Conflict Acceptance

Oh, to land this gently during conflict, without sending petals dropping to the ground but yet having spoken my heart.

I’m a bit conflict-avoidant. Not avoidant of what I perceive as low-risk conflict. I rather enjoy debates about a host of issues and semantic questions. That’s mental stimulation that keeps me thinking and searching for more information while honing my argumentative skills. Not the hostile kind of argument. The persuasive sort requiring a blend of quick wit, precise vocabulary, and the ability to reason. Ethos, logos, and pathos. Those are the conflicts that feed by brain, hone my debate skills, and stir my blood.

I don’t like the kind of conflict that makes me sweat, my heart race, and my stomach to flip. I doubt many people do, although I understand that some people like adrenaline rushes, like the kind that come from bungee jumping or climbing to the top of the monkey bars. Those rushes just make me feel sick. It’s not just the physiological effects of conflict bother me. It scares me and just doesn’t fit well with my general tendency to want people not to hate me or just not to talk about me with nasty words behind my back. Cowardly? Maybe.

But conflict happens. Sometimes it’s heat-of-the-moment conflict, the kind more likely to occur with the ones you love the most. In the perceived safety of family, it’s easy to behave badly. I know. I’ve done it. Today. And earlier this week. Other times, it’s conflict with a bit more distance, the kind that occurs over the meeting table at work or church or in an online discussion with friends or acquaintances.  It’s reasonable and even preferable to avoid the low-stakes squabbles that can open rifts in these communities or our own homes. But sometimes, introducing conflict — or even potential conflict — is necessary for growth, change, and even deeper love.

In my over forty years on this journey of life, I’ve been in conflict with more people than I care to count. Too many times, the conflict was a waste of emotion and time while being damaging to the relationship and to myself. Too often I’ve sacrificed my principles in the heat of a conflict-turned-argument (and not the fun kind). In no particular order, I’ve misassigned blame, name-called, brought up old wrongs,  argued from misunderstanding another, and committed a thousand other disagreement sins. Oh, I can go on and on and on… And every time — every single time — the process shreds me. The adrenaline that carried me through my diatribe leaves me sick and sad, shameful of my loss of control and ready to slink under a rock.

I do get it right sometimes. Most of the time, I can raise my concerns in a peaceful, productive way. I tend to forget about these non-events where I say what I need to say in a way that respects the other’s dignity and worth since they don’t leave me either giddy with success nor depleted and sick of my own voice. But they happen. And that’s where I’m stuck. Why does it work so well sometimes, my ability to enter conflict — or perceived conflict? Why other times does it utterly fail?

A recent explosion at someone I love set me thinking about this. Or more precisely, our conversation after my return to sanity set me thinking. It’s far to easy for me to ignore the build up to serious conflict. While I’m generally fairly emotionally attuned to others, I’m not always so attuned with my own heart. Conflict bothers me. Perceived conflict, genuine conflict, the idea of conflict. It all undoes me. So I’ve become pretty skilled at denying I’m starting to feel it. That works at times. Most differences, after all, don’t matter and don’t really need mentioning.

At some points, though, in some circumstances, it rushes up though, unbidden and unwelcome, surprising me and, likely, whomever is suddenly in the role of opponent. And I’m off. Now, this only happens with those to whom are closest to me, the very people I want least to be in conflict with. And that’s likely the key. I’d rather pass off those first nudges of irritation as misplaced since, after all, this is someone I love. How could I be irritated? Or more to the point, how could I ever tell them that I’m irritated?

When I explode at my children — the very people whom I love the most — it sometimes is borne out of this lack of awareness. More often, it’s borne out of fear. These are the beings whom I brought into the world, and they are my responsibility. While I’m not vain enough to think how they turn out is under my control, I’m also aware that what happens as they grow has at least something to do with how they are raised, and I’m the one doing the bulk of the raising. And educating. That all weighs heavily on my shoulders, especially as my older reaches for 16. What if I’ve done it wrong? How many poor choices did I make? Why didn’t I do this…or not do that? And in that questioning whirling upstairs, something small can suddenly seem very big. Fear over the future and my own competence can make a normal tween or teen issue loom large. Kaboom.

If awareness if the first step, I’ve been standing on it firmly for a while. The next is increasing my awareness of that building of tension, the feeling I push down because it isn’t an “appropriate” feeling. My dear friend reminds me that, in any relationship, conflict is inevitable. We are just simply too different from each other to avoid it. Well, that blows my first choice — just ignoring those differences or trying to accommodate them all on my own. It seems a wiser path would be acknowledging those issues earlier. Rats.

Despite my disappointment about the inevitability of conflict between humans with differing minds and hearts, I know he’s right. Even when I don’t enter a conflict, I’m dragged down by the unpleasant sensation of feeling upset about a situation while feeling that I’m a rat of a friend/coworker/relative for just having the feeling. While I’m often called assertive, I find it hard to be so in these close situations, at least when I feel out of sorts about something between me and the other. I’ve committed to trying, and while its unlikely anyone will burst into flames if I raise a small concern, the whole idea of disagreeing about something personal that matters brings a sheen to my forehead.

And so I’ll try. I doubt I’m alone in my desire to avoid gut-wrenching (or just briefly awkward) conflict, and I’d love to hear with others about how they manage this with aplomb and peace, or just without wanting take to bed. And if you’re avoiding and exploding too, share that. I’d like to know I’m not alone in that less-than-healthy trend. And if we disagree? Hey, I hear that’s just what happens sometimes. I’m sure we can handle it.

Namaste

Love, Laws, and Sex

For more information about marriage equality, visit The Human Rights Campaign.

While the Supreme Court of the United States ponders questions about marriage equality, human rights, and states’ rights, I’ve been thinking about love. For those who support the right of two consenting adults to choose to marry, the question is fundamentally, after all, about love. It’s about the freedom to love whom we were wired to love and to covenant with that person. Yes, it’s also about the receiving all the privileges and accepting all the responsibilities that accompany that covenant. It’s about that covenant being seen as equal in the eyes of the government, regardless of the make-up of the 23rd set of chromosomes each person brings. But when it comes down to it, marriage is about love.

And that’s why I’m flummoxed. While my first thoughts about love revolve around family and those whom are dearest to me, my next ones, thanks to my upbringing and positive church experiences, turn to religion. God, it is said, is love. Jesus spoke of love throughout the Gospels. While I’ve lost in faith in God and in the divinity of Jesus, I’ve retained a respect for love — a reverence for the power of love, in fact — and a soft spot for the teachings attributed to the historical Jesus.

News flash. There’s no place in those Gospels where Jesus says anything negative about gays or lesbians. Nothing. Nada. Jesus does say plenty about love: Love your neighbor as yourself, love one another, and so on. He stands by the outcasts of the turn-of-that ancient-millenium society — lepers, prostitutes, the poor, and plenty of other regular folks. He encourages compassion, love’s active sidekick, to just about everyone, regardless of social position, life choices, or circumstance. We simply never hear about the homosexuals, possibly suggesting either they just weren’t the top of the outcast hit parade or at least that they didn’t make the cut when the Gospels were written. In short, it doesn’t seem that’s what was terribly important to Jesus or at least to those who wrote about Jesus decades and centuries later.

So why, tell me why, do some Christians –not all — not nearly — froth at the mouth at the thought of marriage between same-sex partners? As I’ve wandered the web today, I’m distressed by the vitriol by the Religious Right, both Protestant and Catholic. Reading through articles calling the equality sign above “The Sign of the Beast” and extolling teens that God “loves the person but hates the sin (of homosexual sex).” It turns out, at least in the eyes of those social conservatives, marriage isn’t really about two people committing to each other, either in a religious community or a secular ceremony, with the rights and protections that affords. It’s not even about love.

It’s about sex.

Isn’t it always? The funny thing is, most of heterosexual marriage isn’t about sex, so I’m not sure how it manages to be for homosexuals. Sure, both parties able and willing, sex is present in marriages. It can be an exceptionally good part of marriage, although it can get a short shrift when life gets busy.  And, if children are desired, the procreative end of sex is one way to bring them into the family.   But most of marriage, most of the time, isn’t about sex. Now, I’m divorced, so maybe I was doing something wrong during those 14 years of marriage, completely missing something, but I doubt it.

Much of marriage is about partnership. We generally marry to partner, to share our lives with someone we love and with whom we share values, desires, and maybe a few dreams. If we’re pragmatic about it, we may consider our future partner’s goals and approach to hard times as well as the legal benefits such union afford. Heck, we may look at credit ratings. But primarily, we marry because we love someone. We love so deeply and completely that we covenant with one another in the presence of others and share that commitment publicly.

Can that all be done outside of marriage? Sure, but in the eyes of the law, it’s not nearly the same. Those legal benefits of union – over 1,000 on the federal level – aren’t small details. Those benefits may include partner access to employer-provided medical insurance, tax benefits (or liabilities), exemptions from estate and gift taxes upon the death of a spouse, social security benefits for a surviving spouse, the ability of a partner to take family leave when the other is ill, visiting rights at hospitals, decreased costs on auto and housing insurance, and even child support should divorce occur. Yes, there are legal means to set up some of those outside of marriage, but many of those benefits only are realized for those in a federal government sanctioned marriage.

So let me get this right. As a nation, we’re denying same-sex partners a host of legal protections, many which better a family’s ability to care for those within it, even if a marriage is dissolved, because some of us are focused on sex? I’m not naive. I know religion is behind this as well. Not the religion I grew up with, one focused on love and social justice. This one is based on judgement and rules. Many people marry within a church because their belief system supports or even demands that way of partnering (and that’s often about sex and when to have it, too). Over eighteen years ago, I married in the Catholic Church, with marriage as sacrament as well as a legal contract. I married because I loved my then-fiance and wanted to partner with him. I then realized, in material terms, the benefits that people with the right to marry take for granted, building an appreciation for the legal end of marriage as soon as our first joint tax return occurred and when we discovered my company offered far better health insurance than his.

But love and legal arguments don’t work if you’re wrapped up in what happens in the bedroom some nights a week (more or less – no judgement here). In discussions with the religious right, it comes down to sex rather than love and stability.  And I don’t understand this. Jesus doesn’t have too much to say about sex, aside from some lines about adultery and lust. He never mentions the details, nor does he say that partners must be male and female. Jesus leaves out a host of details about other issues of life, such as dietary restrictions, fabric content of clothing, and menstrual regulations. I’m still stymied.

Love. Laws. Sex. Let’s embrace the first, allowing two people, DNA aside, enter the covenant of marriage. Let’s make the second equal across all consenting couples, regardless of race, religion, gender, ethnicity, or shoe size. And as for the third? It’s not really my business, is it? Let’s keep it that way.

On Being a Compassionate People

A few weeks back, my younger son was having a hard time. He was anxious for reasons he couldn’t entirely identify, and when anxious, he acts irritable and stubborn with frequent outbursts. I know this about him. I have known if for years. I know that under that prickly, grouchy exterior is a kid who is worried, scared, and simply out of sorts. But two weeks back, as he became more prickly and grouchy, I responded with stubborn adherence to rules and withdrawal of computer privileges. Not surprisingly, this increased his anxiety, making him more prickly and grouchy. I suppose on some level I knew he was in distress, that he was worried or concerned about something, but I was focused on only my desire to have less opposition and conflict in the house and more sense of  control over the workings of our family.

In short, I felt his distress but overrode it with my own discomfort. Yes, I eventually broke through that override and comforted my son, working with him to find the source of his distress, the very process of which brought his anxiety down several notches. It was then that I expressed what Merriam-Webster calls compassion: Sympathetic consciousness of other’s distress together with a desire to alleviate it.

As humans, we are at out best when we are compassionate. Compassion occurs when we recognize and then respond to our shared situation of being human, namely being prone to suffering. We all suffer. We all watch others suffer. And, like it or not, we all contribute to the suffering of others. When my son was lashing out and melting down because he was suffering, I added to his suffering initially out of lack of awareness followed by a desire to maintain control of the status quo.  I didn’t act with malice. But I added to his suffering by reacting to his behavior without thought the cause. When I found compassion, his suffering decreased simply by the acting on my desire to alleviate his suffering. He knows as well as I that I can’t rid him of his anxiety, and yet knowing I would want to makes a difference.

I belong to a faith tradition that operates from a place of compassion. According to our second principle, Unitarian Universalists affirm and promote “justice, equity, and compassion in human relationships.” Compassionate people are whom we proclaim to be. Not compassionate to just some. To everyone.

Compassion can come easily. It is easy feel compassion for the injured child, the oppressed worker, and the abused woman. We generally express this compassion at a distance, with words, signatures, and financial contributions, hopefully also finding opportunities to work with our hands to ameliorate some of the suffering this world metes on its weakest and most disadvantaged. This is, however, the easy sort of compassion. While the world’s problems can bring us to despair, question the purpose of our lives, they can also bring us to our compassionate selves.

Compassion finds its voice in the UUA-sponsored Standing on the Side of Love campaign, “an interfaith public advocacy campaign that seeks to harness love’s power to stop oppression”. “Standing on the Side of Compassion” doesn’t roll of the tongue so easily, but the sentiment is the same. This organization advocates for those who are suffering at the hands of others for simply being themselves, whether GBLT, immigrants, or the otherwise oppressed. Immigrate rights and GBLT rights are close to the hearts of many Unitarian Universalists, receiving time from the pulpit, discussion from pews, and action from congregations. This sort of organized compassion also comes fairly easily, with these issues resonating with UUs, since they speak to fundamental equity principles we as those of a liberal religion find compelling, important, and immediate. In short, we see them and feel them and feel for those oppressed.

Compassion is harder when it’s more personal, especially when we feel injustice has been done to us. When we feel a sense of being the victim, we’re apt to struggle with the very human responses of anger, hurt, and even vengeance. To some degree, this is what I experienced with my son. It was easy to take his irritability and stubbornness as intentional actions to subvert my authority as the adult of the house. It was easy to forget that, like all of us, he wants to be good, to do right, and to be thought well of. Behaviors come from somewhere, and objectionable behaviors are no exception. Few people desire to be mean, thoughtless, hurtful, careless, or just annoying.  We do, however, become just that when we’re afraid, tired, overwhelmed, or simply because we’ve always done them and don’t know how to do otherwise.  All of us fall into that. It’s human

So back to compassion with those who sit closest to us, those in our homes and most imitate communities — our families, our workplaces, our churches, and our friendship circles. If these behaviors that look so intentional and therefore, well, mean and hateful, really come from fear, fatigue, and full plates, then what we are seeing in “bad behavior” is someone suffering. And the recognition of suffering calls for the desire to alleviate (and often first to understand the cause of) that suffering.  Therefore, we’re called to compassion in the face of bad behavior.

This is hard. Hurts can run deep if not addressed swiftly, and it can be hard to feel compassion for the person who seems to wrong you over and over. Towards its end, my marriage suffered, among other ailments, a loss of compassion. I imagine that’s true of many ended love relationships, although I don’t think it is a mandatory part of the finale. I’d like to have been able, during those failing years, to have been more compassionate to my now-ex-husband. Not because it would have saved the marriage but simply because I’d likely alleviated some of both of our suffering.

Holding grudges and refusing to look at the causes behind a person’s suffering cause more suffering. When we deny the suffering of others, we deny the other the chance to be seen as simply a fallible human. When we compound that suffering with our actions, often on the grounds that they’ve wrongs us so we can wrong them, we increase the suffering for all parties. When I’m looking at suffering with a sneer and a swear, I suffer, too. I lose some of the tender part of humanity that accepts that none of us behave perfectly. I gain a gritty, tough exterior that places more distance between me and the other person, thus dampening my ability to see the person as a suffering human.

Being compassionate doesn’t mean being a marshmallow or doormat. It doesn’t mean allowing injustice to continue or wrongs to go unanswered. My compassionate response to my son’s underlying compassion didn’t reverse the consequence we have for tantrums, but it did make it less likely that the next tantrum would come, simply because the true cause — his suffering – was somewhat reduced simply by my caring. No, in the adult world it isn’t all that easy. Sometimes, as in my marriage, divorce is the most compassionate answer. Often, it means having challenging conversations and risking feeling uncomfortable and vulnerable. Consequences can come along with compassion, but we must take great care to let the compassion lead us to those consequences, with our eyes wide open to the process by which we hand down those consequences.

My younger son’s anxiety has lessened as of late. It’s not gone, but he is more comfortable.  During our rediscovered peace, I’m better able to listen to his words and actions, noting when the anxiety rises a bit. Knowing I’m attuned, he’s better able to check himself and ask for assistance, knowing a compassionate response complete with hugs, advice, and sometimes firm reminders are available from someone who understands that he, like all humans, suffers and who wants to reduce just a bit of his suffering.  And, perhaps not surprisingly, he’s acting more compassionate himself.

Christmas Presence

The holidays surround me. No, the tree isn’t up. Holiday cards aren’t coming or going. No candles grace the table, neither Advent nor Hanukkah, although one season has begun and the other approaches in a few days.  Only older son’s efforts give physical evidence of the season, with lights hanging in most of the first floor, paper snowflakes filling the dining area, and paper chains wrapping the crown molding.  And I have been doing a bit of shopping, making my closet an off-limits place.

Physical manifestations or not, once December begins, I start to think. For years, I wondered just what I believed. Was Jesus the son of God? Was he a historical figure who led a movement of compassion and social justice? Was he an idealized conglomeration of social actors in his time? I don’t know. Jesus — divine, human, or mythological – has a powerful message that resonates today as well as it did two thousand years back. Belief aside, that message continues to impact the thoughts and actions of many. I suppose that’s worth a celebration.

With the theological questions put aside, this year I’ve found my thoughts drifting backwards through the last fifteen years. My older son’s first Christmas at seven months of age was a commercial delight. As the first grandchild on both sides, he was celebrated in full retail fashion. I can’t recall what his father and I bought him, but I remain amazed at the appallingly large pile of presents from grandparents for a child who didn’t care about anything more than paper to crinkle and lights to watch. What I do remember, thanks in part to video watched countless times, is that child a week later, pulling up on every piece of furniture, laughing while the Barenaked Ladies sang “If I Had a Million Dollars” while his father popped out from behind the ottoman. That first Christmas with him was love and promise incarnate. He was the best gift I’d ever received.

As my older grew, so did his appreciation of the holiday. The second year, it was all about the lights. “Ights, ights! Pitty ights!” came the cry from the backseat as we drove our toddler through the Hines Drive Light Show on a snowy December evening. His face beamed with excitement — all those lights, those pretty lights seemed to be in place just for him. For the first time, we started taking detours from trips after dark, seeking out the “pitty ights,” a habit persisting for years to come.

A year later, the lights still delighted, but presents had gained more attention, although one or two would still have done. That Christmas was the first that kept his father and I up late as we arranged and rearranged wooden train track on a board, carefully figuring how to make the most of the space. I’m not sure who was most excited as his Dad and I carried the display into the living room at the end of a long round of present opening. We all had a fine time for years to come, designing track and running trains. Gifts of tunnels and bridges with plenty of new engines were under the tree each season.

A year later, I was pregnant with my younger and feeling rather queasy as we travelled to Wisconsin to spend the season with my mother. The night of December 24th, the day after we arrived, my critically ill stepfather died, having smiled his last smile at my older and knowing that another grandchild was on the way, his fourth. It was a solemn season, with Christmas Day plans unchanged only because of my older’s presence. Again, he was our present, our life in the midst of death. Our family was a gift to my mother, who would from then on travel to Michigan for the season instead of staying home.

The next year, my younger joined us. Less outgoing than his (introverted) brother, he spend the jangly, crowded season’s celebrations in a sling or at my breast. Comfort often eluded him, and the busy gatherings that fill this time of year often still bring him stress mixed in with the pleasure. While little else from that holiday season comes to mind, I can still feel the weight of his body in that sling and the rocking and patting that was part of the ritual that kept him somewhat together. My older son enjoyed the noise and crowd while my younger and I often retreated into quieter spots.

The years blur after that. Children grew. Toys and books multiplied, an embarrassment of plastic, wood, and paper filled the living room on Christmas morning. Even after we left the Catholic and then the Episcopal church, the Advent candles remained, joined by Hanukkah candles and traditions when my mother converted to Judaism. Fatigued by the present deluge, we put the reigns on at home, following the adage, “Something you want, something you need, something to wear, something to read.” Other traditions remained unchanged from my childhood — stockings first, coffee cake second, presents (taking turns) followed. A real tree replaced the artificial one, and one parent on Christmas morning replaced two. My mother continued to visit.

I’m not sure why Christmas past is so present this year. Perhaps once the tree is up and decorated, my mind will stay put in Christmas 2012. As the boys grow older, their excitement softens into enthusiasm. While this makes the waiting for Christmas morning easier, it reminds me that more changes are coming. Requests for gifts have changed, with my older’s list including a solid state drive, a mechanical keyboard, and a long list of computer related paraphernalia. His brother’s list remains more comforting — historical costumes and books still have a place among the tech accessories. I find myself missing pouring over train track adaptors and roundhouses.

My relationship with the holiday remains uneasy. It’s mine to celebrate by tradition alone, and I can’t shed the sense of a season stolen, now that my faith is gone. Perhaps that tradition is enough, as long as within it we continue to look beyond the lights, presents, and  coffee cake to the reminder that loving each other is humanity at its best.

May your holiday season be filled with love and peace.

Here’s the collection of past musings on the season, a chronicle of belief changed and the struggle the holidays presented.

• Holy Days (2009)
• It Takes a Year or Two (2009)
• ‘Tis the Season (2010)
• No Santa, Baby (2011)

 

 

Institutional Thoughts: Musings on Marriage

I’ve been contemplating marriage. Not actually getting married, mind you, since that’s just not on the radar. But since my divorce, I’ve thought about marriage: what it means, whether I’d enter one again, and why I feel so conflicted about it.

So why write about it now?  A good friend recently remarried. She’s utterly, completely in love. Both that love and the service were lovely to witness. Her wedding was the first I’ve attended since my separation (4.5 years ago) and divorce (3 years ago), and the months before it and the actual event brought me to wonder a bit more about marriage and whether I’d ever enter one again. I was surprised at how much my friend’s wedding caused my mind to tumble.

I was married fifteen years, spanning from the too-young twenty-five to a far-more-mature forty.  Some of those years were happy. Some were not.  I entered that marriage with the hope and confidence that typifies youth. When it finally ended, I walked away from the courtroom with sadness at what could not be and relief that what was had finally ended, I was also older and wiser and somewhat jaded. I left wondering about trust, lasting love, the fallibility of humans, the messes that result when our loving selves get lost to fear, and whether I could ever risk my heart again.

Sure, I’ve pondered the what ifs. What if I’d waited until I was older? What if I’d not seen marriage as bridge to be crossed to the world of adulthood? What if I’d entered it more certain of myself and with some years living alone (and not college-dorm-room alone)? But during that wondering, I’ve never desired to turn back the clock. That marriage brought me my children, after all. Beyond that, it was during the worst parts of that marriage and the time that came after that I learned about me and how my head works. I learned how much strength I had and what I truly valued. I learned I could go through what was unthinkable (divorce) and come out, well, better.

So with those positive outcomes from my first marriage’s end, why the sour expression when thinking about ever entering it again? The trite answer would be along the lines of “once burned, twice shy,” but that really doesn’t touch the tender heart of the issue. It’s not because I don’t trust men or because I wonder about my ability to judge character and suitability. It’s not because I’m waiting for marriage equity — when all are free to marry then I would partake. And it’s not because I’m a commitment phobe or prefer to live alone. (Or at least as the only adult in the house, although that does have some advantages. The empty side of the bed holds plenty of books and my iPad.)

Some of it is a bit of cynicism. Marriage, Catholic marriage as sacrament with plenty of forethought and a bit of counseling, didn’t safe-guard my relationship with my then-husband. The words said that day, the paper signed, turned out to be just words and paper. Human frailty set us asunder, and an expensive legal system undid the paper end. Now, as the child of divorced parents, I wasn’t naive enough to think that words, a priest, and a signature would guarantee happily ever after, but I did think that the intention that went into those words and those signatures would persist through the hard times. But for a myriad of reasons, sometimes that isn’t so. And sometimes, it’s better that way.

But as my father says, all marriages end. Whether by divorce or death, this human construct consummates in separation. And, generally, a fair amount of sadness, at least. I’ve led a fairly easy life, void of death of those close to me and blissfully full of an abundance of friends, food, and good fortune. Those years before and during the end of my marriage were miserable, frightening, painfully sad ones. The sense of loss was only buffered by the presence of my children and the intervention of friends, and the hurt the former suffered created a pain in me I’d never known before and hope to never know again.

But back to marriage. Our culture holds high expectations for a spouse: lover, best friend, housemate, nurse, cook, cleaning crew, parenting partner, confidant, and more. It’s a tall order. Marriage is no longer simply a pairing based on logical arrangements and tangible benefits to a family. I’m not advocating the return to the purely utilitarian marriage, although there are days that my first criteria for a partner would be a willingness to clean the insect carcasses out of the porch light and a dedication to shower cleaning. I’m just wondering what the right balance of expectations looks like.

Truth be told, I’d like to partner again, even if that person didn’t clean bugs out of lights or scrub showers more often than I. My father often reminds me that we’re social animals, and the desire to pair extends beyond the biological end of procreation. (And there will be no more of that, mind you!)

Our culture seems to carry conflicting messages about partnering. On the one hand, it tells us that pairing is essential. Consider the number of articles on and off-line about how to find and keep a partner. Look at movies and TV, many which focus on partner acquisition even while hunting down the bad guy. Find someone who “completes” you, who is your soulmate, and all will be well. Being alone? That’s a situation to be fixed, preferably as soon as possible.

Countering that is what I’ll call the “whole people are happy alone” maxim. As a society, we also value independence and the individual over the group (politics and sports aside), whether that be the group at work or the group that is a committed couple. Saying one is lonely is viewed as weakness, with admonitions to know one’s self and be comfortable in being alone. I’d wholly agree that being comfortable in time alone is part of being a healthy human. Being able to sit with the self without restlessly searching to fill the void of other indicates a level of acceptance of one’s nature and being. But one can be quite comfortable being alone and yet feel still lonely. Heck, one can be inches from one’s spouse and still feel lonely. I’ve been to both those places.

So where does that leave me with the institution that is marriage. It’s not a magic-maker nor a guarantee. It’s not the answer to loneliness or lights filled with bugs.  It isn’t a protection against pain and hardship. It is in part a piece of paper that comes with legal protections and social acceptance (and it should be open to all, regardless of the gender pairing, but that’s another essay). At its best, it should be a commitment of love, friendship, and deep compassion.

Perhaps its the pain of ending part that has me stuck.  Perhaps it’s doubt that I could do a better job at my part, despite knowing myself better and seriously working on the parts of me that did nothing to help as my marriage unwound. Perhaps a bit of it is about trust, as much as I like to think it’s not. I just don’t know. That’s not much of a conclusion, but today it’s all I have. I’m open to thoughts about marriage, good or bad. Share away.

Jane Schaberg: Friend, Teacher, and Mentor of Mentors

Jane Schaberg died this week. I didn’t take one of her classes during my years at the University of Detroit. I haven’t read her books. And yet, her life left indelible marks on mine. She was, as my mother wrote in her email to me, my mom’s “friend, teacher, and mentor of mentors.” She was part of my mother’s life throughout most of mine, thus she shaped my life as well.

Jane was a professor of Religious Studies and Women’s Studies at the University of Detroit Mercy, where she was on faculty since 1977. My mother began course work at UDM soon after, attending classes of Jane’s. Jane’s liberal feminist interpretation of the Bible and often eyebrow-raising theology opened my mother to new ways to read and understand the scripture. Many people were instrumental in my mom’s passage through UDM as graduate student then instructor, from U  of M Near Eastern Studies doctorate student and recipient, then to Edgewood College, where she served as a professor until recent retirement. Jane, however, stood out.

Jane’s teachings and theology followed my mother home, and I was raised with an understanding of Jesus as a historical being and taught when quite young to read the Bible with an eye to history and a mind wide open. As Jane wrote and published her first and likely most controversial book, The Illegitimacy of Jesus: A Feminist Theological Interpretation of the Infancy Narratives, my mother listened, learned, and thought. She also passed on Jane’s research and thoughts to the family, and before I finished high school (and just a few years after joining the Catholic church myself), I was steeped in the world of biblical exegesis and non-canonical gospels. I also understood that faith could stand the scrutiny of sacred texts.

Thanks to Jane’s work and teaching, my mother passed on another research-based understanding of Jesus’s infancy narrative, one where God takes Mary as a poor woman who has been wronged — raped– and intercedes. Jesus, whether as historical or divine, was so much more to me after that point, as was God. How much more of a statement is it to take what existed — what is sometimes dirty, messy, and even inhumane — and lift it up and make it holy. This resonated far better with me than a story of virgin birth. Further home exposure and a very small amount of formal study (in a class taught by my mother) brought me more understanding about the remarkable work of literature and history the Bible is. Study of the synoptic gospels and non-canonical gospels, such as the Gospel of Thomas, brought me deeper appreciation for the remarkable book that is the Bible.

Jane touched my life via my mother in less intellectual ways as well. Jane was a dear friend to my mother, welcoming her and other students, colleagues, and friends into her home. When I was young, that home was in an ailing neighborhood of apartments near the old Tiger Stadium.  On several occasions, we trekked to Jane’s house, which was often filled with other people from the University and other parts of Jane’s life. It was in that neighborhood that I first became aware of Jane’s compassion and dedication to the poor and marginalized. It was there that she befriended, supported, and began a lifetime of care for a few of the children in need in that area. She maintained that support and care for decades, never giving up and persisting as I’d imagine Jesus would have done. She lived the Gospels which she studied.

Jane remained a friend to my mother long after my mother left Michigan to teach at Edgewood College. Jane’s teaching and passion for learning and writing about the Bible as literature and history was firmly implanted into my mother’s own teaching, writing, and study. They continued to attend conferences together, and on many of her visits back to Michigan, my mother would visit Jane or meet her for lunch. Jane lived with breast cancer for decades, and for some of these visits, she was quite tired, ill, or in obvious pain. Occasionally, I’d visit along with my mother and Jane, but generally, I was the chauffeur, either taking my mom for the visit or taking them both to a local eatery. When I was in Jane’s presence, her wisdom, kindness, and compassion always impressed me. To be in her presence was a joy.

Over the past few years, I often wondered upon each visit if it would be the last. Time after time, year after year, Jane would rebound from a relapse, sometimes appearing stronger than she had in many of the previous visits, sometimes seeming more frail than the last visit. Her life seemed precarious, and yet she seemed to live so fully, continuing to write, publish, and teach. On April 17, 2012, she could rebound no more. Her wisdom and compassion live on through decades of students, colleagues, and friends.  And if I’m any indication, she’s reached a step beyond, touching those who know those students, colleagues, and friends. Jane has certainly shaped my life, including my appreciation of Jesus, and for that I’m thankful.

Peace, Jane Schaberg. Thank you for the gifts you’ve given to me, my mom, and the world.  In the words of my mother, you were “friend, teacher, and mentor of mentors.”

 

Pondering the Patriotic

Flags over Fort Sumter

My boys and I have been travelling. We’re just home from a short week down south, splitting our time between Charleston, SC, and Savannah, GA. My younger son wanted to visit somewhere historic while my older just wanted to get away from home.  After a good deal of spirited debate, we decided to head toward some warmth and sunshine (my request).

We had a fine time, exploring the cities, visiting museums, and seeing the Atlantic Ocean (it’s a bit too cold to do more than see it). I’m not surprised it turned out this way, but a good amount of our activities revolved around war.  In Charleston, we walked through the Battery and White Point Gardens on the southern point of the peninsula that is the city. Cannon after cannon. War memorial after war memorial. The boys were delighted, especially my younger. He’s my history buff, and nothing says history to him like artifacts from wars.

One of many cannons in Charleston's battery along the water

The next day, we visited The Charleston History Museum, spending an inordinate amount of time with the exhibits on armory, the Civil War (referred to as the War Between the States on most of the signage), and one of the current special exhibits, Blasted, all about projectiles and explosives from the Civil War. Sure, they had some other fine exhibits, such as one on seasonal fashion at the turn of the 20th century and another on botanical quilts, but these didn’t pull my guys in like the ones about war. Oh, my older tried, at least a bit, to look at the others.  It was, however, a losing battle.

Fort Sumter followed the museum and was enjoyed by all of us, but of course that was all about war as well. Sure, we went down to the shore and checked out the delights low tide reveals, but war won out.  It was all entirely fascinating, although this pacifist mom can’t help but punctuate these explorations with sidebars about the concept just war, military propaganda, and the incredible amount of death all this warring creates.  The boys are used to that and able to carry on those discussions with enough interest and integrity to allow me to sleep knowing that war is no game to either of them.

A shell through a wall at Fort Sumter

Our last stop on the history tour of Charleston was Patriots Point. Patriots Point hosts a mock-up of a Vietnam support base, a Medal of Honor Museum, and USS Yorktown, an aircraft carrier built after and carrying the name of one sunk in the Battle of Midway WWII and used subsequently in the Pacific toward the end of the same war.  A submarine and destroyer were closed for renovations. We all agreed the carrier and support base were fascinating to tour. We also all agreed that a future living on an aircraft carrier didn’t agree with any of us. Whew.

Patriots Point aircraft carrier, the USS Yorktown

It was the trip to Patriots Point that took my thinking from history and war to patriotism.  Patriotism, as defined by Merriam-Webster, is “a love for or devotion to one’s country.” Just what does it mean to be patriotic? If it means hoisting a flag on particular days on the calendar or sticking “God Bless America” to the bumper of my car, I fail the test. If it means holding my country as superior in all respects, I fail again. If it means I support massive defense spending and deployment of troops around the globe to protect US “interests,” I fail a third time.

I don’t think any of that, however, is patriotism. For the past year, both my boys have been studying US history via live and online classes, readings, videos, and discussion. It’s impossible, if one is paying attention, not to marvel at our founders’ determination to make America a place of freedom. Yes, they bungled it at points (allowing slavery to continue after founding this land of freedom would top this list). No, the results weren’t perfect. But basically, the result was a system designed to adjust to a changing world and protect against tyranny. Sometimes that change is colossally slow, and rarely do we agree as a nation what “protection against tyranny” really means; an election year magnifies all our differences in these definitions.

Understanding where we’ve been and those that came before us is a step towards patriotism. Learning one’s history, warts and all, and appreciating the freedoms we have fosters a patriotism that reaches far beyond flag waving and anthem singing. One can be patriotic and recognize that, as a nation, we don’t have it all right. We can learn from nations far older than ours and even from nations that no longer exist.

I think patriotism with nationalism are often confused.  Nationalism, as defined by Merriam-Webster, is “loyalty and devotion to a nation; especially : a sense of national consciousness exalting one nation above all others and placing primary emphasis on promotion of its culture and interests as opposed to those of other nations or supranational groups.” A quick web search for “liberal patriotism” reveals that many conservatives are actually describing a feeling of nationalism when explaining why liberals aren’t patriotic.  When the definitions are scrambled, it’s no wonder liberals are tagged as not patriotic. Nationalism places a human creation over humans, and by that I can’t abide.  I’m not nationalistic. I’m for human beings, wherever they’re from, whatever flag waves over their human-created boundaries.

But perhaps I can claim patriotism. Not the kind that’s noisy or warmongering. Not the sort that invokes the divine to protect one set of humans over another. Just the kind that learns from the past, hopes for the future, and works in the present to keep this nation one of true freedom to live, love, and grow.

Peace.

Shutters on the Shed

Nope, ours aren't that reliable.

My father and stepmother live on an acre or so of land perched on top of a hill in rural Western Pennsylvania. Their home, a split entry ranch with enough room to house visiting children and accompanying grandchildren, sits at the center of their property.  Their backyard includes another set of rooms, with a deck leading to a comfortably furnished patio, followed by an expansive hallway of shady lawn leading to a fire pit.  Beyond the pit sits the shed.

Last summer, they had the house and shed painted. Painting is, of course, more than painting.  Shutters must first be removed, the surfaces cleaned, repairs made, paint finally applied, and finally shutters returned.  We’d arrived long after the project was complete, the point when one basks in the results but finds all the small things that didn’t quite turn out as hoped.  The house and shed did look attractive, and I couldn’t tell you now what the small problems were, except for one.

After the project, one of my parents asked the other about the location of the shutters for the shed.  It seemed they had not returned to their windows at the end the project. For some time, they searched for the shutters, large enough items that losing them was improbable yet that seemed to be what had happened.  The shutters were missing.

I don’t recall how long they looked or who asked the crucial question, but at some point someone asked, “Did the shed ever have shutters?”

Thought preceded the answer.  No.  It hadn’t.  The house had had shutters (and still did), but the shed had not. Pulling the shutters off from the house, seeing it shutterless for some time, then returning them to the windows emphasized their presence on the house.  It also suggested their absence on the shed, creating a memory of shutters where none had been before. My parents had lived there 25 years at this point and are certainly of sound mind. My father is a retired Biology professor; my stepmother, a retired therapist. They are well-read, intelligent people. And yet, their minds convinced them that shed had worn shutters when it clearly had not.

I have plenty of my own shutters.  There’s the simple stuff I think happened but didn’t:  the cumin I’m sure I bought at the store yet never appears on my shelf and the garden clippers I returned to the garage that I later find next to the bush I was trimming. These generally affect only me, unless I happen to hound a child about the whereabouts of the tool I misplaced.  Generally, the only consequence is that I end up annoyed with myself or cooking a different dinner than planned.

Memory is wily and not to be taken too seriously. This is hard to remember at exactly the times remembering it is most important. I find myself clinging to memories as if they were tangible, verifiable facts. While the nature of memory makes it hard to be sure when I’ve done someone wrong thanks to incorrect memories paired with a stubborn disposition, I’m sure my version of the story has been wrong plenty of times.

Many arguments with my then-husband circled around what we each held as truth.  ”You said that, I remember!” one of us would fling.  ”No!” the other would retort, “I never said anything of the sort!” What would have happened if each of us could have softened and considered that our memories may have failed us?  I doubt it would have saved our marriage, but it could have made some of it better.

Repetition aids learning.  Repeating a scenario from memory strengthens (and shapes) the learning of that version of a memory. Thus in the mind of the teller, the fish that got away gets bigger and the wrongs of another become more heinous (reconsolidation). When I wander over memories of my childhood, my marriage, even conversations I had in the past week, I wonder what is real and what is a mental mash-up of reality and distortion.

This could be deeply disturbing insight on the human mind, but I prefer to think of is as an opportunity to let go a bit of the tight grip I often hold on my version of reality. I can’t see a downside to allowing some doubt to enter my mind when I hear myself say aloud, “I remember.”  When I reflect on the malleability of memory, I’m more likely to pause before engaging in a battle of the “I said, you said” variety or even quibble with my kids about who left the front door open.  That can only serve to open me up to more possibilities than my (highly flawed) version of reality and lessen conflict with others. Not a bad way to spin quirk of our human nature.  Want a bit more peace? Take a lesson from the shutters on the shed.

For a bit more on memory:

• Memory: I Don’t Think It Means What You Think It Means. An Interview with Dan Simons
• 4 Things Most People Get Wrong About Memory

Hairy Tale

A before shot. It doesn't look much different now, aside from being a bit more even across the back.

Part I

My younger son (ten years old)  has agreed to get a haircut.  A real haircut.  By someone other than Mom. While most kids hit the barber or salon well before their child’s second decade, this cut will be the first outside our home.

Why now? His hair is hitting his shoulders, and he wants it longer.  That’s fine.  I pick my battles, and hair length, schoolwork in pyjamas, and brown rice everyday for lunch aren’t grounds for fighting.  As long as he keeps it clean (no problem) and brushed (a bit more hazardous ground), I’m fine with his blond tresses cascading down his back. But I don’t know how to cut this thick, long stuff.  I was fine when it was just below his ears, but somehow this long stuff seems to go everywhere under my scissors.  I end up hacking away, taking far more than he wants taken, and still leaving his head looking like he just removed it from a blender. Thus the need for professional intervention.

He’s a bit nervous.  I’ve reassured him that, since she’s in our hire, she’ll follow his directions.  For months (years?) he objected out of fear that any hair care professional would just take the whole of his hair off, leaving only an inch or so to protect him from the world.  He wants long hair for a few reasons:  he likes to feel it swish around him when he shakes his head, and he likes to hide behind it.  Plus, it’s just comfortable.  I agree on in part — I don’t hide behind mine, but I do like that swish.

So in few hours, we’ll head down the street to a local salon to see my stylist.  She’s been informed about his anxiety and sensory issues, and she seems quite sensitive to his concerns.  He’s cautiously optimistic, although I’d not be surprised if his courage waned as we approach the cutting hour.  We’ll see how it goes.

Part II

That was uneventful.  My younger approached the chair with his usual nonchalance.  He cooperated fully, from the water spritzing to the end-of-cut dust-off.  His hair is still long and shaggy, but just not quite so shaggy.  It’s easier to brush, which pleases him, since I insist on that daily ablution.  His facial tic of the season was in full force:  a wide, open mouth not unlike what a very large sandwich would require.  It’s been around for the past week or so, whether stressed at the moment or not, so it’s not much of an indicator of his internal milieu.  He took the trip in stride, and he’s willing to do it again.

And So What?

So why is a non-story worth a blog post?  Because a year and a half ago, this visit never would have been possible.  I’d only hesitantly suggested the expedition within the last six months, only to be shot down immediately for the first five.  Just giving him a hair cut at home was traumatic for the whole house until the past few years.  I managed with a video to distract him and a snack, both items that complicate the process almost as much as help it.  (Hint:  A snack in a baggie helps to keep the hair out of the food.)  Asking a child to look down so you can properly assess the length in the back is just more torturous if it means you miss a moment of the Vandals, the Franks, or Saxons raiding or pillaging some unsuspecting village.

Sometimes it takes a non event like a haircut to remind me of the gains he’s made in the last year. It’s like watching your kids grow:  when you see them all the time, the growth is only apparent when they need a new pair of shoes or pants.  When we’re so close, we must measure our children’s growth by what they’ve cast aside and what new they put on.  The same holds for emotional growth. Day-to-day nearly constant contact makes it hard to see that serious change has occurred.  It often takes being with a family member or friend who sees my children less often to point out what has been so close I couldn’t see it — attainment of skills that just weren’t there at the last visit.

Over the last six months to a year, we’ve done many things I couldn’t previously imagine happily doing with my Aspie son.  We’ve been to late and loud parties, summer camp as a family, and the opera.  We’ve hosted parties for more than a single other family without meltdowns.  And now, he’s had a haircut outside of the home.  That’s a big deal for him.  That’s worth a non-story blog post.

What Do I Want for My Children?

What do I want for my children?  I think that question plagues every parent at least occasionally during child-rearing .  It certainly crosses my mind at least several dozen times a day.  Perhaps homeschooling makes that count a bit higher than average, but I doubt that number would be much different if their education wasn’t also on my plate.

So just what do I want for my children?  My standard answer is as follows:  I want my boys to be productive, contributing members of the world.  I want them to be moderately happy.  I want them to be tolerated by others of their species.  A bit low-reaching — even incomplete?  Nope.  That’s my list.  And it allows me plenty of room to love them unconditionally, correct them when they’re out of line, and teach them algebra and research paper writing.

But what about college?  Marriage and families?  Church membership?  Voting Democratic?

That all sounds fine to me, but those may not be their paths to happiness, productivity, and social acceptability.  Take happiness.  An Ivy League education won’t seal the deal for happiness any more than learning a trade or working on a ranch in Colorado.  Either way, you’re stuck with yourself, and unhappiness with yourself knows no economic, educational, or political boundaries.  Happiness won’t be found by gaining wealth, amassing friends on Facebook (really), or collecting every new electronic gizmo that comes along.  Sing it with me.  Happiness comes from within.  Misery comes from the same place.  What I want for my kids is an appropriate amount of the former, stemming from a good amount of self-knowledge tempered with love of that self, the others around them, and this universe we share.

Productivity is relative.  As an at-home, only occasionally-working-for-pay, homeschooling mom, I keep my self sane by reminding myself that all productivity isn’t tied to a paycheck or an office with a door.  Okay, I’d like to also see them in their own homes some day, although a communal farm or Buddhist monastery would fly, too.  I’d include financially independent, but who am I to say what sort of partnership them may form someday, what domestic agreements they’ll make?  It’s more than a hope for them economically.  It’s a hope for their hearts and souls.  I hope that the way they live in this world contributes goodness to it, either through their career choices or their general way of being on this planet.   I want them to add to the repair end — tikkun olam — more than the breaking end.

My line about tolerance by others is only a bit tongue in cheek.  With one child who is somewhat naturally oblivious to the habits of the humans in the world (but perfectly clear on cat social protocol), this is a serious challenge.  What passes as cute at ten (and far less does pass than it did at six) looks quirky at fifteen.  Nothing wrong with quirky — quirky works for all in this house.  But soon, ignoring the ways of the Earth’s most complicated species can make for a lonely life.  My younger’s Asperger’s makes learning the ways of the social human a fairly large, life-long project rather than a life-and-learn affair.  It takes loads of cues and commentary on what others might be thinking in a social situation.  His Asperger’s is going to stay with him, along with his green-grey eyes and love for complexity.  I’d not wish any of those to change.   Even for my neurotypical older son, getting along with others without being a sheep is a skill to learn and takes time to hone.   I’d like them to have friends as they go through life, so social awareness is part of the curriculum.

Ah, if it was that easy.  Have three simple goals.  Love my children.  Live our lives.  It’s not.  I’m pretty good at rationalizing most of the other stuff I do so it fits those goals, however.  Education tops my priority list.  Not for the sake of a particular diploma but as a path to choices.  My kids have (shifting) ideas about what they’d like to do when they’re older.  Neither mentions fast food counter work or anything requiring physical labor as goals, so we stay the course that offers the most options later on: we plan for college.  Not the stress-filled, do-it-all, kind of way to plan for college.  Not the lackadaisical, do-what-you-want way either.  We take the middle way, stressing strong reading, writing, and studying skills and enough science and math to open the doors in that direction should that be desired.

I wish just the social piece was easier.  I am not always sure when what I’m asking my younger son is for him and when it is for me.  Not the parts about not scratching certain regions in public or considering the feelings of other before making random comments that sound hilarious in his head.  I’m good with all of those, and those lessons are good for him.  Inhibiting shirt chewing (I often do) or insisting on eye contact (I try not to) are more questionable corrections.   Between the Asperger’s and, well, the being a boy thing both guys have going on, much of my girl-based social information seems suspect if not just irrelevant.  I’m best when I stick to the standards:  listen to others, chew with your mouth shut, and shower daily.

Even with the answer in place, I still ask myself — many times a day — what I want for my children.  It’s a reminder of what I hold important.  It’s a tug back to what’s truly important in their lives now and what is likely to be important later.  It holds me to those snarky, modest goals that aren’t really that modest after all.