As I Walked Out One Morning

This morning I was curled up with my coffee and cats, sifting through my emails, making a mental list of things I need to do today.  I found this anonymous comment awaiting moderation on a post I wrote nearly three years ago.  It's one of those things that makes me kind of scratch my head and say, "Huh."  It really does puzzle me.  I'm not sure if it's meant to be a personal attack from a nameless person out in the cyberworld, or if it somehow is trying to fall into the category of spiritual discipline/encouragement.  Anyhow, the nameless person clearly gave it some thought, and felt compelled to send it to me, so I will also give it some thought and share with my tiny readership for your consideration.

"I stumbled upon this particular blog post (Letter to a Friend) and must say, it was very self foucused & has a certain pathology that I find disturbing. You said "I" or "me" many times.We are to be crucified with Christ and this was just a poetic excuse to air things that didn't really talk about the redeeming work of God.Your struggle seems to be pride and jealousy. Good news is the Gospel covers these sins.Keep looking to the Lord and ask yourself, is my blogging really glorifying Christ, or is it to fuel my pride?"

I will also share one of my favorite poems, because quite honestly, I love poetry, and never think poetry (or poetic writing for that matter) needs an excuse.

As I Walked Out One Evening

W. H. Auden, 1907 - 1973

As I walked out one evening,
   Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
   Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
   I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
   ‘Love has no ending.

‘I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you
   Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
   And the salmon sing in the street,

‘I’ll love you till the ocean
   Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
   Like geese about the sky.

‘The years shall run like rabbits,
   For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
   And the first love of the world.'

But all the clocks in the city
   Began to whirr and chime:
‘O let not Time deceive you,
   You cannot conquer Time.

‘In the burrows of the Nightmare
   Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
   And coughs when you would kiss.

‘In headaches and in worry
   Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
   To-morrow or to-day.

‘Into many a green valley
   Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
   And the diver’s brilliant bow.

‘O plunge your hands in water,
   Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
   And wonder what you’ve missed.

‘The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
   The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
   A lane to the land of the dead.

‘Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
   And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
   And Jill goes down on her back.

‘O look, look in the mirror,
   O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
   Although you cannot bless.

‘O stand, stand at the window
   As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
   With your crooked heart.'

It was late, late in the evening,
   The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
   And the deep river ran on. 

 

Letter to a Friend

Dear One,

I confess, I am a poor friend.  I have not been honest with you.  I am not who you think you see.  I have worked very hard through the years, to create an impressive facade.  For this I am sorry.  By creating this facade, I have unintentionally placed undue pressure on you to focus on performance and measurable results.  For this I am also sorry.  But more than anything else, I am sorry for looking down on you, because my facade was better than yours.

I have spent years building up the image of a woman who can do anything, and who does all things well.  I sewed and crafted, cooked and baked.  I read books, and gardened, and renovated, and decorated.  I homeschooled my children and raised small livestock.  I volunteered my time and efforts in the church and in my community.  I was well spoken, and I always tried to look the part.

And then one day my house of cards came crashing down, and I realized that none of the things I could do with my hands mattered, if I was not able to hold love in my heart.  And my heart was a sieve.  I was so full of holes, that I was bleeding out.  

This realization immobilized me.  Even if I had wanted to somehow reconstruct the shattered facade, I could not have done so.  I laid in the rubble, and thought I would never sew another quilt, or frost another cupcake, or lead another Bible study for as long as I lived.  I did not care if I did.  

I cried at the strangest times.  I withheld myself from my loved ones for months, even years at a time.  Yet I would find huge tracts of sadness and bitterness flowing out of me unchecked, brought forth by the glance or word of a person that did not mean to unloose the deluge.  It was a horrible feeling to not be able to trust myself to open or close at appropriate times.

And thank God, by the grace of God, I have not come through.  Instead I have learned to live in this shattered place.  The house of cards still lays scattered about me, and that is where is belongs.  

The work of my hands, is just the work of my hands.  I love to work, and I love to love on people by working for them.  But my work is not the measure of my worth.  Neither is the reputation I gain by the quality and quantity of my work.  And that reputation was very important to me, if I was to be totally honest with myself.

In truth, I recognize that my reputation isn't worth much of anything at all, unless I am known for loving people.  Me, the broken down house-of-cards girl, loving other broken down house-of-cards people.  The only kind of people there are.

But I realized this horrible thing about myself today...this little section of stacked cards still standing.  I realized that I am looking down my nose at you, because once upon a time my card house was bigger than yours.  I still take pride that my cooking was tastier and my baking prettier.  That my quilts were more intricate and my stitches tinier.  That my home was tidier, and my children could all write an excellent persuasive essay.  That at my most proud and my most broken, I still did it better than you do.

I admit to you dear one, that I am astounded and ashamed of myself, to discover this mean little tower of cards still standing.  So that when you approach me with your cards slipping through your fingers, your heart like a sieve, feeling like you're bleeding out...we are separated.  Kept apart by that delicate little structure that makes me feel more and you feel less.

I can knock it down, and I can tell you so.  But I am so sorry I let it be there in the first place.  Please do not mistake me for anything but what I am.  A broken down house-of-cards girl, living in a shattered place.  Feel free to join me.  Don't mind the mess.

It's Complicated but I'm Easy

I was thinking today, about that great phenomenon called F*ceb**k, in which we employ all sorts of little devices to sort out the intricacies of our lives.  Like how we describe the relationships we are "in".  My most favorite descriptor is "complicated".  Not in real life of course.  I don't really enjoy complicated, because the implication is often that things are hard in a complex way.  That we fight a lot.  That we often miss the mark in this relationship, though we are not yet willing to give it up and declare ourselves single.  Not yet alone.

I was thinking of the opposite descriptor, which interestingly enough, FB does not offer as an option.  That option would be "easy".  No, stay with me here.  Really it would.

If I am sitting at the piano with a new piece before me, the teacher may warn me that it is complicated.  Tricky.  Or they may reassure me.  Don't worry, it's easy.

If I am looking at a knitting pattern, a cursory glance reveals if the pattern is complicated or easy.

Dance steps can be complicated and intricate...or basic and easy. No worries, I can't do either.

As I age, I realize that I aspire to being easy.  For so many years I have fallen into the trap of believing that easy was worthless, and complicated was more to be desired.  The harder a thing was to attain, the more worthwhile it was to fight for it.  And there are times when this is true.

But sometimes it's just selfish and stupid.  Why in the world would I ever try and make it hard for people to love me?  Why would I set up a series of obstacles, and expect them to fight their way through in order to prove something to me?  Why do I refuse help until I am bleeding out, and can't fight it any longer?

And on the flip side...why don't I just offer myself and my love freely?  Lavishly?  Expecting nothing in return?  Do I secretly fear it will be rejected as worthless, simply because it is freely given?  Why would I not fear that?  Is it not the model I have made for myself?

So many of the horribly unhealthy patterns and habits I have cultivated and clung to for a lifetime, are rooted in this lie; that the simple truth is not quite truth enough for my complicated situations.  And so I construct intricate addictions and the complex justifications they require.

But now I want to be done.  I want to be an easy old lady when I grow up, and I want to advertise it in places more public than F*ceb**k.  Because I want to be "in a relationship" with folks who are easy, and folks who are complicated.  I don't want to make them fight for anything or prove anything, but I will fight and prove for them every single day, if they need that.  And I will believe the simple truth enough for myself, and for the people who cannot believe it for themselves.  In myself, left to myself, I will never ever become that, but the God who created me to not ever be "single", alone, an island unto myself...maybe that God will help me become an easy woman.  I can only hope and pray it's possible.

Fellowship of the Broken

"Let us not underestimate how hard it is to be compassionate. Compassion is hard because it requires the inner disposition to go with others to the place where they are weak, vulnerable, lonely, and broken. But this is not our spontaneous response to suffering. What we desire most is to do away with suffering by fleeing from it or finding a quick cure for it. As busy, active, relevant ministers, we want to earn our bread by making a real contribution. This means first and foremost doing something to show that our presence makes a difference. And so we ignore our greatest gift, which is our ability to enter into solidarity with those who suffer. Those who can sit in silence with their fellowman, not knowing what to say but knowing that they should be there, can bring new life in a dying heart. Those who are not afraid to hold a hand in gratitude, to shed tears in grief and to let a sigh of distress arise straight from the heart can break through paralyzing boundaries and witness the birth of a new fellowship, the fellowship of the broken." ~Henri Nouwen

I recently encountered this quote.  I freely admit I have not read it in context.  The book that it is reported to be taken from is called The Way of the Heart, and because it is not available for Kindle, I can't get it instantly.  Poor me and my first world problems.  There it is in my shopping cart, along with a CD by Pink, and I wonder what in the world that says about the state of my mind these days.

I have been thinking about these things lately, so when I read the quote, it resonated deeply.  It said what I had already been thinking and feeling deep within myself.  It said what I have experienced to be true, on both sides of the suffering fence.  Oh no, that is so very wrong, and my language betrays it.  There is no suffering fence, and we do not find ourselves on the one side or the other.

And still I want to think of it this way.  I want to divide up neatly, those who suffer, and those who comfort.  I want clear delineation of where I sit.  And of course I would prefer not to be the one suffering.  Sign me up as the comforter.  I will earn my bread with kind wise words.  I will brainstorm possible solutions.  I will roll up my sleeves and work for change.  And by doing so, I do the very thing I hate.  I flee from suffering.  I turn my face away from it.  

In all my busy, active, relevance I throw away the greatest gift...to "enter into solidarity with those who suffer".  Because I hate it.  Solidarity with those that suffer is me.  It is knowing that suffering is the human condition; that the paralyzing boundaries of pain that cannot be smoothed away, are the lot of every man.  There is grief, and distress, and death itself, and it cannot be eradicated by the right word or the right action.

There is absolute terror in the realization that there is no quick cure...that there is no cure at all, and so we flee.  I want to learn to sit in silence, and hold hands, and shed tears.  And I so deeply crave that someone will come and do that together with me.  Because we are not sufferer and comforter, we are the fellowship of the broken.

Coffee's On

Lately I have been thinking quite a bit about generosity, and gifts, and hospitality.  They are all tied together I believe, and you would be hard pressed to find a hospitable person that didn't love to give gifts, or a generous person who wasn't thrilled to share their home and life with others.

There are things we do at certain seasons of our lives, and perhaps the ways we carry through, change and evolve as we do.  There are pastimes and relationships in my life, that have faded and disappeared over time.  Other people and passions have filled their spaces, and it has been right and natural.

But when kindness, and generosity, and gift-giving, and hospitality leave, I suppose it is right to take a hard look, and not just assume that a season has passed.

Years ago, I was gift giver.  I loved to plot, and plan, and create the perfect special gift.  And I was an impulsive gift giver as well.  I saw that someone loved something, or needed something, and I wanted to give it to them.

Our home was a hub of activity.  It was the place where the best parties were thrown, and long dinners were shared.  It was a place where the coffee pot was always on, and the door was always open.  At times we would arrive home after a day out, and find folks waiting on the porch or in the kitchen.  I have  awakened in the morning, to find the closest of friends already in my kitchen, starting the coffee or cooking breakfast.  There was nothing strange about it.  It was how we lived.

And then something changed along the way, and I have never been able to put my finger on why that was.  We moved away from close friends and family, so maybe that was the reason.  Yet that reason didn't seem to hold true, because we had always made new friends as easily as keeping up with the old ones.  We moved to camp, where our job was hospitality, so perhaps we just wanted time off the clock.  But even that didn't seem to ring true either.

Recently I realized that I had begun to give gifts again.  Small gifts, something of my own that I thought a friend would enjoy.  A book, or a movie, or a piece of jewelry.  Small gifts of time, and energy, and emotion.  

It has been in the giving, once again, that I began to sense the reason for the lack.  There are seasons of life that knock the stuffing out of you.  They leave you bereft of confidence that you have anything to give, anything any other soul would want to have.  When you are asked very specifically to give, you do.  Cheerfully and willingly, but tentatively as well.  But unless you are specifically asked, you assume that you are not wanted.  Not needed.

It becomes a way of life, an ingrained habit, of turning away and into oneself.  Just the same as there was once a habit of turning outward and toward others.  The old ways will never come back exactly the same as they were.  The same friends will never gather in those houses again.  Children who used to run and play, are now grown, some with children of their own.  We have learned new recipes, for long meals and life itself.  Still, I hope that as each day passes, all of my friends, both old and new, know that the coffee pot is on and the door is always open.

Not One Word

A couple of days ago, a friend wrote this post, and it made me tear up a little when I read it, because so much of what she was saying is so close to the surface for me these days.  Go.  Read it.  You won't be sorry you did, and this post won't make sense if you don't.

It seems like all  the cool kids who blog, have been picking words for themselves, for the new year.  Words like "brave" and "fearless" and "light".  I thought about that, and I realize that I would be more able to choose a word to describe my old year in review, than pick a word to describe what I hope my new year will be.

The thing is this.  I don't know what this year will bring, and I don't even want to pick one little word to try and steer it.  And that's not a criticism at all.  I understand being purposeful and intentional, and if having a word becomes a touchstone to spur a person on, I'm all for that.

It's just not for me, for this year.

I feel as though this blog is changing, because I am changing.  The things that used to be important to me, don't always take center stage anymore.  Things like being right, and having answers, and being able to fix things.

Where I come from, this is a spiritual issue.  Being right is the most important thing.  Having the right answers is a sacred responsibility.  Being the bearer of truth allows you to fix anything...anyone.

But what if I just said, "I don't know anymore. I used to think I had the answer to that question, but now I'm just not sure."  Does that mean I have abandoned my responsibility?

I used to think I could weaken or shake a person's faith with an answer like that.  Like their faith was dependent on something I could do or say.

I used to feel like the things I did and said were so important.  Like people were watching and taking their cues from me.  And if I missed an opportunity to speak up, and insert truth and wisdom into their lives, it would all fall back onto me.

But now I just think of how foolish that was.  How foolish is was to think that I was that important, and how foolish to feel that somehow I would be held responsible for the choices others made.

The thing is this.  All I have left now, is this sense of my heart being outside of myself, in the hands of a trusted few.  And so, when a person comes and places their heart in my hands, I am no longer struck with a sense of self-importance.  I don't want to answer their questions, or show them where they've been going at it all wrong, or fix their problems.  

I'm actually pretty certain, that a good deal of the time, I know absolutely nothing about those things.  But I do know how to listen, and love, and hope, and pray.  And I am terribly aware of what a sacred space I am standing in.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Dear friends from the adoption world, I don't post much about adoption anymore.  Life has changed, and what used to be front and center, is now a little more peripheral.  Life with my children...bio and adopted both, is now just life.  It is hectic and hard, wonderful and wearing.  Issues related to adoption still impact us tremendously, but they are less obvious.  Like a mammoth underwater structure that everything must flow around, it influences the currents of our lives, though it may not be visible at the surface.

In light of this, I have struggled recently with the thoughts in my head, uncertain where to put them.  I have questioned the wisdom of putting them here.  I have tried to steer this blog along a course that is gentle and positive.  For the most part, life is just that.  But Christmas is approaching and with it comes a flood of raw emotion that is hard to ignore.

I have always loved Christmas.  As a small child I delighted in every single part of the holiday season.  I loved the cheesy store displays, the music and decorations.  I loved the special foods, and church services, and school programs.  As soon as I was old enough to craft and create, I was busily making gifts for everyone I knew.

When I got married, I devoted huge amounts of time and energy to the Christmas season.  I cooked and baked elaborate feasts and platters of baked goods.  I decorated every nook and cranny.  I played Christmas music day and night, and never grew tired of it.  I sewed matching Christmas outfits for the children, and had them photographed.  We caroled, and sang in cantatas, and dressed up as angels and wise men.  Gifts were made and purchased, and carefully wrapped and adorned.  To me, it truly was "the most wonderful time of the year".

And now I dread Christmas.  At best, the thought of it wearies me.  At worst, it causes a sense of anxiety and panic to rise.

I have lots of friends in the adoption world, and there is something they have named a traumaversary.  Which is to say, that even if we don't mark it on the calendar, trauma marks itself on the "calendar" of us.  The mind and body somehow know that special time of year when they were thrown into chaos, and they will let us know, even if we don't register it on a cognitive level.

Several years ago, four little girls came to live with us, five days before Christmas.  It seemed so right, to get them home before the holiday, and so we pushed so hard it hurt, and we made it happen.  I still remember that first Christmas morning.  I felt shell shocked.  I had barely slept for a week, juggling the unfathomable needs of the six children and trying to prepare for a most special Christmas.

We sat together in the living room, and the contrast was stark.  Four little girls screamed and squealed as they mowed through piles of gifts, often trampling one gift to get to the next.  But so many people had lovingly contributed to making this time special for them.  There was something so magical about four little girls finding their home at Christmas.  At the same time, two little boys sat quietly and watched.  Almost no one had remembered that they were the exact same ages as the little girls, and enjoyed presents as well.

That same day I remember feeling a foreshadowing of what was to be.  As the children swam through masses of gifts, I felt the disapproval of visiting relatives watching the proceeding.  Unspoken words hung in the air, and they said, "What sort of savages are these?  They will require firm discipline."  At the same time, dozens of absent gift givers also crowded the room.  They had strong opinions as well, and mouthed the words, "If only you love them enough, they will be just fine."

For the next year we dangled from that wildly swinging pendulum of strong discipline and strong love, and like every other year, at the end of it, the holiday season came round again.  This  second Christmas came with one less little girl, and a deep deep sense of failure.  The house was scarcely decorated, with just a lighted creche in the fireplace and stockings lining the mantle.  Dinner was plain shepherd's pie made with gifted venison.  There were no visitors.  The pile of gifts surrounding the fireplace was modest.

Every child exclaimed over the perfectness of their gifts, the deliciousness of the meal, the beauty of the creche when the lights were low.  But over the quiet voices of the children, I could still hear the voices of the uninvited guests in that room.  Voices that said I had not been consistent enough in discipline, committed enough in love.  And I found that although the chaos had quieted, I still felt shell shocked.  Because the days leading up to that very special day had been fraught with every sort of crazy-making I could imagine, with the efforts of my children to destroy the very thing they so longed for and looked forward to.

The following year we finalized adoptions just before the holidays...sealed with a once in a lifetime family trip.  And so my children set about trying to destroy something even bigger than the holiday season.  They determined to destroy the bonds of family.  In an attempt to prove that nothing was forever, and most especially a family's love, they ramped up the crazy-making to unimaginable levels.  Shell shocked was the order of the day...and of the entire holiday season, and of many months to follow.

And somehow in my mind, the backdrop for all of this is sparkling lights and decked halls.  In my mind, the soundtrack for all of this is carols and Christmas movies.  The smells of ginger cookies and roasting turkey make my anxiety rise.  The thought of getting everyone dressed in holiday best and loaded into the car for the drive to Christmas Eve service, makes me want to crawl into my bed and pull the covers over my head.

Years have come and gone.  Christmas isn't the crazy-making time it once was.  It's actually pretty peaceful and pleasant for the most part.  The family has expectations of comfort and joy, and I work hard to deliver.  We all do.  But the holidays are not the same as they once were, and neither are any of us.  Life is, most days, gentle and positive, but there is still that mammoth beneath the surface, and at certain seasons it can cause ripples if one knows where and when to look.

Please Help...

I'm writing to ask for some help.  Life has been pretty hard lately.  I have been feeling pretty grim.  Acting grim too.  I've always been of a rather serious nature.  Pretty premeditated and careful.  But I used to know how to have a little fun.  These days I seem to have forgotten how.  It seems like too much work.  And then I find myself sitting in the middle of the fun thinking, "I'm not really having much fun.  What a waste of my time and energy.  I should have gone for the nap."

So I'm looking for some suggestions.  Easy fun.  Fun that requires a little bit of an investment.  Fun with others, fun all alone.  How does one do it?  And how does one stop comparing the fun to sleep?  Or falling asleep during the fun?

***In response to Queen B's comments:  That's just exactly it.  We don't have those children anymore, because they are all mostly grown now.  They will never gather to play in the back yard, or cuddle baby goats, or light saber fight.  The new children are different, and we are different.  Companionship for sure, but even that is different now.  I suppose I haven't liked that for a long, long time.  Which is probably part of the reason why I am so grim, and not so much fun.

Boundaries, shmoundaries....

Recently I've been doing a lot of reading.  Some of it has been books, read from start to finish.  But sometimes it's just me scrolling down the news feed on the old FB, and seeing a friend's status that catches my eye.  Maybe it's a link to a blog post or article, and over time you find yourself clicking your way onto some obscure rabbit trail that you never planned for.  It's how I've found some real treasure lately.

I recently read a blog post that really resonated with me.  It was about boundaries.  I haven't thought much about them lately, other than when I see my challenging children bumbling through life without them.  It's glaringly obvious when they push their way through other people's boundaries and find the person on the other side, shall we say, less than happy about it?  Or not setting them for themselves, and watching them get mashed and mangled in their relationships.

But what about me?  I just always assume I am the expert on all things.  Of course I have a complete and total understanding of healthy boundaries.  I could teach a seminar.

When I was growing up, I thought boundaries meant what stuff you can't touch.  And sometimes it does.  I thought it was the bubble of personal space we have decided is acceptable in our culture.  And sometimes it is.  But that's not all of it.  The post I read described boundaries as "a circle around yourself that brings peace to your heart and world".  As I read it, I realized that this was a foreign concept to me.  It felt selfish.  It felt too "me centered".  

But the thing is this.  The circle around myself has grown so tiny, so constricting, that it feels like a noose.  It definitely isn't bringing me peace.  In fact, I'm mad all the time.  And if I'm continuously crowded, and constricted, and angry, how can I bring peace and joy to anyone at all?  

Another brilliant thing this blog writer said was, "The thing about boundaries is that if you don’t set them in your life someone else will. It’s not their fault for pushing you, it’s yours for allowing it."  

I thought about this for awhile, and I realized something fundamental.  Teens and young adults are boundary pushers.  It is their nature to be so.  And I have six (count them) boundary pushers in my life.  No wonder I feel the way I do!  It's a wonder I haven't been smashed flat as a pancake between a couple of them.  

And so begins the summer project of redefining the boundaries.  I need to map out that circle and figure out just how big it needs to be, and what I'm keeping safe inside of it.  And if you know my temper, who I'm keeping safe outside of it.  It isn't easy for me to do.  It means figuring out what I really need, when I've been trying to survive on scraps.  It means taking time to be still, when I'm used to continual motion.  It means learning to say no, and then remaining firm when the pleading begins.

Here are some areas I need to work on:

• Over/misuse of the internet in our home
• Over/misuse of screen time (TV, movies, and computers)
• Distribution of labor (i.e.  Mom shouldn't do everything for everyone)
• Respect of my spaces/privacy
• Respect for my marriage and time with my spouse
• Guarding times for eating, sleeping, relaxing, exercising, working
• Guarding quiet, empty times within the context of a large family
• Letting go of the belief that I must fix everyone's problems and/or remove all struggle from the lives of my loved ones 
• Letting go of the belief that just because I CAN do something to fix/help, does not automatically make it the right thing to do
• Letting go of the belief that I must explain myself to anyone any time it is hinted at/requested politely/demanded

OK.  So writing these down, just makes me realize I am barely scratching the surface here.  Plus I have no practical ideas how to do some of these things.  But I do have a few concrete plans, and a few unformed thoughts.  I suspect I should be gentle, which is so foreign to this "take the bull by the horns" kind of gal.  I suspect there is no gentle way to tell teens that their internet privileges are disappearing.  Oh my word, I did not know Netflix was a constitutional right.  Or clean laundry.  Or the use of my car...

Love God, Love Others...Simple Right?

"Perfection in outward conduct consists not in extraordinary things; but in doing common things extraordinarily well.  Neglect nothing; the most trivial action may be performed to ourselves, or performed to God.  If love be in your heart, your whole life may be one continual exercise of it.  Oh, if we did but love others!  How easily the least thing, the shutting of a door gently, the walking softly, speaking low, not making a noise, the choice of a seat, so as to leave the most convenient to others, might become occasions of its exercise."  ~Mere Angelique Arnauld

When we are out among people, it is often easy to hide our true selves.  When we live together, sharing everything, it is much harder to hide.  Every day is filled with thousands of "trivial actions", and those closest to us know if we generally perform them to ourselves or to God.  Those who share our spaces, and tables, and hours know if we move quietly, speak low, choose to wait patiently for our portion, or push forward to get our share.  Those who clean up our messes know if we are attentive and grateful for their service and sacrifice.

Of course children almost never engender these qualities.  Patient instruction and growing maturity will eventually produce this fruit.  Every day gives a thousand opportunities to practice.

All of us may improve by practice, from the cradle to the grave.  All of us may influence the spirit within the home by asking ourselves "Is love in my heart?  And if love be in my heart can there be a complaint on my lips?  If love be in my heart, can I leave this mess for another tired person to clean up?  If love be in my heart, can I insistently demand what I want?"

And what if we are living elbow to elbow with a person who has not love in their heart?  What if our closest companion always pushes forward to get the best portion, and then complains loudly that it is not enough.  For this I do not have all the answers.  I know what I ought to do, but still it stings bitterly.  In theory, all that we do is performed to ourselves or to God.  In practice, that which is performed to God is frequently played out in the arena of loving others.  And "others" can be so uncooperative, so ungrateful, so unkind.  I am often crushed by hard angry heels pounding across floors, doors slammed, angry complaining voices.  I am often angered by the jostling and jockeying for position to get the largest portion, the pouting when another manages to get it instead.  I nearly always simmer when I see laziness devouring the fruit of hard work and sacrifice.  I am infuriated when laziness picks its teeth and belches, and then critiques the menu.

I have no easy answers, but I suspect it has more to do with me than my companions.  This is not the answer that I want, and so I often reject it.  I am intolerably unhappy, and still I reject it.

"It is one thing to go on the lonely way with dignified heroism, but quite another thing if the line mapped out for you by God means being a door-mat for other people's feet.  Suppose God wants to teach you to say, 'I know how to be abased'--are you ready to be offered up like that?  Are you ready to be not so much a drop in a bucket--to be so hopelessly insignificant that you are never thought of again in connection with the life you served?  Are you willing to spend and be spent; not seeking to be ministered unto, but to minister?  Some saints cannot do menial work and remain saints because it is beneath their dignity."  ~Oswald Chambers

Looking In from the Inside

Today I would like to shout it from the housetop, that I am so very grateful for the gift of friendship.  I am grateful for intimacy with a small handful of women that share life with me.  If all I had were F*ceB**k friends, I'd be in big trouble.  This is not a rant against the big FB.  Some of my dearest friends and I communicate almost exclusively through FB.  

FB is not a new concept.  Being that I am old, I do actually remember life before social networking.  I actually remember life before we all had computers in our homes.  Back in those days we talked about how everyone watched too much TV, and spent too much time talking on the phone.  Whatever happened to sitting down and playing a game...or talking to people face to face?

But back to the FB thing.  The part that isn't new, is the superficiality of so many relationships.  We might spend lots of time with a person, because we work with them or go to school with them.  We might feel like we really know them and are woven into each others' lives.  Then we change jobs or schools, and we never hear from them anymore, and we wonder about this.  

Sometimes we have friends that share some common ground with us.  Maybe we enjoy the same activities, or our kids are the same age and play together.  Then things shift, the commonality disappears, and so do our friends.

All the while we watch.  We see how people live.  We observe their relationships.  We know what kinds of stuff they have, what they do for fun, what they do for work.  We mentally construct cardboard people, living in cardboard houses, living cardboard lives, and we prop them up all over our brains.  These are our friends.

Now we do it electronically.  We watch people live their lives on the internet.  We see their funny conversations with their friends.  We look at the pictures.  We read the status updates.  Then we prop up these virtual people all over our brains.

I don't know about you, but I am not naturally a contented person.  I would often look at these images that I had constructed inside my own head, and I would be convinced that other people had it easier than I did.  I would somehow suspect that other people had more of everything, and that it came to them without the struggle that I experienced.  I believed that other people had more of everything, and that their holidays were more shiny, and their food tasted better than mine.

And as long as my relationships were superficial, I could believe this, and nurse my resentment.  Of course it all blew apart the minute I began to be intimate with anyone.  The minute I began to shred my cardboard cutout, and replace it with a flesh and blood person, was the minute I knew that they struggled just as hard as I did.

Then our family changed, and I did it all over again.  I felt isolated and alone.  I looked at the way "normal people" lived, and I longed for the days when I was "normal" too.  I resented other people because they didn't struggle with the things I did, and they didn't even know it.  They didn't know how good they had it.  I railed against God, and wondered why I had to work so hard, when other people had it so easy.

As long as I saw myself as isolated, alone, misunderstood...I felt justified in my bitterness.  Then I got me a new batch of friends.  We got down to the business of being intimate with one another, and guess what?  My life isn't so abnormal after all.  There they were.  Beautiful, smart, articulate women.  They all have lovely family photos, and more visible success than you could shake a stick at.  Looking in from the outside, I'm sure I would resent them all.  But looking in from the inside, I knew they were all fighting the same fight, nursing the same wounds, crying the same tears.  Also they're funny.  Really, really funny.

So when I am really struggling, when I feel like I can't take anymore, when I want to lay down and give up, I can remind myself of the truth.  That I am in very, very good company.  It changes everything.

The View Inside My Head

I have some advice.  When you download a free sample of a book onto your Kindle, and the sample messes with your head, you should definitely buy the full book.  So you can have your head messed with quite thoroughly.  And while you're at it, make sure you purchase the list of books the author mentions messed with their head before they wrote the book.

So I've been doing a lot of reading lately, and mostly it's making me feel edgier and more irritable.  I've felt this way for awhile, but I've had a hard time putting my finger on the cause of it.  Reading these books seems to be giving me some clarity.  Not making me feel better.

I've come to the conclusion that I have structured my life in a way that says, "Sure God.  I'm all in."  But I haven't managed to structure my heart to match.  Consequently I have a lot of tension, internally.  It tends to come out externally, and it's often not pretty.

I've further come to the conclusion that I do not need to change a ton of externals in my life.  I need to have an internal overhaul.  I'm not really sure what that looks like.  I'm not totally sure how that's done.  Organizing and changing externals has always been my strong suit.  Give me a closet that needs cleaning, or a budget that needs overhauling, and I'm off and running.  Give me a heart to change, and I'm a very slow mover.

Emotions are a biggie.  There's a lot of stuff in my life right now, that feels horrible.  Not that the life itself is horrible, or even that the emotions aren't reasonable, authentic, appropriate.  But my solution for a very long time, is to ignore the "big feelings" (as we like to say) and just get on with the work at hand.

And sometimes this works very well.  The work at hand kind of drags the emotions along like an unwilling child, and gets them to where they need to be.  Sometimes this is exactly what we need to do.

But I am utterly exhausted from dragging my unwilling self around.  My unwilling self is like a miserable toddler dangling limply from the end of my arm, and I, the Mom, suddenly realize this child needs sleep, or food, or eye contact.  I realize that the child is not just being fractious, getting in the way of my work.  The child is actually only trying to communicate their need the only way they know how.

So how does one deal with emotions that just won't be pacified?  How does one figure out what they are trying to say when they have no words?  Why are they here all of a sudden, and what am I to do with them?  Are they useful, truthful....traitorous?  I eye them suspiciously, sure they're up to no good.  Quite honestly, I don't trust them.  They've lied to me before.  They've led me down the garden path  a time or two.

But then again, they are part of our human experience, and not necessarily good or evil.  Nearly everything we experience has some bit of emotion clinging to it, from the moment we rise from our bed in the morning, to the moment we fall back into it at night.  Honestly I have emotions about my bed.  Is it wrong to feel affectionate toward a certain pair of Laura Ashley flannel sheets?

Are you waiting for me to wrap this up with some sort of conclusion that makes sense?  Something that says, "I've wrestled with this and gotten to the other side.  Now I would like to share my new found wisdom."  I'm so sorry that you have hung on so nicely, to simply find out that I am still paddling in the same circle.  Really.  The only good advice I have is in the first paragraph of this post.  But I'll be happy to give you a reading list if you're feeling bored with your life right now. 

Failed Adoptions and Clanging Cymbals

Today I was checking my personal messages, and for a moment I drifted off into territory I am trying to avoid.  This was mainly because a friend had posted a link to a story about something that resonates with me.  Something from my own personal experience.  So I granted myself permission to read the article.  It was about a failed adoption by a public figure.  I don't know the figure.  I don't know any of the details.  I just know the story because it is written into my bones.

My friend had noted that she thought the comments were scary.  And they were.  They ranged from ignorant opinion, to mean spirited judgment, to well thought out drivel from people who have nothing but the thoughts inside their own head and no experience with the topic at hand.

The thing is this:  There is nothing surprising about those comments.  They are precisely what I would expect to see.  They are precisely what I would have expected to write, if my life had not taken some of the twists it has taken.  And it is a sobering lesson to me, with my strong opinions and flapping mouth.  How many times have I opined on subjects of which I have no firsthand knowledge?  How many times have I forced my well thought out opinions on someone whose heart is breaking?  And how many times have I congratulated myself for doing my duty, being the voice of reason, providing support....when all I have been is a clanging cymbal in the ear of someone who needed quiet rest?

Lenten Update and the Perils of Red Suburbans

I'm back again, reporting on my Lenten media fast.  Not so much reporting on the mechanics of the thing, but just on how I've been feeling, and the things I think about.  Mostly I've been feeling like crap.  I'm irritable, and resentful, and horribly ungrateful.  I know my life is full of glorious things.  Instead I choose to focus on the things that irritate me.  I irritate myself.  

I'm tired all the time.  Yes, I'm physically tired, and there are perfectly reasonable reasons for that.  But I'm emotionally and spiritually tired as well.  Like a cranky overtired child, I'm writhing around fretfully, doing nothing to fix it.  I doubt I can fix it.

I have created small pockets of silence in my life with this media fast.  God whispers into those silences.  I don't always like what is being said.

I want change, but I don't want to have to do anything that will change me.  I want to lose weight, but I don't want to exercise or change any of my eating habits.  OK.  I don't technically need to lose weight.  It's an illustration.

I need a jumpstart.  I'm like my old tired Suburban standing in the driveway.  It's trying to start.  It's braying like a donkey, but in the end it just gives up.  Outside intervention is needed.  Careful coaxing will not cause the huge diesel engine to roar to life with a puff of noxious smoke.

God whispers that He is willing to jumpstart me, but unless I then drive straight to the service station for some much needed upkeep, as soon as I park, I will be dead again.  I don't want to drive to the service station.  That mechanic hates me.  He will look under the hood and find a whole host of expensive repairs that needed attention months ago.  He'll look at me with those eyes that say, "You really don't understand cars, do you?  You are killing this car."

And I really do love my Suburban.  I don't want to abuse it.  It's cavernous, and red, and loud.  It hauls my whole family, and a month's worth of groceries, and an occasional goat.

I really do love my life.  It's huge, and messy, and fun.  It holds everything I ever dreamed of having and more.  But I am killing it sometimes, by the things I do, and the things I leave undone.  It could use a jumpstart, a tuneup, some serious service.  But I get up every day, turn the key, and hope for the best.

Am I Happy?

Good golly, I did it again, just this morning.  I asked myself if I was happy.  And the first thing that came to mind was that there are a few things in my life that make me unhappy.  Umm, no.  Either I am or not.  Things (external circumstances) do not make me happy or unhappy.

There's this place I love.  They call it the happiest place on earth...and maybe it is.  For some people.  But I've seen a lot of misery there too.  I really think you carry your happy in.  If you carry in mostly miserable, it will not be any different than any other day in any other place.  If you carry in mostly happy, it will be awesome.

So yes, I am happy.  I am also tired, mildly ill, a little bit overwhelmed, a little bit discouraged.  But good golly, I am happy.

The Pursuit of Happiness (Among Other things)

A friend recently posted a link to this article over on F*acebook, and I highly recommend taking the time to read it.  It's a bit long, and has a bit of language, but still well worth your time.  I'm posting about this article here today, because it's a topic I've been ruminating on for awhile.  I've read other blog posts and articles on the subject too, but this one really does a good job of tying up all the loose ends.

The quote that resonates with me days later is this: “Happiness as a byproduct of living your life is a great thing, but happiness as a goal is a recipe for disaster.” (Barry Schwartz, a professor of social theory at Swarthmore College)  I guess I had never thought of it in exactly that way before, but it's so true, and on so many levels.

Personally I can comment on the folly of making happiness my life goal.  But isn't it what every child of trauma does?  "When I grow up I'm going to do things differently.  Then I'll be happy.  How will I do things differently?  Well, I don't know, but I'm going to be happy.  You'll see."  Happy is like a sore tooth.  Every morning you wake up and thrust your tongue into the sore spot to see how much it hurts.  All day long you poke at it and suck on it, testing to see if it's better or worse.  Every morning you wake up and poke the holes in your life to see if they still hurt, and if they do, then you know you are still not happy.  This of course makes you even more unhappy.

As a parent I can also testify to the folly of making a happy family your idol.  Mainly because it just doesn't work.  You can't make everyone happy all the time, and you'll kill yourself trying.  Or you'll make your kids happy, and feel unhappy because you rather suspect you should have made them unhappy, at least for a little while.

Another line of thought this article brings to my mind, is how this commonly accepted method of child rearing flies in the face of parenting children of trauma...forget parenting children with full blown RAD.  And most of us fall into that trap.  We go to our adoption classes and we think, "Sure things will be crazy for a little while.  But once the kids adjust a bit, I can get down to the business of being the parent I always dreamed I would be."  Never mind that it apparently screws up emotionally healthy kids.

And then we feel like failures because it's never.going.to.happen.  And we get this new, big hole to probe every morning, to inform us that we definitely aren't happy.  

The paradox in my life, is that when I stopped chasing happiness, I got happier.  When I stopped trying to make my kids happy, or even worrying about whether they were happy...well, I can't speak for their internal emotional states, but they seem reasonably contented.  The less I poke at the sore spots, the more I realize how much time I used to spend poking, and prodding, and fretting.  It's not like I've gotten numb or apathetic.  Far from it.  It's just that I've come to expect the sore spots, and perceive them as part of normal.  Pain, fatigue, frustration, anxiety...there's nothing wrong with them.  You don't ignore them, because they have their own purposes, but you don't let them rule over your life.  I'm convinced that growing up healthy means that you learn this early in life.

I was a late bloomer, but still I am blessed to stumble over the truth in my old age.  I am an old, stubborn dog learning a new trick, and that my friends, makes me happy.

I Need a Shower...Among Other things

When you have children, no matter how you "have" them, you have ideas about how it will go. Your body has ideas about how it will go. For instance, babies start sleeping more and fussing less, just as you think you are at your breaking point. Nursing hurts so, so bad...and then it hurts a little bit less, and then you can do it in your sleep. Really. Preschoolers cry about everything. Some preschoolers lose their bones when they cry (about everything), and they drop to the ground in a great boneless pile. And then one day, you realize that no one has cried for days. Weird.

When my homegrown children were small, I had a hard time taking showers. I often ate bowls of cold cereal instead of meals. When children napped, I scrambled around the house just trying to get caught up, bracing myself for when that sleepy, fussy voice would alert me to baby's wakefulness.

It wasn't that I didn't like to be clean. It wasn't that I didn't like to eat hot food. It was just that I was always on high alert, watching and listening for my child's need. If I went into the shower, I could not easily stop what I was doing for a moment, to soothe a child or avert a disaster. In fact, I might not hear that a child needed soothing, or that disaster needed averting. Similarly, a bowl or cereal can be put down and taken up again, over and over. Yes, it gets soggy, but no mommy ever died from soggy cereal.

And just when I thought I would never get a shower before four in the afternoon, or sit down to eat an attractive lunch, I began to have those things happen now and then. This is because children grow, and change, and mature. My two month old was not my two year old, was not my four year old, and so it goes.

Then I adopted traumatized children. I went back on high alert. I went back to no showers, and cereal bowls, and scrambling to get housework done when the children were asleep. I was exhausted and bleary-eyed, and chronically under the weather. Nothing about this surprised me. I had planned for it and expected it. My mommy rhythm told me this is how it would be. But then some time went by, and I began to expect the shift, where things slowly got easier. My body seemed to expect it. To be quite honest, it didn't happen for a long time. Long, long past any of my expectations, and even to this day, some of the "easier" is because I have become accustomed to the strain, and not because it has disappeared.

When we have babies, we plan for the hardship...or we do if we're wise. We set our expectations in a place that is reasonable. We cut ourselves some slack. We set up good support systems. And we know that all of it is temporary. Newborns seem like they will be tiny forever, but in the blink of a tired eye...they're off and running.

When we adopt children of trauma, we do all of these things. For a time. And then we begin to despair. We are tired and worn, and we don't know what is reasonable anymore. Temporary stretches out endlessly. Maybe we thought we had supports, and then we realized they weren't supporting us anymore. What then?

We need a Plan B, or C, or D. We need to find other parents who have been stretched beyond that which is natural. We need to have people in our lives who understand the great depth and width of our struggle. We need to love one another, and hold each other accountable, and slowly go crazy together. That is why I am going to Orlando again this year. I am going to see some incredible people I love with all my heart. And I am going to say to anyone there who will listen, "You need to get a little piece of this, and take it home with you. Keep it safe, and treasure it. It will help you to be a better wife and mommy. It will help you to be a better you."

Special K

I'm going to make a departure today, from my series on getting organized, and my usual homey posts, and talk about something dear to my heart. Our three teen girls came from foster care, in another state, which I later discovered, is a rather rare occurrence. It's not that it never happens, but I guess it doesn't happen a lot. So when you begin to inquire about adopting children from other states, often you will get a bit of resistance from the professionals, because they just aren't used to doing it. Or if they have done it, they know that it's one huge pain in the hind quarters, and they would rather not discuss it with you.

My girls were so very fortunate in some ways. More than eight years bouncing around in foster care is no picnic, but they had a handful of people that were consistently involved with them. Their GAL was with them from the time they came into care as toddlers, to this very day. She keeps in touch, sends lovely boxes of fruit during the holidays, and is rather like an extra grandma that lives far away. The adoption worker assigned to their case, also had an ongoing history with the girls. It wasn't as long as that of the GAL, but it encompassed years.

When I first began to communicate with K, via email and phone calls, I had no idea how unique she really was, consequently I did not properly appreciate her. All I knew was that I liked her. We both hailed originally from the same area, so we both kind of spoke the same language. She always seemed to be shooting straight from the hip. She never seemed to be keeping information from me. She told me stuff, even stuff I didn't necessarily want to hear. When she didn't know, she always said "I don't know! Let me see if I can find out!" and she always said it with total humility and enthusiasm. She never made me feel like she was being put upon.

After the girls were placed, and we sometimes found ourselves struggling, she always made herself available. Sometimes she could offer assistance, sometimes advice, but more often than not, she just listened and made the right sort of noises. And it kept me from jumping off a bridge. When Soapy had to leave us, I know that K grieved right along with our family, and somehow that made it easier to bear. Ironic, because I am quite sure it didn't make her life any easier.

Now K has moved up to a more administrative position, and though she is supervising our next adoption, she does not handle it directly. Sometimes I forget that we have a professional relationship, because she has become such a dear, dear friend. Once in a great while, we connect by phone, and we talk and talk, about life and the price of tea in China. I always hang up the phone with a smile on my face, and never without thanking her for being such a powerful, positive force in my life. And then I think, "Oh my gosh! What am I thinking, talking about THAT (insert random inappropriate thing) with her?! She's my adoption worker...what must she think?!" And I have a little heart attack, until I remind myself that there isn't much K hasn't seen or heard about us, at one time or another since my girls came home.

She's seen me riding high, and she's heard the ugly cry, more than a few times. I am so very blessed, because I know this is a precious rarity. Foreign adoptions often end when the child is collected, and there is no one to call ever again. Even in foster adoptions, where there are allegedly helps in place, many people find themselves leaving countless messages that go unreturned. There is no human connection, and everyone suffers. Or even worse, they fear the connection, because they have been judged and undercut by the people that should be upholding them.

Yesterday I had one of those long rambling conversations with K. I had called to check on her mailing address, because I had photos to send. But we ended up talking about the girls, the boys, her life and mine. We laughed and told silly stories, and made plans to get together when I visit other friends in her area. We talked about the upcoming adoption, not like worker and adoptive parent, but friend to friend. I complained a little, but not to her, like I expected her to fix it, but as one person who knows how this goes, to another equally frustrated person who knows how it goes. As always, I hung up the phone with a smile on my face, and a lighter step...a lighter heart. Some friends just have that effect.

The Holiday Mess

'Tis the season for many things, and from what I gather, one of those things is despairing over the chaos and mess inside one's home. I am not picking on any of my dear friends. This is a theme I hear, read, and even see commented upon in Facebook photos of Christmas carnage. I think there are several issues in play. Let me enumerate, in list form, because I loooove lists.

1. The holidays are a busy time, thus we have less time to devote to cleaning and organizing.
2. The children are everywhere, all the time.
3. We tend to have company, which also adds to the chaos.
4. There are piles of presents to and from loved ones, plus wrappings galore.
5. We also engage in other messy projects like baking, cooking, writing cards, etc. This equals projects spread about our spaces.
6. It's wintertime, which means coats and snow pants, boots and hats, mittens and scarves.
   
7. It's wintertime which means being cooped up inside four walls a lot.
8. Did I mention the kids are on vacation and are underfoot all.the.time?

This can lead to ugliness, I am here to tell you. It may mean you find yourself laying on your bed having a good cry instead of a long winter nap. It may mean you see this transformation from "carefully and lovingly chosen gifts" to "all this crap overrunning my house". It may mean you end up yelling at those children that are in the house, under your feet...did I already say this? ALL THE TIME.

Now I don't mean to gloat, because I have had my share of trials this past week (not limited to a poodle who tried to kill herself with fudge, and the resulting mess and vet bills), but I think after twenty-four years of marriage, I am finally getting the hang of this thing. My house is fairly orderly, even in the midst of the holiday hustle and bustle, and I don't feel superior. I feel relieved. The hard work and discipline is all worth it.

If you are a person who makes New Year resolutions, and sincerely means to follow through... if you are a person who chafes against the structure needed to whip your house into order, yet hates the chaos too... let me encourage you to stop rebelling against your own best interests. Button yourself down to the task of setting things in order, and discipline yourself to make new habits. Force structure upon your reluctant self. Your weary self will thank you all through the New Year.

By all means, if you are completely happy and relaxed in relative disorder, don't let me boss you around. I actually have secret envy for people who don't feel the need to alphabetize their DVDs or organize their sock drawer by style and color. I've had friends gently tell me, "They have medication for that." But when all is said and done, my sock drawer makes ME happy. I have no desire to mandate sock drawer protocol, or judge you for tossing them all in a basket, unmatched no less. It's about comfort level. And I'm hearing a lot of people saying their houses are making them very uncomfortable right now.

A lot of people look at me, and they think, "Oh well of course. You are THAT SORT of person." You know, the person who is super organized, always thinking and planning ahead, scheduling and making lists. But I wasn't always like this. It has taken years of practice, and mostly self discipline, to transform myself and my thinking. In the past I thought of myself as a creative person, thus excusing my creative "stuff" being scattered all over our living spaces. I also used this excuse to "create" during times that I should have been caring for my children, cooking meals, and generally keeping up my home. I would always, always choose a good book over my domestic duties. This was before the days of computers, with email and Facebook and blogs. Thank goodness, I might never have come up for air.

We also had young children. I homeschooled, and had school "stuff" everywhere. I crafted and sewed, and cooked and baked. We had small spaces and a small income. All of this is to say, I hear you. I hear every excuse you are spitting at the screen right now. They are all the reasons I fought getting organized myself. But in the end, it was the most gentle, kind, loving thing I have done for myself. Yes, for me. It isn't drudgery and the death of my creativity. It has been freeing, the lifting of a huge weight. I have slowly found ways to pour my creativity into the process, and I do it with my own sense of style. The careful keeping of my home and family employs all my imagination and personality. I enjoy it, and I'm not ashamed to say so... though I do get some funny looks at times.

Check back in the next few days, and I'll share a few ideas that have been extremely helpful to me. It's too big a subject to address in one post. There are great books and websites devoted to the subject. I'll be sharing the ideas that really made huge changes for me. The important thing is finding the ideas that resonate with you, and implementing them to improve the quality of your life.

Comfort in Words

There is great comfort in words, whether it be the kind words of a friend, the lyrics of a song that stay within you and resonate, or the words of an excellent story. I am a person who loves words. I would rather have a word to carry with me into the dark night, than pretty much anything else. Words are like food, and I hunger for them, and search them out like choice morsels. So often, words form a chain, from the lips of a friend, to a song we heard, to the written page... all the same necessary message.

A few years ago I decided to read Tolkien's Lord of the Rings Trilogy. I had started it several times, always stalling in the first hundred pages or so. This time I would persevere, and read the entire story. I remember reading passages, and feeling the story crawl under my skin. It describes a time, early in Frodo's journey, when he begins to realize what he has undertaken, and the horrible danger of it. It goes:

They stood for awhile silent on the hill-top, near its southward edge. In that lonely place Frodo for the first time fully realized his homelessness and danger. He wished bitterly that his fortune had left him in the quiet and beloved Shire. He stared down at the hateful Road, leading back westward--to his home. Suddenly he was aware that two black specks were moving slowly along it, going westward; and looking again he saw that three others were creeping eastward to meet them.

Those black specks were of course the black riders, out to seek his life and to end his mission. There was of course, no safe road home. The words of this passage resonated in me, at a time when I realized that I had chosen a road that was fraught with danger and difficulty. One day, like Frodo, I had found myself looking back on the road I had recently traveled, and I realized that I found the sight of that road hateful to me. I hated the road for bringing me so far from all I held dear, and familiar, and comfortable. As I gazed backward from my imaginary high ground, I saw that the road home was fraught with danger, and that going backward was no longer a safe option. I knew that my only option was to press forward, though it seemed unlikely that this option would prove safe either. In that instant, I truly did hate the road for carrying me anywhere at all, and for making me so weary and worn. Perhaps I am a bit hobbit-like at heart.

Recently I came upon a song, in a rather roundabout way. A friend posted a link to a video, that touched my heart, but also made me search for this album. I actually purchased it, something I have not done in years. When it arrived in the mail, I put it into my CD player, and lay down on the floor, and listened to the songs. I still found that I loved the original song I had first heard, and liked all of the others. But one song spoke to me at a fundamental level. It is a song called "The Long Defeat", and if I could send you to a link of it, I would. I can only find it in its entirety in one place, and it's set as background music to a home made TV show trailer, and the video really detracts from the song.

OK. I promise I'm going somewhere on this rabbit trail. I was reading the info about the song, and I saw that its title had come from a quote by Paul Farmer. In his biography written by Tracy Kidder, he is quoted as saying:

I have fought the long defeat and brought other people on to fight the long defeat, and I am not going to stop because we keep losing. Now I actually think sometimes we may win. I don't dislike victory.... You know, people from our background-- like you, like most PIH-ers (Partners In Health-ers), like me--we're used to being on a victory team, and actually what we're trying to do in PIH is to make common cause with the losers. Those are two very different things. We want to be on the winning team, but at the risk of turning our backs on the losers, no, it's not worth it. So you fight the long defeat.

It's an amazing quote really, and made me go do a little internet research about Paul Farmer. It also made me want to read the book, which I am going to try and order from the library next time I go there. But I wondered where he had come up with this vaguely familiar concept of the long defeat. There seemed to be a bit of disagreement, but I came to the conclusion that it was likely he was quoting from one of his favorite books, The Lord of the Rings. It seems that Galadriel says to the weary Frodo, "Through the ages of the world we have fought the long defeat."

For days, and weeks, the phrase "the long defeat" has echoed in my ears. What in the world is the "long defeat"? And why in the world would anyone in their right mind want to fight it? I am all for choosing the winning side and planning and working toward victory. I see almost everything as a win or a loss, and I am not accustomed to losing. I have been known to carefully weigh odds, and choose not to participate, based on the assumption that I could not win, and was therefore wasting my time.

For the last few years, I have been fighting the uphill battle, desperate to wring wins out of the excruciating effort. As time rolls on, and I am able to see the writing on the wall, I must acknowledge that I am likely fighting the "long defeat" in many areas of my life. Here are the lyrics that grab me, and wring something out of my soul:

I have joined the long defeat that falling set in motion.
All my strength and energy are raindrops in the ocean.

So conditioned for the win, to share in victors' stories,
but in the place of ambition's din, I've heard of other glories.

I pray for an idea, and a way I cannot see.
It's too heavy to carry, and impossible to leave.

I can't just fight when I think I'll win, that's the end of all belief;
and nothing has provoked it more than a possible defeat.

I pray for an idea, and a way I cannot see.
It's too heavy to carry, and impossible to leave.

We walk awhile, we sit and rest, we lay it on the altar.
I won't pretend to know what's next, but what I have I've offered.

I pray for a vision, and a way I cannot see.
It's too heavy to carry, and impossible to leave.
I pray for inspiration, and a way I cannot see.
It's too heavy to carry, and impossible to leave.

(The Long Defeat by Sara Groves)

Up to this point in my life I never really had to pray for an idea, vision, inspiration. I have always been full of ideas. Up until now, I had never found myself in the middle of the road, facing the dilemma that my burden was too heavy to carry, but too precious to abandon. I am not acquainted with "the way I cannot see". I was always too smart to choose the losing side.