Discipline
It is hard to believe that the last time I wrote here, in late March, I was wrote about an unexpected snow storm; today, as I write in late April on Greek Orthodox Good Friday, it is again snowing like mad in my small MN town. Last week my daughter enjoyed an extra-long horse lesson in 70 degree weather; today, her school let out an hour early, and her horse lesson was cancelled.
So much can change in a week.
During the last week in March, I went from living alone (unless you count my anti-social cat) in a small, rural college town to living with a 14-year-old daughter and a little dog. S. and I are both adjusting well overall. We have had conflicts. We have wept together and laughed--a lot--together. We've struggled through homework assignments and misunderstandings and talks about painful memories from her past. But we are making it.
I have been able, so far, to maintain some balance in my life. I'm genuinely enjoying spending time with S. at home and advocating for her in other settings. But I'm also still getting to the gym three times a week. I'm writing in my journal, albeit very short entries, each day. I'm getting my work done, though at times I'm a day or two further behind that I'd hope to be. Though I'd like to get more time with friends, I'm at least finding time to read, write, or at least lie on the couch after S's bedtime at least a couple times a week (though sometimes I have to use that late night time to catch up on work).
Still, Holy Week got away from me this year. It's the first time that I can remember that I have not kept the fast for Holy Week. This week, I was away for a full day--the longest I've been apart from S. since her arrival--for a conference, and S. and I spent another day driving all over the state for various appointments. So, I decided I was not going to make my usual trip to the closest Greek Orthodox Church in the Twin Cities for Good Friday and Easter this year, and for that reason, and my travels this week, I also decided I would not keep the fast.
The blizzard, which has been ongoing now for close to 12 hours, is not helping me feel like it is time for new life. Still, tonight, in between disciplining S. for the first time and a dinner with S's chosen godparents, I burned incense and sat in front of my icons and sang the mourning songs from the Greek Orthodox Good Friday vespers. S. sat downstairs, listening. I worried she would feel like an outsider, hearing her new mother sing off-key in a language she didn't understand, but instead, when I was finished, after I'd prayed the Lenten prayer of St. Ephraim and come back downstairs, she said, "You actually sound good when you sing in Greek." Believe me, this is a huge complement coming from a child who playfully puts her hand over my mouth every time I try to sing. (And she has a point: I have a terrible singing voice).
Last night was difficult. S. got frustrated about homework and about the fact that she hadn't been able to talk to her boyfriend, who still lives in her old hometown, for a couple days. Angry, she announced that he obviously hated her and was out with another girl. I tried to talk to her about healthy relationships, as I have in the past, and about why it was unhealthy to make these kinds of assumptions. She got mad--very mad, and crossed some clear lines about how to deal with her anger. When she calmed herself, we talked about the consequences.
Today, instead of her usual 20 minutes of computer time, she had to sit at the kitchen table and write about how she could have handled the situation differently. The 20 minutes dragged into 40 minutes as she resisted and continued to act out until, finally, she got through the task and we were able to talk about it. She had made a good list of what she could do differently, but she was still resistant to talking about it.
She said she thought discipline was cruel. I explained that discipline and disciple had the same root: to teach, and to learn. I said I wouldn't be a good parent if I didn't provide some discipline. I explained that I still have to find ways to discipline, or teach myself, when I get off track with my own goals and my own treatment of other people and the world, but that until she was an adult, she would need a parent's help with this. By the end of the conversation, she was hugging me and telling me how much she loved me. Tonight, she told me she was lucky to have me as a mom.
So much can change in a day.
I think about the discipline that Holy Week provides--the prayers and poems and songs that lead us through Jesus' last days on earth, and through our own journey from sin to forgiveness to grief to, eventually, wonder and joy. I remember, as a child, how I loved to crawl beneath the Epitaphion--Jesus' tomb, covered with fragrant flowers. The crawling was a sign of humility and repentence; the rising up, out of the darkness, a sign of hope, of moving forward.
We are moving forward, slowly, but we're going to have to make that journey over and over, day by day, week by week. In the meantime, there are the warm hugs and the moments of sheer wonder while walking the dog in the daily changing weather and S. sitting regally on top of the horse, confident, proud. She's learned to walk and trot and lead and groom the horse; she's learned to be responsible for helping with meals and cleaning and other chores; she's learned to stop underestimating herself in school and to start taking coursework seriously. She's learning, slowly, to find better ways to manage her anger.
"Is it OK to be angry?" she asked me on our way home tonight.
"Of course," I said. "Everyone gets angry. It's just a matter of learning to handle it without hurting other people, and of figuring out when it's worth it to act on your anger and when it's not." There was a moment of silence, and then I heard myself say, "Even Jesus got angry when things weren't right in the world. If you're angry, it must mean something is wrong, either inside or outside. And so you have to figure out what it is and what you need to do next."
"That makes sense," she said, and then we were home again, pulling into the driveway and parking as best we could, until the wheels stopped spinning and we gave up and walked into the house and let out the dog and got ready for bed, the whole world white and silent and mysterious--and peaceful.
So much can change in a week.
During the last week in March, I went from living alone (unless you count my anti-social cat) in a small, rural college town to living with a 14-year-old daughter and a little dog. S. and I are both adjusting well overall. We have had conflicts. We have wept together and laughed--a lot--together. We've struggled through homework assignments and misunderstandings and talks about painful memories from her past. But we are making it.
I have been able, so far, to maintain some balance in my life. I'm genuinely enjoying spending time with S. at home and advocating for her in other settings. But I'm also still getting to the gym three times a week. I'm writing in my journal, albeit very short entries, each day. I'm getting my work done, though at times I'm a day or two further behind that I'd hope to be. Though I'd like to get more time with friends, I'm at least finding time to read, write, or at least lie on the couch after S's bedtime at least a couple times a week (though sometimes I have to use that late night time to catch up on work).
Still, Holy Week got away from me this year. It's the first time that I can remember that I have not kept the fast for Holy Week. This week, I was away for a full day--the longest I've been apart from S. since her arrival--for a conference, and S. and I spent another day driving all over the state for various appointments. So, I decided I was not going to make my usual trip to the closest Greek Orthodox Church in the Twin Cities for Good Friday and Easter this year, and for that reason, and my travels this week, I also decided I would not keep the fast.
The blizzard, which has been ongoing now for close to 12 hours, is not helping me feel like it is time for new life. Still, tonight, in between disciplining S. for the first time and a dinner with S's chosen godparents, I burned incense and sat in front of my icons and sang the mourning songs from the Greek Orthodox Good Friday vespers. S. sat downstairs, listening. I worried she would feel like an outsider, hearing her new mother sing off-key in a language she didn't understand, but instead, when I was finished, after I'd prayed the Lenten prayer of St. Ephraim and come back downstairs, she said, "You actually sound good when you sing in Greek." Believe me, this is a huge complement coming from a child who playfully puts her hand over my mouth every time I try to sing. (And she has a point: I have a terrible singing voice).
Last night was difficult. S. got frustrated about homework and about the fact that she hadn't been able to talk to her boyfriend, who still lives in her old hometown, for a couple days. Angry, she announced that he obviously hated her and was out with another girl. I tried to talk to her about healthy relationships, as I have in the past, and about why it was unhealthy to make these kinds of assumptions. She got mad--very mad, and crossed some clear lines about how to deal with her anger. When she calmed herself, we talked about the consequences.
Today, instead of her usual 20 minutes of computer time, she had to sit at the kitchen table and write about how she could have handled the situation differently. The 20 minutes dragged into 40 minutes as she resisted and continued to act out until, finally, she got through the task and we were able to talk about it. She had made a good list of what she could do differently, but she was still resistant to talking about it.
She said she thought discipline was cruel. I explained that discipline and disciple had the same root: to teach, and to learn. I said I wouldn't be a good parent if I didn't provide some discipline. I explained that I still have to find ways to discipline, or teach myself, when I get off track with my own goals and my own treatment of other people and the world, but that until she was an adult, she would need a parent's help with this. By the end of the conversation, she was hugging me and telling me how much she loved me. Tonight, she told me she was lucky to have me as a mom.
So much can change in a day.
I think about the discipline that Holy Week provides--the prayers and poems and songs that lead us through Jesus' last days on earth, and through our own journey from sin to forgiveness to grief to, eventually, wonder and joy. I remember, as a child, how I loved to crawl beneath the Epitaphion--Jesus' tomb, covered with fragrant flowers. The crawling was a sign of humility and repentence; the rising up, out of the darkness, a sign of hope, of moving forward.
We are moving forward, slowly, but we're going to have to make that journey over and over, day by day, week by week. In the meantime, there are the warm hugs and the moments of sheer wonder while walking the dog in the daily changing weather and S. sitting regally on top of the horse, confident, proud. She's learned to walk and trot and lead and groom the horse; she's learned to be responsible for helping with meals and cleaning and other chores; she's learned to stop underestimating herself in school and to start taking coursework seriously. She's learning, slowly, to find better ways to manage her anger.
"Is it OK to be angry?" she asked me on our way home tonight.
"Of course," I said. "Everyone gets angry. It's just a matter of learning to handle it without hurting other people, and of figuring out when it's worth it to act on your anger and when it's not." There was a moment of silence, and then I heard myself say, "Even Jesus got angry when things weren't right in the world. If you're angry, it must mean something is wrong, either inside or outside. And so you have to figure out what it is and what you need to do next."
"That makes sense," she said, and then we were home again, pulling into the driveway and parking as best we could, until the wheels stopped spinning and we gave up and walked into the house and let out the dog and got ready for bed, the whole world white and silent and mysterious--and peaceful.
Comments
I came across your blog as I was searcing for one of my own articles on google. My name is Argie as well, and I am also a writer!
I love your blog and look forward to reading more of it..
Happy Easter or should I say Xristos Anesti!
I actually havn't posted anything on my blog page yet. But if you google my name Argie Plakas all my articles will come up.. I am a freelance Music Journalist. And please feel free to email me anytime at argieplakas@hotmail.com. Too bad you don't live in Los Angeles, we could meet for coffee!