Writing, Parenting, and Working in the Mess: Authentic Spirituality and Social Justice

I usually hate lists of simplistic parenting tips, because they rarely go deep enough to be useful. But I’m realizing as I reflect, gratefully, on the last six years with my S, there are some important things I’ve learned that I think are generalize-able—that is, not necessarily specific to having a child with severe trauma and other special needs. But, I am also certain that I may not have learned these things, at least not as clearly, had my child been neurotypical and trauma-free, because I would have had less reason to be intentional, and to pay attention. I might have relied more on other people’s advice (which, incidentally, has always been pretty terrible and completely unrelated to what it means to parent my particular child) or parenting books (except for those that deal with children with trauma, even worse—and even some of those are pretty terrible). Let me add that I learned all of these things by making terrible mistakes, and figuring out what I could have done differe...

In the midst of a difficult time, when the political climate seems desolate, when the wind and snow and cold came much too early and already feel relentless, when people we love are dying or getting sick all around us, when the future is so uncertain for so many we care about, we made a tree trunk and branches out of grocery store paper bags and taped it to our wall. Gratitude tree. Every night, we each write one thing we're grateful for on a colored leaf and tape it to one of the branches. "Let's just skip to snowflakes," S said, but I wouldn't allow it--no winter or holiday decorations until after Thanksgiving, at least. Still, taping up those colored leaves in the midst of both the intense winter weather and the intense suffering around us feels either ridiculous or like a powerful act of resistance, depending on my mood. The leaf-message has to be specific--names rather than "family and friends," short narratives of moments cherished rather than ...

A couple nights ago, I had a massive meltdown about how much I missed writing. So write, T said. But how can I possibly fit writing into my life again? I need space, and time. I need time to breathe, to think, to be present with myself. I don't have time for that. We've started Healing House, now Petalouda House (a name I'll have to explain in another post sometime in the future). We've got two challenging full-time tenants (my daughter S and one other person, whom we'll call H), and a handful of part-timers who come and go, ranging in age from 10 to 25. It's what I always wanted. But, I can't do it if I've lost myself. And then, there's the job. Always new challenges. Always new projects, new ideas, new things that go right, and wrong. And then, there are the day in, day out stressors of continuing, still, to unpack, to make this space our own, to figure out how to pay the bills, keep the old house rented, keep planning for the future. ...