The Unexpected
Yesterday I saw the bare ground where my garden was last summer for the first time; today it's covered again by at least four inches of snow, and the snow is still coming down. When I told my soon-to-be daughter, who will be moving here in less than a week, she said she couldn't believe it. Even after her visit during the coldest week of the year here, when temperatures dropped to 20 below (that's without wind chill), she has trouble imagining snow at the end fo March. Living in west central MN teaches us to expect the unexpected.
My future daughter has started acting out in preparation for her move next week. She's doing things she hasn't done for years, and she's totally aware of this and even knows the reason--she is testing me and others to make sure we will still care for her if she messes up. I had not expected the conversations we had this week, had not expected to be dealing with some old behaviors so early in the move, even though plenty of people and books warned me that foster kids tend to regress right after a move, and that it will take time to get them stabilized.
This snow feels in so many ways like a regression, too. Yesterday I stood over that bare ground and smiled, imagining the okra and tomato and pepper and squash and cucumber and herbs and eggplant that would be growing from that ground. I imagined my daughter and I working together on the garden. Two days ago I walked to school without a jacket--admittedly, I got a little chilled, but it was possible, and that was the point.
On Wednesday my friends threw an impromptu shower for me. It was spring break, and I assumed most people would be gone, but there was a good crowd, and everyone was way too generous in putting money into the "bedroom furniture" fund for my daughter. This is especially necessary because, just before her move, I had several unexpected home expenses come up--a broken water softener, a mouse problem that needed to be taken care of asap by a professional, a broken computer, and a broken dishwasher (which will likely stay broken for awhile). It seems that each time something happens that makes the prospect of caring for my daughter more challenging, people step in to help--already, and she's not even here yet.
At the shower, I was overwhelmed with gratitude and felt tears gathering in my eyes. It's not unusual for me to cry, but since the adoption journey began I have cried very little. Partly I think this is because I've been conscious of self-care, and partly because I have been in "do-mode" rather than in "feel-mode," always using what little spare time I have to do something practical related to the adoption--read about trauma or attachment, move furniture around, etc. I felt a literal circle of friends around me and realized how lucky I was to have them. I knew that I was not alone. I also knew that, at times when I felt alone, all I would have to do was to close my eyes and remember that circle of support--and then open my eyes and call one of them!
Today, thinking back on the shower and on my daughter's behavior this week, I remembered how often I, too, have regressed in my own journey for healing, and how many of the friends who surrounded me on Wednesday have weathered with me many of those ups and downs. I know I am prone to depression and self-pity. I know I am prone to being dishonest with myself. I know I have trouble with feeling overwhelmed and using procrastination as a way of continuing that feeling. I know I have trouble with caring for others at the expense of my own self-care. I know I overeat when I feel lonely or tired or overwhelmed. These are problems I've had since early childhood--they are simply a part of make-up in the same way that many of my strengths: an abilty to feel what others are feeling and the desire to reach out the hurting people, a strong sense of justice and a desire to do good in the world--are also a strong part of my make-up.
The fact is, I am always, always going to struggle with weaknesses in my character. When I was younger I think I believed that I would be able to work through and put these aspects of myself to rest as I got older. The truth is, I have grown more able to live with them and to control them as I've grown older. (Though, as a side note, I hate the world "control"--they are not so much aspects of myself that need to be "controlled" as to be understood and reframed in more positive terms--eg, I can use my own depression and self-pity as a way of noticing what is not working in my life, and I can use my overeating to notice when I need to reach out to others or to get some rest). But I've also had many periods of regression, when I haven't been able to "get a grip," when these weaknesses have been out of control and have even caused me to hurt others or myself in one way or another. But I always find my way back to a path in which I am living in self-awareness, self-acceptance, and self-love.
I need to give my daughter the tools to recognize her own weaknesses, whether they were simply a part of her make-up from birth or became a part of her make-up because of her intense suffering. I need to help her realize she can change the way she responds to stress and suffering, either past or current or future. But I also need to help her know that she will struggle for a lifetime, and that she will always have periods of regression and then more progress--and that she can't give up on continuing to grow.
The snow is a reminder of how beautiful regression can be, in some ways. When we regress, we remember what we need to do to care for ourselves (in my case, work from home today--I do, after all, finally have a working computer, and campus is closed today!--and take time to write this blog entry). We remember who we are and how far we've come and that we have what it takes to keep moving forward. We are able, in our regression, to also see our progress. If we can keep from beating ourselves up over taking two steps back, we can see with clarity how to move forward again.
My future daughter has started acting out in preparation for her move next week. She's doing things she hasn't done for years, and she's totally aware of this and even knows the reason--she is testing me and others to make sure we will still care for her if she messes up. I had not expected the conversations we had this week, had not expected to be dealing with some old behaviors so early in the move, even though plenty of people and books warned me that foster kids tend to regress right after a move, and that it will take time to get them stabilized.
This snow feels in so many ways like a regression, too. Yesterday I stood over that bare ground and smiled, imagining the okra and tomato and pepper and squash and cucumber and herbs and eggplant that would be growing from that ground. I imagined my daughter and I working together on the garden. Two days ago I walked to school without a jacket--admittedly, I got a little chilled, but it was possible, and that was the point.
On Wednesday my friends threw an impromptu shower for me. It was spring break, and I assumed most people would be gone, but there was a good crowd, and everyone was way too generous in putting money into the "bedroom furniture" fund for my daughter. This is especially necessary because, just before her move, I had several unexpected home expenses come up--a broken water softener, a mouse problem that needed to be taken care of asap by a professional, a broken computer, and a broken dishwasher (which will likely stay broken for awhile). It seems that each time something happens that makes the prospect of caring for my daughter more challenging, people step in to help--already, and she's not even here yet.
At the shower, I was overwhelmed with gratitude and felt tears gathering in my eyes. It's not unusual for me to cry, but since the adoption journey began I have cried very little. Partly I think this is because I've been conscious of self-care, and partly because I have been in "do-mode" rather than in "feel-mode," always using what little spare time I have to do something practical related to the adoption--read about trauma or attachment, move furniture around, etc. I felt a literal circle of friends around me and realized how lucky I was to have them. I knew that I was not alone. I also knew that, at times when I felt alone, all I would have to do was to close my eyes and remember that circle of support--and then open my eyes and call one of them!
Today, thinking back on the shower and on my daughter's behavior this week, I remembered how often I, too, have regressed in my own journey for healing, and how many of the friends who surrounded me on Wednesday have weathered with me many of those ups and downs. I know I am prone to depression and self-pity. I know I am prone to being dishonest with myself. I know I have trouble with feeling overwhelmed and using procrastination as a way of continuing that feeling. I know I have trouble with caring for others at the expense of my own self-care. I know I overeat when I feel lonely or tired or overwhelmed. These are problems I've had since early childhood--they are simply a part of make-up in the same way that many of my strengths: an abilty to feel what others are feeling and the desire to reach out the hurting people, a strong sense of justice and a desire to do good in the world--are also a strong part of my make-up.
The fact is, I am always, always going to struggle with weaknesses in my character. When I was younger I think I believed that I would be able to work through and put these aspects of myself to rest as I got older. The truth is, I have grown more able to live with them and to control them as I've grown older. (Though, as a side note, I hate the world "control"--they are not so much aspects of myself that need to be "controlled" as to be understood and reframed in more positive terms--eg, I can use my own depression and self-pity as a way of noticing what is not working in my life, and I can use my overeating to notice when I need to reach out to others or to get some rest). But I've also had many periods of regression, when I haven't been able to "get a grip," when these weaknesses have been out of control and have even caused me to hurt others or myself in one way or another. But I always find my way back to a path in which I am living in self-awareness, self-acceptance, and self-love.
I need to give my daughter the tools to recognize her own weaknesses, whether they were simply a part of her make-up from birth or became a part of her make-up because of her intense suffering. I need to help her realize she can change the way she responds to stress and suffering, either past or current or future. But I also need to help her know that she will struggle for a lifetime, and that she will always have periods of regression and then more progress--and that she can't give up on continuing to grow.
The snow is a reminder of how beautiful regression can be, in some ways. When we regress, we remember what we need to do to care for ourselves (in my case, work from home today--I do, after all, finally have a working computer, and campus is closed today!--and take time to write this blog entry). We remember who we are and how far we've come and that we have what it takes to keep moving forward. We are able, in our regression, to also see our progress. If we can keep from beating ourselves up over taking two steps back, we can see with clarity how to move forward again.
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