It is after lunch now, and that I have been awake since 2
a.m. is only a slight exaggeration. I
decided earlier in the week that I needed to do something to lift a cloud I’ve
found over me a lot lately, so I aimed for a 6 a.m. yoga class that would’ve
taken place today. After another
(another. another.) Eli-filled night of screaming and nursing and rocking, I
dragged myself out at 5:45 to get my Zen on and my chakras aligned and my hips
released and, oh please, just to make me all happy and buzzed like I get after
a thorough yoga sweat. It’s really a bit
misleading to make it sound like getting to the class was hard. I was inhumanely tired, but I had a chance to
go and do something. Something nice. And something alone. What was hard was getting there and seeing
that the studio was closed for the holidays, and trying to observe instead of
implode when I found myself falling to pieces over a trivial matter. It’s been one of those weeks.
And it’s also been one of those weeks when you try extra hard to hang on to all of your gratitude. Last week was the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary, an event so layered with horror and sadness in every direction that my mind has never found any entry into saying word one about it, except to ask my husband whether his work holiday party, which was held on the day of, was cancelled. So I hugged my babies tighter along with everyone else. And I said my prayers out there, to whatever there is, for whomever could use it. But gratitude doesn’t cancel out stress, exhaustion, and one’s personal hardships. And beating yourself up over that fact doesn’t serve a soul.
And it’s also been one of those weeks when you try extra hard to hang on to all of your gratitude. Last week was the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary, an event so layered with horror and sadness in every direction that my mind has never found any entry into saying word one about it, except to ask my husband whether his work holiday party, which was held on the day of, was cancelled. So I hugged my babies tighter along with everyone else. And I said my prayers out there, to whatever there is, for whomever could use it. But gratitude doesn’t cancel out stress, exhaustion, and one’s personal hardships. And beating yourself up over that fact doesn’t serve a soul.
I remember after my sister died, on top of mourning, I felt
sick with guilt for that very same mourning.
I seethed at myself for daring to wail over the loss of someone I
bickered with so often. Someone I didn’t
call enough. Someone who I judged and
who judged me. God yes, we loved each
other. But it was the love of two
sisters in their twenties, each fueled by their own life’s drama and nowhere
near the place where you can sit back and appreciate, with true perspective or
real maturity, what was before you. We
were closer to that point, though, and I was so very angry we didn’t get to
finish our story. More so that she
didn’t get to finish hers. There is no
sense to be made of accidental drowning of a 28 year old who’d been a lifeguard
as a teen. And I didn’t want to pretend
it made sense. And I really, really
didn’t want to pretend that those who grieved her had a right to act like we
had done enough, known her enough, tried hard enough, such that the story was
done and we could say good-bye. It took
me a long time to make any peace with that feeling, and the peace has all come from
time.
I’m not sure it makes sense, but this feeling I have now –
one that I have often but is especially acute at the moment – is familiar to me
because of losing my sister. It is a
sense that I don’t deserve to feel negative emotions (and therefore certainly
do not deserve any sense of catharsis) because I don’t really appreciate what I
have. It’s the “Of course, my kids are
great” syndrome. Needing to remind
yourself, others, the ether, that you know this time is precious in spite of
your complaints. That these people you
are raising are miracles. I know I am
wrong to begrudge myself the right to feel lousy – without layering it with
shame. But it is hard to really let that
sink in. I’m working on it.
It’s been an exhausting year. New house, new city, new (old) country. New friends, new baby, and for Will, a new
job that is poised to swallow him whole if he lets it. Not to mention we did a different version of
all those new things not two years beforehand when we moved from California to
Germany. Will and I have grown up
immeasurably in the last few years, and we’re solid. We’re solid but we’ve got little or nothing
left for “us,” which neither of us spend much time complaining about, but it
still takes its toll. In the past few
weeks, Eli has nearly stopped napping, stricken apparently with late-onset
colic (that’s not a thing, but it feels like a thing), spending much of the day
screaming. And my reaction has been less
than exemplary. Lately, we’ve decided
that two kids is all we’re going to have, which makes sense, and on almost
every level it feels like (these) two kids are all I am equipped to deal
with. Except the level that that is
heartbroken at the thought of never holding a new baby in my arms. Maybe it’s the confluence of events today,
from winter solstice, Eli’s 6 month birthday, to the not surprising (but still
somewhat relieving) non-happening of the Mayan foretold apocalypse, but my
heart feels heavy and so full.
I was going to write about how I worked out in loafers this
morning because I forgot to wear sneakers to the gym. That would’ve been a funnier and more chipper
story. I looked like a fool, for the
record. I’m talking blue denim loafers,
which already verges on silly without pretending they’re appropriate for an
elliptical machine. Alas.
None of this is not to say that I think complaints and
laments are good to dwell on. Indeed,
they are nothing less than toxic. But to
deny the feelings as they arise? That’s
not good. The whole “two arrows bit” –
pain is not avoidable; but suffering is.
For me, pushing down the pain I feel from an objectively simple but
subjectively challenging and wearing life always comes back up as
suffering. The pain from when my nerves
are shot from my son screaming for hours on end, unable or unwilling to get the
sleep he so apparently needs. Or the
pain of losing my temper at my daughter for the umpteenth time, and seeing her
wince at the sound of my loud, shrill voice.
It’s a tricky line to walk: openness and release versus glum self-pity. And rarely can I come to any internal
consensus on which side I’m on. But I’m
trying.
It is crystal clear at times, though, that I let suffering
get the best of me. And because I’m
working on “it,” because I am trying, the person who manifests during those
times no longer feels like me. And that
seems like a step. Where I’ve not been
able to get yet, however, is the presence of mind to talk this being when she
is stomping around, sniping at her husband, being dismissive of her children,
and generally stewing in problems colored heavily by theatrics and
self-martyrdom. I go quiet and let her
run the show. And I know that in order
to get further, I need to give myself some space to feel lousy, sad,
overwhelmed without a voice judging me for my pettiness. Because that voice? The one that says “BUT
YOU SHOULD BE GRATEFUL!” All that
voice really wants is a whole lot more darkness.
Today I had the opportunity take the kids and spend a couple
hours with other moms. Women I met only
months ago, some of whom have become absolute pillars to me. These are people who make you understand how
villages raise a child. It’s not about
cooperative preschooling, or tag-teaming diaper changes. It’s about culling the strength of many so
that when one of us wanes, there is still enough to go around. On days, like today – and a lot of days
lately, it is a place for me to speak about my pain and watch much of it
evaporate after a sincere “Oh, I’m sorry.
That sounds terrible.” When the
baby who I don’t have patience for at the moment gets cuddled by a friend,
giving me the space to go and take a precious moment with my older child and
feel my cup get fuller. Getting out and
seeing people during dark moments, for me, is real progress. I am tremendously grateful to them, and, as
hard as it is to say because it is against such deeply ingrained habits to be
kind to myself whatsoever, I am proud of me, too.
I don’t like to get this lofty on paper. It makes me feel like a fraud. I do not believe myself an expert on
anything, let alone contentment. But as
this year comes to an end and in the midst of a dark time on which we all work
hard to shed our (twinkling) lights, I guess I just had some thoughts on it
all. So, the good can’t cancel out the bad.
Expecting it to and bullying yourself over the inevitable failing makes
one’s load that much heavier.
Thank you to my friends, my family, my amazing, loving,
devoted, forgetful, over-worked, and determined husband, to the best teachers a
mom could ever ask for: my (im)perfect children, and even … thank you to me. Here’s to room to cry or laugh, to release of
both, and to the true gratitude that can finally settle in once we let go.
Thanks for the gifts and lessons, 2012! I am hoping to get at least a couple good
nights of sleep before we start in on all that 2013 will bring.
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You are awesome, Rachael!
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