Uncertainty
For awhile, despite small detours here and there, the framework of my life seemed clear, made sense; it was all about healing and helping others heal, about changing lives and, with them, taking at least small cracks in the larger systems that caused the suffering in those lives. It was about a depth of love (and, yes, sacrifice, too) that nourished me, energized me.
I was raising this amazing child, watching her take one step back, two steps forward, over and over again. I had a rewarding job through which I was able to do the same kind of mentoring for my students. I had time to work on my writing; I was happy simply being at the page, sending things out when the mood struck me or when something seemed a good fit, keeping up this blog, sharing my work with people who most needed it. My relationships with family and friends were the strongest they had ever been, and those that weren't perfect no longer plagued me, because my life had such meaning, such purpose. I was happy--the happiest I've ever been in my life, in fact. Even though nothing was in my control, really--there were, daily, new challenges in parenting and in my work--the framework seemed clear to me.
And then, I got the news--my father has cancer. I can't sort out how serious it is; I probably won't know for sure until I am able to see him, and I don't know when that will be. I want to be able to pour myself into helping him sort out all the details in the way I did the last time he was sick (that time, a serious mental illness that had caused him to stop eating and, eventually, led to his losing everything), but I can't--I do not have the time or the resources now that I have my own family. I am doing what I can from afar, but he is a stubborn man, and there isn't much I can do.
The last time, he landed on his feet, and now, he's happier than he's ever been--closer to me and my sister than ever before, in love with a woman who is perfect for him. It seems unfair somehow that he would end up sick at this time in his life, when he's finally got his mental illness under his control and is so, so happy. But life is not fair, does not always make sense, and, of course, I know this. It's just that for so long, probably for the longest period in my life up to this point, everything was making sense--so facing this uncertainty again is difficult, to say the least.
Meanwhile, S. has decided she's an atheist. I am not particularly alarmed by this; I have been an atheist at different times in my life, and nearly all my friends are atheists. It's startling, but not completely surprising, that she went from being an evangelical Christian to an atheist in six months--after all, she's finally, for the first time, allowed to think for herself, to be her own person. Still, I can't help but remember how, when we watched the Twin Cities Pride Parade together, she was horrified by the atheist contingency--much more so than the half-naked gay men dancing on top of a float to techno music or the drag queens. "It's just--well, it's just that it's a little too much for me," she'd said, and we'd had a long talk about accepting all people's beliefs, about how a loving God couldn't possibly reject a person over what that person believed, about how some of the most ethical people I know are atheists, how I had to believe God wanted us to live ethically and lovingly and cared more about our actions than our beliefs.
S. wants to learn about other religions, to take some time to think about what she believes--but in the meantime, she's OK with believing in nothing. We've talked about Jesus' teachings as teachings rather than some holy script that trumps all other texts; this is basically how I view them most of the time, though I do feel a mystery beyond the words there, a transcendence I can't fully write off--but she's not sure about this, either, until she's looked at other options. I am proud of her; this, like breaking up with her boyfriend, like starting to take her education seriously, shows she's beginning to believe in herself and in this new life.
Strangely, right before I found out about my father, right before S. made her announcement that she no longer wanted to pray together or to go to church, I found myself engaged in a series of deep conversations with friends about uncertainty. Similar conversations have continued into this week, all of them hanging together with this theme, though in the midst of talking, it was not clear that, duh, I was supposed to be paying attention, to be learning something. At least twice I tried to suggest a solution that seemed right, not realizing I was crossing a line until it was too late; the friends who were coming to me needed to be told it was OK to be uncertain, OK not to be sure, OK to...well, to do nothing, to simply wait.
S. has been going through a couple weeks of resistance and anger and frustration and low self-esteem. These emotions and actions have blended together so confusingly that it was not always clear how to respond--should I berate her for not getting her homework done, or should I praise her for how well completed the parts that were completed? When she overate to the point of getting sick one day, should I have focused on the natural consequences, the health risk, or attend to the emotions that were behind the overeating? Should I keep the bar high, insist she is capable of doing well in science, or should I talk to her gently about how it is OK not to be good at everything, give her a break? Should I be mad at the teacher for not challenging her enough, for talking down to her, or mad at her for taking advantage of this? I am never sure. With this most recent "two steps back," so many things that seemed clear to me are no longer clear.
I've also had to come face-to-face with some people I once deeply loved who are no longer in my life. Without going into too much detail, the encounters called into question many of the decisions I've made professionally and personally. And work has been hard; I took on some projects I knew would be professionally and politically challenging, would require careful navigation, and I'm starting to feel the exhaustion from the effort they are taking; I know I'm teetering between either throwing myself into them wholeheartedly, loving the challenge, or pulling away. My heart is fighting itself, and I'm facing self-doubt for the first time in awhile.
This weekend I had the great blessing of spending time with other poets--doing two readings back to back, getting breaks from S. during this challenging time. I loved it, but being with them made me realize how little time I actually spend writing. Just last week, I felt completely at peace about my decision to write more freely, and even felt that my work was the best it's ever been, but that I wanted to hold the poems, the sentences, close for awhile, see how they changed, what they became. A few conversations about the poetry biz and I was feeling inadequate, exhausted, frustrated again. That the work feels like a blessing is, right now, what is most important, even if there's less of it, even if its final resting place is no longer clear--but suddenly, I found myself wondering if I shouldn't be trying harder, setting aside more time, being more aggressive in sending out the work.
So, I've been doubting myself more, and feeling a little less centered. I know there are practical things I can do to get back to myself--writing here is one of them, and working out, and getting time alone--but I felt too exhausted to do them.
And then, today, everything changed.
For eight years now I've been leading a service-learning project at a nursing home. Students plan activities for the elders each week, record what happened, write a series of papers and found poems about the experience. The project matters to me; it is, as they say, my baby, but I'd gotten so busy administering it that it has been a long time since I've let myself simply sit in on a session. Today, I did. This was the first session with this new group of students. It was almost painful to watch them muddle through, shyly ask questions, to see the elders regard them with confusion and politeness--and then, in the end, something opened up.
Just before we left, one of the most resistant and quietest residents grabbed a John Deere tractor model and began to roll it around on the table, making tractor sounds, laughing at herself, at us. As we wheeled her back to her room, she said she couldn't wait for us to come back.
I thought about how the last two weeks have been like the first 30 minutes at the beginning of that session. I felt, suddenly, profoundly, out of sorts in my own body, my own home, my own life. I was sitting in a familiar room with familiar people--I knew these students, these elders, but somehow the conversation wasn't right, was stilted or stifled or--well, unnatural. My daughter was regressing, I was saying the wrong things to people who were seeking my help, I was having to face people with whom I had unfinished business. All the things I'd come to peace about--old breakups, old friendships, my writing, my teaching, my relationship with my father--were suddenly up for grabs again, no longer clearly planted in a framework that made sense. And then, suddenly, something turned--Doris began wheeling a little John Deere around the table, rediscovering some part of herself that was silly (and resilient), and there was a little laughter, a little lightness, and everything looked different.
I had a series of difficult meetings after that session, but the image of that toy tractor weaving in and out of our other props, zig zagging across the table, stayed with me. When I got home, S. and I walked the dog as usual, but I felt energized by the new chill in the air, the leaves turning, the bright sun. Home again, S's science tutor showed up only to learn that S. had not brought home her notes, would not be able to study for this test, didn't even know what the test was on. I felt my heart sinking--we'd had this battle over the weekend, I'd written to her teachers, her special education advocate--but somehow in the last 24 hours nothing had been resolved. Nobody knew where her paraprofessional's notes were, where her notes were. Nobody could tell me, or her, what the test was on. I was tired of being an advocate--I felt myself sinking into a funk when her tutor said, "We'll review what we did last time. Going over those concepts have got to help her somehow on this new test." And, of course, she was right. Two and 1/2 hours later, S. was ecstatic; she was finally getting it, she even remembered a little about what they'd covered in the last week! (I thought for a second, dejectedly, but she's two tests behind--but then I stopped myself. She was getting it! Maybe she would not fail after all! I felt the lightness again, the toy tractor's zig-zag path). When her tutor left, S. went right to her other homework, not complaining. She said, "I'm getting my confidence back."
Then I left for an hour to be there for a friend, and S. lost her motivation, didn't finish the last homework of the night; I got back and found her in the bathtub, where she'd been for over an hour, reading horse books. I got mad, she got mad, but in the end I said to her, "Let's stop here. You had a breakthrough in science. You got your chores done. Let's just...stop."
"I'll get up early and finish," she promised. She may not; another 0 in another class may cost her a solid C; but I need to teach her that sometimes we sacrifice one victory for another defeat, one priority for another one.
After tucking her in, I realized I was happy again. My life is back in its framework. I have the energy to write this. I can face the challenges.
Jesus once told a parable about two sons. Their father asked the first to do something for him, and he said yes, gladly, but didn't do it. The other said no at first, but eventually had a change of heart, completed the task. "Which one did what the father asked?" Jesus asks his listeners, a group of Pharisees who are trying to trap him with his own words. It is, of course, a rhetorical question, and the lesson seems obvious at first. Of course it's better to hesitate, then act out of integrity, than it is to claim a desire to act but never follow through.
But then, Jesus finishes the parable like this: "I tell you the truth, the tax collectors and prostitutes are entering the kingdom of God ahead of you." He was so tired of the Pharisees' lives, all words, no actions, about the way they avoided living squarely in the world, that he could barely contain his anger.
A friend of mine, when I was in the midst of the most uncertain time in my life--leaving a six-year relationship, starting over--gave me a magnet that says, "When you're going through hell, keep going." It's still on my refrigerator. I don't think I'm in hell exactly--just in a dark patch on an otherwise well-lit road. Sometimes I need to sit down and look around for awhile, get my bearings, stop hurrying. Sometimes I have to push through.
Seeing my father through this illness, seeing my child through her inconsistent motivation, her uncertain beliefs, is not going to be easy. But a commitment to a life that matters, that is larger than words, never is. In the end, the words need to reflect the life, and not the other way around, and maybe if I can remember this than all of my self-doubt about my writing, all of my angst about the past, will seem less important than simply sitting by the side of the road, or taking the next (uncertain) step.
I was raising this amazing child, watching her take one step back, two steps forward, over and over again. I had a rewarding job through which I was able to do the same kind of mentoring for my students. I had time to work on my writing; I was happy simply being at the page, sending things out when the mood struck me or when something seemed a good fit, keeping up this blog, sharing my work with people who most needed it. My relationships with family and friends were the strongest they had ever been, and those that weren't perfect no longer plagued me, because my life had such meaning, such purpose. I was happy--the happiest I've ever been in my life, in fact. Even though nothing was in my control, really--there were, daily, new challenges in parenting and in my work--the framework seemed clear to me.
And then, I got the news--my father has cancer. I can't sort out how serious it is; I probably won't know for sure until I am able to see him, and I don't know when that will be. I want to be able to pour myself into helping him sort out all the details in the way I did the last time he was sick (that time, a serious mental illness that had caused him to stop eating and, eventually, led to his losing everything), but I can't--I do not have the time or the resources now that I have my own family. I am doing what I can from afar, but he is a stubborn man, and there isn't much I can do.
The last time, he landed on his feet, and now, he's happier than he's ever been--closer to me and my sister than ever before, in love with a woman who is perfect for him. It seems unfair somehow that he would end up sick at this time in his life, when he's finally got his mental illness under his control and is so, so happy. But life is not fair, does not always make sense, and, of course, I know this. It's just that for so long, probably for the longest period in my life up to this point, everything was making sense--so facing this uncertainty again is difficult, to say the least.
Meanwhile, S. has decided she's an atheist. I am not particularly alarmed by this; I have been an atheist at different times in my life, and nearly all my friends are atheists. It's startling, but not completely surprising, that she went from being an evangelical Christian to an atheist in six months--after all, she's finally, for the first time, allowed to think for herself, to be her own person. Still, I can't help but remember how, when we watched the Twin Cities Pride Parade together, she was horrified by the atheist contingency--much more so than the half-naked gay men dancing on top of a float to techno music or the drag queens. "It's just--well, it's just that it's a little too much for me," she'd said, and we'd had a long talk about accepting all people's beliefs, about how a loving God couldn't possibly reject a person over what that person believed, about how some of the most ethical people I know are atheists, how I had to believe God wanted us to live ethically and lovingly and cared more about our actions than our beliefs.
S. wants to learn about other religions, to take some time to think about what she believes--but in the meantime, she's OK with believing in nothing. We've talked about Jesus' teachings as teachings rather than some holy script that trumps all other texts; this is basically how I view them most of the time, though I do feel a mystery beyond the words there, a transcendence I can't fully write off--but she's not sure about this, either, until she's looked at other options. I am proud of her; this, like breaking up with her boyfriend, like starting to take her education seriously, shows she's beginning to believe in herself and in this new life.
Strangely, right before I found out about my father, right before S. made her announcement that she no longer wanted to pray together or to go to church, I found myself engaged in a series of deep conversations with friends about uncertainty. Similar conversations have continued into this week, all of them hanging together with this theme, though in the midst of talking, it was not clear that, duh, I was supposed to be paying attention, to be learning something. At least twice I tried to suggest a solution that seemed right, not realizing I was crossing a line until it was too late; the friends who were coming to me needed to be told it was OK to be uncertain, OK not to be sure, OK to...well, to do nothing, to simply wait.
S. has been going through a couple weeks of resistance and anger and frustration and low self-esteem. These emotions and actions have blended together so confusingly that it was not always clear how to respond--should I berate her for not getting her homework done, or should I praise her for how well completed the parts that were completed? When she overate to the point of getting sick one day, should I have focused on the natural consequences, the health risk, or attend to the emotions that were behind the overeating? Should I keep the bar high, insist she is capable of doing well in science, or should I talk to her gently about how it is OK not to be good at everything, give her a break? Should I be mad at the teacher for not challenging her enough, for talking down to her, or mad at her for taking advantage of this? I am never sure. With this most recent "two steps back," so many things that seemed clear to me are no longer clear.
I've also had to come face-to-face with some people I once deeply loved who are no longer in my life. Without going into too much detail, the encounters called into question many of the decisions I've made professionally and personally. And work has been hard; I took on some projects I knew would be professionally and politically challenging, would require careful navigation, and I'm starting to feel the exhaustion from the effort they are taking; I know I'm teetering between either throwing myself into them wholeheartedly, loving the challenge, or pulling away. My heart is fighting itself, and I'm facing self-doubt for the first time in awhile.
This weekend I had the great blessing of spending time with other poets--doing two readings back to back, getting breaks from S. during this challenging time. I loved it, but being with them made me realize how little time I actually spend writing. Just last week, I felt completely at peace about my decision to write more freely, and even felt that my work was the best it's ever been, but that I wanted to hold the poems, the sentences, close for awhile, see how they changed, what they became. A few conversations about the poetry biz and I was feeling inadequate, exhausted, frustrated again. That the work feels like a blessing is, right now, what is most important, even if there's less of it, even if its final resting place is no longer clear--but suddenly, I found myself wondering if I shouldn't be trying harder, setting aside more time, being more aggressive in sending out the work.
So, I've been doubting myself more, and feeling a little less centered. I know there are practical things I can do to get back to myself--writing here is one of them, and working out, and getting time alone--but I felt too exhausted to do them.
And then, today, everything changed.
For eight years now I've been leading a service-learning project at a nursing home. Students plan activities for the elders each week, record what happened, write a series of papers and found poems about the experience. The project matters to me; it is, as they say, my baby, but I'd gotten so busy administering it that it has been a long time since I've let myself simply sit in on a session. Today, I did. This was the first session with this new group of students. It was almost painful to watch them muddle through, shyly ask questions, to see the elders regard them with confusion and politeness--and then, in the end, something opened up.
Just before we left, one of the most resistant and quietest residents grabbed a John Deere tractor model and began to roll it around on the table, making tractor sounds, laughing at herself, at us. As we wheeled her back to her room, she said she couldn't wait for us to come back.
I thought about how the last two weeks have been like the first 30 minutes at the beginning of that session. I felt, suddenly, profoundly, out of sorts in my own body, my own home, my own life. I was sitting in a familiar room with familiar people--I knew these students, these elders, but somehow the conversation wasn't right, was stilted or stifled or--well, unnatural. My daughter was regressing, I was saying the wrong things to people who were seeking my help, I was having to face people with whom I had unfinished business. All the things I'd come to peace about--old breakups, old friendships, my writing, my teaching, my relationship with my father--were suddenly up for grabs again, no longer clearly planted in a framework that made sense. And then, suddenly, something turned--Doris began wheeling a little John Deere around the table, rediscovering some part of herself that was silly (and resilient), and there was a little laughter, a little lightness, and everything looked different.
I had a series of difficult meetings after that session, but the image of that toy tractor weaving in and out of our other props, zig zagging across the table, stayed with me. When I got home, S. and I walked the dog as usual, but I felt energized by the new chill in the air, the leaves turning, the bright sun. Home again, S's science tutor showed up only to learn that S. had not brought home her notes, would not be able to study for this test, didn't even know what the test was on. I felt my heart sinking--we'd had this battle over the weekend, I'd written to her teachers, her special education advocate--but somehow in the last 24 hours nothing had been resolved. Nobody knew where her paraprofessional's notes were, where her notes were. Nobody could tell me, or her, what the test was on. I was tired of being an advocate--I felt myself sinking into a funk when her tutor said, "We'll review what we did last time. Going over those concepts have got to help her somehow on this new test." And, of course, she was right. Two and 1/2 hours later, S. was ecstatic; she was finally getting it, she even remembered a little about what they'd covered in the last week! (I thought for a second, dejectedly, but she's two tests behind--but then I stopped myself. She was getting it! Maybe she would not fail after all! I felt the lightness again, the toy tractor's zig-zag path). When her tutor left, S. went right to her other homework, not complaining. She said, "I'm getting my confidence back."
Then I left for an hour to be there for a friend, and S. lost her motivation, didn't finish the last homework of the night; I got back and found her in the bathtub, where she'd been for over an hour, reading horse books. I got mad, she got mad, but in the end I said to her, "Let's stop here. You had a breakthrough in science. You got your chores done. Let's just...stop."
"I'll get up early and finish," she promised. She may not; another 0 in another class may cost her a solid C; but I need to teach her that sometimes we sacrifice one victory for another defeat, one priority for another one.
After tucking her in, I realized I was happy again. My life is back in its framework. I have the energy to write this. I can face the challenges.
Jesus once told a parable about two sons. Their father asked the first to do something for him, and he said yes, gladly, but didn't do it. The other said no at first, but eventually had a change of heart, completed the task. "Which one did what the father asked?" Jesus asks his listeners, a group of Pharisees who are trying to trap him with his own words. It is, of course, a rhetorical question, and the lesson seems obvious at first. Of course it's better to hesitate, then act out of integrity, than it is to claim a desire to act but never follow through.
But then, Jesus finishes the parable like this: "I tell you the truth, the tax collectors and prostitutes are entering the kingdom of God ahead of you." He was so tired of the Pharisees' lives, all words, no actions, about the way they avoided living squarely in the world, that he could barely contain his anger.
A friend of mine, when I was in the midst of the most uncertain time in my life--leaving a six-year relationship, starting over--gave me a magnet that says, "When you're going through hell, keep going." It's still on my refrigerator. I don't think I'm in hell exactly--just in a dark patch on an otherwise well-lit road. Sometimes I need to sit down and look around for awhile, get my bearings, stop hurrying. Sometimes I have to push through.
Seeing my father through this illness, seeing my child through her inconsistent motivation, her uncertain beliefs, is not going to be easy. But a commitment to a life that matters, that is larger than words, never is. In the end, the words need to reflect the life, and not the other way around, and maybe if I can remember this than all of my self-doubt about my writing, all of my angst about the past, will seem less important than simply sitting by the side of the road, or taking the next (uncertain) step.
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