Camping (and Joseph, and the Coat of Many Colors)
S. and I went on a mini-camping trip this weekend. Before we left, I was feeling at the end of my rope again. S's adoption ceremony and party were magnificent, but the aftermath was colored by family drama, exhaustion, and the looming end of summer. For the first hour at our campsite, I was outright cruel to S., snapping commands at her, blaming her for a mistake in our attempt to put together the tent, forcing her to go on a hike she didn't want to take.
As she begrudgingly followed me into the woods, though, I suddenly realized how awful I was being. I turned to her, picked up the dog and rubbed his head. "I'm being a total bitch," I said. "I haven't gotten enough exercise or sleep lately, and I'm frustrated by how fast the summer is going. I'm so sorry. I'm going to try to do better."
"You _were_ being a bitch," she answered. "But it's OK." I put the dog down then, and we hiked for awhile longer in silence, and I felt this desperate sadness in my heart for all the difficulties of the last few weeks. I'd made a decision, after several years, to be honest with a loved one about how I felt, and I am not sure what will come of it. I had writing projects I'd hoped to finish this summer that I hadn't even touched. There were things I was going to do with S.--more camping, more outings, but also more teaching and learning of some basic life skills at home, more work on her diet and exercise plan--and those things had fallen by the wayside during our busy July as well. I'd elected to teach two classes, convincing myself this was the best thing for me financially and professionally, so there were two weeks in particular when I was working 12-hour days, and the rest of the time, I was working more than 20 hours/week, and still not getting everything done. One teaching experience was phenomenal, the other not so great--and the decision turned out not to be particularly good financially, as I pay a caretaker to be with S. whenever I'm gone. I'm so grateful to have found an amazing college student who has turned out to be perfect for the job, and other students who have served as back-up when she couldn't work all the hours I needed--but ultimately, I wish I'd stuck with my half-time contract and not taken on extra jobs. In short, the summer has been challenging for us, and I was feeling guilty.
As I was stewing on these things, we turned around and headed back to camp. We went swimming then, which is what she'd wanted to do all along. The water was warmer than it had been the last time we'd visited this park, but the little beach was also more crowded, making S. and our little dog nervous. We finally relaxed and threw each other around in the water, made sand castles. We headed back to camp, started the fire, had supper. I could feel my body relaxing. I could feel myself letting go of what was unresolved and settling into being present, fully present, in the moment.
Still, some of the guilt was lingering. As we were making our s'mores, I said, "I'm really sorry this is only our second camping trip this summer."
"It's really OK, Mom," S. said, and then I watched her getting the marshmallows on her stick, pushing her glasses against her face to get a closer look, her body leaning slightly to the left, one foot slightly in front of the other, I had this strange sensation. I couldn't believe she was my child--and also couldn't believe I'd ever lived without her--both at the same time. Earlier in the week I'd been walking toward the horse barn after dark to meet her and her caretaker. I'd seen them walking toward my car, but hadn't recognized them--S. looked so incredibly confident, like a college student, actually, talking casually to a friend of hers. It was strange to think about how far she'd come in such a short time--and also strangely sad. I suppose it is always like this with our children, no matter when we got them, that just as we feel we are getting to know them, really know them, they slip into new selves, new phases in their lives, and we begin again.
That night we hiked up to the highest point in the park and watched the sun set. As we walked back to camp, S. asked me to sing; according to her, I have a terrible singing voice except when I'm singing in Greek, so I sang old love songs and folk songs and church hymns until we were close to camp. "Why did you want me to sing?" I asked her.
"To scare the animals away," she said. I cracked up, but she added, "I wasn't being funny. I had a teacher once who told me that wild animals are afraid of the human voice when it is singing." Later, I would think about this as we read about Joseph's brothers staining his cloak with animal blood, and feel strangely terrified. I know I can't protect this child from everything, so even her unrealistic fears--there weren't really any dangerous wild animals where we were--seem large to me.
We walked the last few yards in silence, and then she said, "Let's get up before sunrise and hike up there again and have sunrise worship, just the two of us."
It sounded like a terrible idea to me--I was tired, wanted to sleep in--but I said, "Well, let's see if we get up," mainly because I didn't want to shut her down after how poorly I'd been treating her earlier.
But there we were, at 5 a.m., hiking up to the lookout point again. When we got there, the sky was a dull white-blue, the light tangible but not visible exactly. I prayed the Greek Orthodox morning prayers out loud, S. joining me for the parts she knew. Then I read the Old Testament reading, which happened to be the story of Joseph and the Coat of Many Colors. I didn't remember it, so we went on reading way past the day's verses to get the whole thing. It's a story about brothers who are pulled apart by competing loyalties, by jealousy, by a willingness to be outright cruel to each other, to play with each other's minds. It's a story about a man wronged over and over who has the chance to "rub it in" when he meets again, under very different circumstances, the men who caused him the most pain in his life, his brothers. But it's also a story about forgiveness, and that is the big surprise at the end. Joseph could have ruined his brothers for good, but instead he saves their lives.
In light of the challenges in my family relationships these days--and the challenges S's brothers are facing--I'm just not sure how to read this story, how to understand it. I am still pondering. But what I do know is that, by the end of the story, the rolling hills in front of us were alive with wind and pools of yellow-green light, and the sky was gold-yellow-orange, with an angel-wing cloud, thin and feathery, reaching across it. It was breathtaking. We read the Gospel, the story of Jesus walking on water, and remembered how we'd walked on the frozen lake during S's first visit, then heard the same passage in church. We stared at the scene for awhile, then walked back in silence. Sometimes we do our own prayers at the end when we worship together, but this time, it didn't seem necessary. On our way down, we saw a doe leap across the path and then disappear into the tall grass, only her ears and a tiny black mark on the back of her neck visible with each leap.
"That was breathtaking," S. said, and for some reason, I smiled at the use of such a big word, and at the drama in her voice. But she was right: it was.
We had breakfast, napped, then took a longer hike, during which S. called me a bitch because I wouldn't let her take something out of a small box of toys we found hidden in the woods. She apologized right away and asked for the consequences "right now, so we can get it over with," so we sat down and thought silently about what we could do differently next time, then talked about it.
"I'm going to focus on other things I want, better things than those toys, then give back to the world when I get them," she said.
I was a little less ambitious. "I'm going to make sure I get enough sleep and enough exercise so I can stay balanced and won't blow up at you," I said.
"Me, too," she said. "But I need you to help me take care of myself. You know, I'm 15, but in some ways I'm just a little kid."
"I know," I said.
Then we walked on, out of the woods and into the open prairie, lightly touching the yellow wildflowers growing around us. Our dog slowed down, sniffed everything in sight, making us laugh.
"I already miss summer," S. said. "I miss J. (her caretaker) already and I already miss you."
"We'll have J. over once in awhile; you'll still get to see her. And I'm not going anywhere. We just need to make sure we make time for things like this when school starts." I touched her on the head and repeated, "I'm not going anywhere."
"I know that now," S. said, and it was such a simple thing, and yet so profound--the first time, really, she's said out loud, and directly, that she trusts that I'm in this for the long haul, no matter how long it all takes.
I thought of Joseph's brothers selling him into slavery. I thought of the false accusations, the years in prison, the final moments during which he could have proclaimed victory but instead acted in love. I still don't know what this story has to tell me, but somehow it seems relevant, important, in ways I can't explain.
I have been both the brother sold and the brother doing the selling. I have been the one wronged and the one who has dong wrong. I have both turned away the people who hurt me and forgiven them, sometimes in the same action. That much I know. I also know how important it is to forgive, but not always how to do it. But I feel like my daughter pushes me further into these mysteries, because with her in my life, I have to be honest with others about what I need, who I am. I don't have time for lies or omissions.
"Look, Mom, I'm walking on water," S. joked nonsensically (the nearest lake was a mile away, and she wasn't doing anything except pretending to glide over the winding path mown into the prairie), and I laughed even though it didn't make sense, and our dog let out a yelp and started running suddenly, and S. ran, too, until she was out of breath, and laughing. And I had that feeling again, of having known her forever and also not knowing her at all, not believing she was mine. Except there was no fear or grief mixed in with the feeling this time--just joy, and gratitude.
As she begrudgingly followed me into the woods, though, I suddenly realized how awful I was being. I turned to her, picked up the dog and rubbed his head. "I'm being a total bitch," I said. "I haven't gotten enough exercise or sleep lately, and I'm frustrated by how fast the summer is going. I'm so sorry. I'm going to try to do better."
"You _were_ being a bitch," she answered. "But it's OK." I put the dog down then, and we hiked for awhile longer in silence, and I felt this desperate sadness in my heart for all the difficulties of the last few weeks. I'd made a decision, after several years, to be honest with a loved one about how I felt, and I am not sure what will come of it. I had writing projects I'd hoped to finish this summer that I hadn't even touched. There were things I was going to do with S.--more camping, more outings, but also more teaching and learning of some basic life skills at home, more work on her diet and exercise plan--and those things had fallen by the wayside during our busy July as well. I'd elected to teach two classes, convincing myself this was the best thing for me financially and professionally, so there were two weeks in particular when I was working 12-hour days, and the rest of the time, I was working more than 20 hours/week, and still not getting everything done. One teaching experience was phenomenal, the other not so great--and the decision turned out not to be particularly good financially, as I pay a caretaker to be with S. whenever I'm gone. I'm so grateful to have found an amazing college student who has turned out to be perfect for the job, and other students who have served as back-up when she couldn't work all the hours I needed--but ultimately, I wish I'd stuck with my half-time contract and not taken on extra jobs. In short, the summer has been challenging for us, and I was feeling guilty.
As I was stewing on these things, we turned around and headed back to camp. We went swimming then, which is what she'd wanted to do all along. The water was warmer than it had been the last time we'd visited this park, but the little beach was also more crowded, making S. and our little dog nervous. We finally relaxed and threw each other around in the water, made sand castles. We headed back to camp, started the fire, had supper. I could feel my body relaxing. I could feel myself letting go of what was unresolved and settling into being present, fully present, in the moment.
Still, some of the guilt was lingering. As we were making our s'mores, I said, "I'm really sorry this is only our second camping trip this summer."
"It's really OK, Mom," S. said, and then I watched her getting the marshmallows on her stick, pushing her glasses against her face to get a closer look, her body leaning slightly to the left, one foot slightly in front of the other, I had this strange sensation. I couldn't believe she was my child--and also couldn't believe I'd ever lived without her--both at the same time. Earlier in the week I'd been walking toward the horse barn after dark to meet her and her caretaker. I'd seen them walking toward my car, but hadn't recognized them--S. looked so incredibly confident, like a college student, actually, talking casually to a friend of hers. It was strange to think about how far she'd come in such a short time--and also strangely sad. I suppose it is always like this with our children, no matter when we got them, that just as we feel we are getting to know them, really know them, they slip into new selves, new phases in their lives, and we begin again.
That night we hiked up to the highest point in the park and watched the sun set. As we walked back to camp, S. asked me to sing; according to her, I have a terrible singing voice except when I'm singing in Greek, so I sang old love songs and folk songs and church hymns until we were close to camp. "Why did you want me to sing?" I asked her.
"To scare the animals away," she said. I cracked up, but she added, "I wasn't being funny. I had a teacher once who told me that wild animals are afraid of the human voice when it is singing." Later, I would think about this as we read about Joseph's brothers staining his cloak with animal blood, and feel strangely terrified. I know I can't protect this child from everything, so even her unrealistic fears--there weren't really any dangerous wild animals where we were--seem large to me.
We walked the last few yards in silence, and then she said, "Let's get up before sunrise and hike up there again and have sunrise worship, just the two of us."
It sounded like a terrible idea to me--I was tired, wanted to sleep in--but I said, "Well, let's see if we get up," mainly because I didn't want to shut her down after how poorly I'd been treating her earlier.
But there we were, at 5 a.m., hiking up to the lookout point again. When we got there, the sky was a dull white-blue, the light tangible but not visible exactly. I prayed the Greek Orthodox morning prayers out loud, S. joining me for the parts she knew. Then I read the Old Testament reading, which happened to be the story of Joseph and the Coat of Many Colors. I didn't remember it, so we went on reading way past the day's verses to get the whole thing. It's a story about brothers who are pulled apart by competing loyalties, by jealousy, by a willingness to be outright cruel to each other, to play with each other's minds. It's a story about a man wronged over and over who has the chance to "rub it in" when he meets again, under very different circumstances, the men who caused him the most pain in his life, his brothers. But it's also a story about forgiveness, and that is the big surprise at the end. Joseph could have ruined his brothers for good, but instead he saves their lives.
In light of the challenges in my family relationships these days--and the challenges S's brothers are facing--I'm just not sure how to read this story, how to understand it. I am still pondering. But what I do know is that, by the end of the story, the rolling hills in front of us were alive with wind and pools of yellow-green light, and the sky was gold-yellow-orange, with an angel-wing cloud, thin and feathery, reaching across it. It was breathtaking. We read the Gospel, the story of Jesus walking on water, and remembered how we'd walked on the frozen lake during S's first visit, then heard the same passage in church. We stared at the scene for awhile, then walked back in silence. Sometimes we do our own prayers at the end when we worship together, but this time, it didn't seem necessary. On our way down, we saw a doe leap across the path and then disappear into the tall grass, only her ears and a tiny black mark on the back of her neck visible with each leap.
"That was breathtaking," S. said, and for some reason, I smiled at the use of such a big word, and at the drama in her voice. But she was right: it was.
We had breakfast, napped, then took a longer hike, during which S. called me a bitch because I wouldn't let her take something out of a small box of toys we found hidden in the woods. She apologized right away and asked for the consequences "right now, so we can get it over with," so we sat down and thought silently about what we could do differently next time, then talked about it.
"I'm going to focus on other things I want, better things than those toys, then give back to the world when I get them," she said.
I was a little less ambitious. "I'm going to make sure I get enough sleep and enough exercise so I can stay balanced and won't blow up at you," I said.
"Me, too," she said. "But I need you to help me take care of myself. You know, I'm 15, but in some ways I'm just a little kid."
"I know," I said.
Then we walked on, out of the woods and into the open prairie, lightly touching the yellow wildflowers growing around us. Our dog slowed down, sniffed everything in sight, making us laugh.
"I already miss summer," S. said. "I miss J. (her caretaker) already and I already miss you."
"We'll have J. over once in awhile; you'll still get to see her. And I'm not going anywhere. We just need to make sure we make time for things like this when school starts." I touched her on the head and repeated, "I'm not going anywhere."
"I know that now," S. said, and it was such a simple thing, and yet so profound--the first time, really, she's said out loud, and directly, that she trusts that I'm in this for the long haul, no matter how long it all takes.
I thought of Joseph's brothers selling him into slavery. I thought of the false accusations, the years in prison, the final moments during which he could have proclaimed victory but instead acted in love. I still don't know what this story has to tell me, but somehow it seems relevant, important, in ways I can't explain.
I have been both the brother sold and the brother doing the selling. I have been the one wronged and the one who has dong wrong. I have both turned away the people who hurt me and forgiven them, sometimes in the same action. That much I know. I also know how important it is to forgive, but not always how to do it. But I feel like my daughter pushes me further into these mysteries, because with her in my life, I have to be honest with others about what I need, who I am. I don't have time for lies or omissions.
"Look, Mom, I'm walking on water," S. joked nonsensically (the nearest lake was a mile away, and she wasn't doing anything except pretending to glide over the winding path mown into the prairie), and I laughed even though it didn't make sense, and our dog let out a yelp and started running suddenly, and S. ran, too, until she was out of breath, and laughing. And I had that feeling again, of having known her forever and also not knowing her at all, not believing she was mine. Except there was no fear or grief mixed in with the feeling this time--just joy, and gratitude.
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