the jungle, or sitting on a mountain top, reflecting. And as I sit in my quiet room, I will flick through her postcards and smile.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Body thoughts
I am churned up by competing thoughts. Well, not thoughts really, more those amorphous senses or emotions that are thrown up by my heart and my guts. They are body thoughts, ideas and words floating around somewhere below my neck. They're not head thoughts. Writing about them is difficult, because writing begins in my head and only sometimes manages to send its roots down and draw from the rest of my body.
And these body thoughts are at war. On the one hand, I am tired of being thoughtful, responsible, hard working, a good girl. I'm tired of being the adult around here. I'm tired of cleaning up the mess, and reading the labels in the supermarket, and sitting on my temper. I'm tired of looking after everyone, and cooking for everyone, and doing the dishes afterwards. I'm sick of analysing, weighing things up, trying to make every choice a good choice. I'm fed up with the critical Protestant in me, whose black clothes are tightly buttoned up to her chin, and whose black umbrella jabs me in the guts in constant reproach. I'm sick of being modest, and self conscious, and nice. I don't know what I want; maybe it's just a week to myself; maybe it's something else. Something larger, something more like generosity to myself. Which, to a good Protestant girl, feels a lot like selfishness.
After feeling like this for months, I broke out and bought an obscenely extravagant pair of red high heels. I think it was a good decision; I couldn't bear to wear any of my sensible shoes to the wedding of friends, and celebrating marriage is a wonderful thing. Finding a safe outlet to feel outrageously selfish is another. Now I sleep with the shoes in a box on my bedside table. I love them madly; they've invaded my dreams, and I'm wondering if I've entered the fairytale where the red shoes will dance me to my destruction.
So there's that.
On the other hand, the question Why not? swirls around too. This question, this invitation, rises up and asks me: Why not become the person you want to be? And that person is a woman in her forties who knows herself, who is calm and faithful and powerful. I want to grow into one of those radiant people, whose faces shine out with love and hope and generosity. I want the self-assurance to be assertive and gentle - the assurance that doesn't need to prove itself, but which comes with self-knowledge. I think of Kathleen Norris's comparison of the committed life - monasticism or marriage or, I would add, parenting - to a rock tumbler. It may hurt like hell, but you come out beautifully polished. And that is what I want to be - beautifully polished at the end of this life.
Somehow, the two gut senses feel at war. One part of me wants to run away, to stop being so responsible, to get selfish for a while. Another part of me wants to become the sort of person who is graceful, generous, loving. And I feel like doing both is impossible.
But lately it occurs to me that perhaps they are not exclusive. Perhaps, just perhaps, I wonder, could they be different faces of the same coin? Because if I lose myself too completely in the mundanity of jobs and responsibility and parenting, I forget how to play. I become puffed up, thinking the tasks at hand are more important than they really are. I become boring. I forget how to laugh, how to analyse, how to criticise myself - and worse, I begin to judge others. Soon I resemble that pointy-faced Protestant with a sharp umbrella.
But if I get selfish, in a good way - take the time for myself to listen, reflect and pray; shut the study door and write, ignoring the cries of children who are being looked after most capably by their daddy; do what I can to live well and accept it as enough, for now; even buy those outrageous shoes to celebrate a friend's wedding - then I come to know myself better. And I have no doubt that a growing self-knowledge has already enabled me to become a better parent, wife and friend.
So perhaps the body thoughts aren't at war; perhaps they're inviting me to take what I need to look after myself and not just everyone else. Perhaps they're suggesting that I can be generous to myself, and that might lead to a new generosity towards others. If I listen to these gut feelings, and, consistent with my commitments, trust in them, then is it possible that maybe, just maybe, I might one day become that polished person I so long to be?
And these body thoughts are at war. On the one hand, I am tired of being thoughtful, responsible, hard working, a good girl. I'm tired of being the adult around here. I'm tired of cleaning up the mess, and reading the labels in the supermarket, and sitting on my temper. I'm tired of looking after everyone, and cooking for everyone, and doing the dishes afterwards. I'm sick of analysing, weighing things up, trying to make every choice a good choice. I'm fed up with the critical Protestant in me, whose black clothes are tightly buttoned up to her chin, and whose black umbrella jabs me in the guts in constant reproach. I'm sick of being modest, and self conscious, and nice. I don't know what I want; maybe it's just a week to myself; maybe it's something else. Something larger, something more like generosity to myself. Which, to a good Protestant girl, feels a lot like selfishness.
After feeling like this for months, I broke out and bought an obscenely extravagant pair of red high heels. I think it was a good decision; I couldn't bear to wear any of my sensible shoes to the wedding of friends, and celebrating marriage is a wonderful thing. Finding a safe outlet to feel outrageously selfish is another. Now I sleep with the shoes in a box on my bedside table. I love them madly; they've invaded my dreams, and I'm wondering if I've entered the fairytale where the red shoes will dance me to my destruction.
So there's that.
On the other hand, the question Why not? swirls around too. This question, this invitation, rises up and asks me: Why not become the person you want to be? And that person is a woman in her forties who knows herself, who is calm and faithful and powerful. I want to grow into one of those radiant people, whose faces shine out with love and hope and generosity. I want the self-assurance to be assertive and gentle - the assurance that doesn't need to prove itself, but which comes with self-knowledge. I think of Kathleen Norris's comparison of the committed life - monasticism or marriage or, I would add, parenting - to a rock tumbler. It may hurt like hell, but you come out beautifully polished. And that is what I want to be - beautifully polished at the end of this life.
Somehow, the two gut senses feel at war. One part of me wants to run away, to stop being so responsible, to get selfish for a while. Another part of me wants to become the sort of person who is graceful, generous, loving. And I feel like doing both is impossible.
But lately it occurs to me that perhaps they are not exclusive. Perhaps, just perhaps, I wonder, could they be different faces of the same coin? Because if I lose myself too completely in the mundanity of jobs and responsibility and parenting, I forget how to play. I become puffed up, thinking the tasks at hand are more important than they really are. I become boring. I forget how to laugh, how to analyse, how to criticise myself - and worse, I begin to judge others. Soon I resemble that pointy-faced Protestant with a sharp umbrella.
But if I get selfish, in a good way - take the time for myself to listen, reflect and pray; shut the study door and write, ignoring the cries of children who are being looked after most capably by their daddy; do what I can to live well and accept it as enough, for now; even buy those outrageous shoes to celebrate a friend's wedding - then I come to know myself better. And I have no doubt that a growing self-knowledge has already enabled me to become a better parent, wife and friend.
So perhaps the body thoughts aren't at war; perhaps they're inviting me to take what I need to look after myself and not just everyone else. Perhaps they're suggesting that I can be generous to myself, and that might lead to a new generosity towards others. If I listen to these gut feelings, and, consistent with my commitments, trust in them, then is it possible that maybe, just maybe, I might one day become that polished person I so long to be?
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