January 18th and I've been wanting to write about him and his day all week but I was a single mom until last night while Fred was away at Sundance. The kids and I did well, all things considered, meaning that Fred and I have a real partnership managing things on the homefront and it's clearly not a one-person job. If I were a single mom, I don't know if I'd be able to crave out any room for writing. Just keeping up with daily life chores (packing lunches, laundry, finding my keys) while working and getting the kids down to bed every night (Fred's thing) took pretty much all of my life force. From Monday to Friday morning, I was feeling happy for Fred that he could be there and happy that the kids and I were doing well but by Friday afternoon when George's teacher called me to say that he was crying and she thought he had a stomach ache just when I had pulled up for my acupuncture appointment, I kind of snapped and wanted Fred home and just hung on, full of crabbiness and drank way too much wine Friday night.
I know there are a lot of single parents raising children with autism and my God, I salute them and I am grateful for my partnership with Fred. George has moments like that, his crying Friday at school, when he can't express the complexity of what he's feeling. It's so hard to be with and I so desparately hope that his verbal expression continues to grow this year. We need a breakthrough;
he is an incredible sweetie, my George, and smart and learning and really neurologically challenged, too. His 7-year-old birthday was lovely. My mom and dad were able to come in from out of town to visit and that made it for George. George has such a big love for them, especially a connection with my Dad. I said, "Pop-pop is coming soon, George" Saturday afternoon while we were waiting for them and George went right to the living room window and looked out and sat to wait for him. Sunday morning when George jumped into bed with my parents, my dad said,"We're going to celebrate your birthday today, George. You are 7 years old!" and George started singing "Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to Georgie, Happy Birthday to you!" It was quite a moment for all of us...because George's verbal expression is so limited and it can be hard to know how much he understands
and it requires an ongoing faith and an ongoing expansion of my heart to stay present with George and to accompany him on his journey. I have a great appreciation of this opportunity which has awoken a degree of compassion in me that I never knew I had, which opens me up to ongoing wonder in the world. And at the same time, it is motherfucking hard work. In every way.
And I'm not going to write and detail all that here, not now anyway. Except to say that the last seven years of my life have been full of incredible moments of frustration, rage, hope, belief and profound love and connection with my little boy, who at seven stands tall and is not "little" anymore
and 7 feels significant, a Biblical number, the start of a new cycle and I think, where will be be in our journey in 7 years? Georgie, me, Fred, June, the four of us, connected, sharing and trading energy, teaching each other every day how to love and be present. Where will be in 7 years, Georgie? We can only get there taking one step at a time and I am here with you, honey, I am not phoning it in. This year, this last year of my life has taught me how to be here, Please forgive me for all of the fuck-ups that I have made trying to parent you in the best way. I know that I will make more, but I am trying.
We went with my parents to a restaurant that makes a great gluten free pizza and then we met Fred's family for a game of bowling and I brought along gf chocolate cupcakes. I planned a low key day but I know it was a day that George enjoyed.
My baby is 7 and my big girl is going to take her first ballet class soon and Fred had a fantastic time away at Sundance and was also really happy to come home and I learned that I could be a single mother if I had to but I most certainly did not want to and also I am going to keep making this space for me to create.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
I didn't that the the year turning from 2009 to 2010
would affect me so much, but it did. Fred and I couldn't get a babysitter for New Year's Eve so we didn't make any big plans--just to hang out together, watch "The Pope of Greenwich Village" (we're on a Mickey Rourke kick) and drink a bottle of wine. I was so busy being with the kids every day during winter break that I didn't really make space to process that 2009--my cancer year--was about to pass. Then I got a flurry of emails from friends wishing me happy new year and asking if I was glad to see 2009 go.
The kids went to bed easily and I found myself in a tearful, hopeful place; the marking of the new year crept up on me but once I turned around and looked at it, I realized that it was a meaningful moment. This is an email I wrote New Years Eve and sent to friends:
The kids went to bed easily and I found myself in a tearful, hopeful place; the marking of the new year crept up on me but once I turned around and looked at it, I realized that it was a meaningful moment. This is an email I wrote New Years Eve and sent to friends:
Dear Friends,
here we are on the verge of a new decade & I wanted to send new year wishes and thank you for being part of my life duing the last year. I've tried to thank friends and family personally for being there for me as I went through cancer diagnosis & treatment but I know that I've missed doing that with many people and so if you were one of them, please forgive me and know that I am grateful to you for being a support to me.
Many of you have commented on how I went through the cancer experience staying positive. That's not exactly how I see it; I think that what I was able to do was stay present. I was able to face whatever feeling arose--fear, sadness, joy, anger--and create space to see it as just a feeling and in doing so, watch it leave me.
I have been a spiritual seeker for a long time but years of meditation, prayer and yoga could not teach me to be conscious of the present moment in the way that cancer did. I am not happy to have gone through illness but I am damn happy to have reaped that learning and to feel it manifest now, moment by moment, in my life.As 2009 is leaving us, I say good-bye to the suffering that I went through and I am in deep appreciation of the blessings that have sustained me and so please know that your love and friendship has been one of them.
I am moving forward with all of my dreams. Since writing The Creative Jewish Wedding Book in 2004, I have been helping friends to shape their wedding ceremonies. Now I am beginning to work with couples as a wedding officant. This work brings me incredible joy. I work with all kinds of couples--Jewish, interfaith, GLBT, whoever they are. I am also working with couples who would like to do a vow renewal ceremony. If you know people who might be looking for an officiant, will you share my new web site: http://www.createyourwedding.net/
I am wishing you love, faith and joy for 2010. Make your wishes known to the full blue moon tonight!
Lots of love,
Gabby
here I am 11 days into 2010 and I like this year and my plans and my new ability to be present and approach myself with more compassion. Today in fact was probably my worst day so far of 2010, I hit a pothole and blew out two tires, but you know, I did all right in not beating myself up so much about it and moving on with my day.
May 2010 bring peace, love, strength and compassion to you, to all of us.
here I am 11 days into 2010 and I like this year and my plans and my new ability to be present and approach myself with more compassion. Today in fact was probably my worst day so far of 2010, I hit a pothole and blew out two tires, but you know, I did all right in not beating myself up so much about it and moving on with my day.
May 2010 bring peace, love, strength and compassion to you, to all of us.
Friday, December 25, 2009
It's Christmas morning,
George woke up at 5AM (not because of Christmas just because that's when he's been waking), Fred got up with him and I slept until 7AM when June got up and then Fred went back to sleep for a couple of hours and now we're all up and Fred is downstairs with the kids eating his omelette while they play "Cariboo" and I sneak off to write a bit.
I feel openhearted. I haven't sent cards or even an email message out but I am sending loving energy to all of my friends who are celebrating today, to all of the soldiers who are away and not with their families, to children and families who are struggling today, to people in the hospital, to people in my life who have helped me and whom I have lost touch with and are maybe disappointed in me.
I am more able to watch my mind this Christmas morning than I ever was in years past and notice when I am stuck in racing thoughts. I am more able to quiet my mind and meditate on qualities like love. I am better able to notice changes in my body as I change my mind.
Some days, that is. Yesterday was a long day for me; it was the kids' first day of winter break and we had no plans. It is too cold and snowy here to be outside much. George was really rammy, his energy just never settled no matter what activity I tried. Being inside with an overactive child felt annoying and draining.
Noticing that, I didn't take myself to a place of judgement. I just acknowledged that's how my day was going and that's how I was feeling. Fred came home from work early (at 5PM) to support me and when the kids went to bed we watched "The Wrestler" which I had been wanting to see for a year.
I am feeling so open and shifted today, maybe because of the support, the self-care, the sleep, knowing Fred is here with me today and tomorrow we have plans to go see my sister and family. I think it is more, though; I think being in that annoyed, crappy state of mind yesterday without judging it is what's created the shift.
I am incredibly grateful that I am becoming more mindful of my funny mind and the thoughts that churn through it.
When I came downstairs this morning, George was still full of that excess energy. We sat on the couch together and did a lot of physical play--clapping, rocking back and forth singing "Row, Row, Your Boat." His eyes were sparkling and he engaged with me for a long time and sang a lot. I imagine his soul saying to me Mommy, this is what I needed. Thank you for tuning in and giving it to me.
I can see that in the past few years. having a child with autism has been a great motivator for me to turn inward and turn to my energy and intuition more, especially because so often George can't express to me what he needs or how he is feeling.
But I also recognize that this past year of facing my cancer and getting rid of it has lead me to know that tuning into my energy and working on living mindfully is neccessary not just for George's sake, but for my own.
I want to live a happy life. Being present and open is allowing that to happen. I see now just how much I wanted to control my happiness before, to make the happiness happen. And how devastating it was when suffering happened, like George's autism being diagnosed.
And now I get that the hard, challenging things that happen in our life are part of the nature of life and that every human being suffers and feels fear. And that my response to what manifests in my life is the gateway to happiness; not a fake response, not "be positive." No. My response is now "be present." Notice what I am feeling. Notice what I am thinking. Notice conflicts that I create in my mind. Notice that I am feeling annoyed as hell.
Notice the beauty of being with my husband and children this Christmas morning, notice how it feels to be here with an open heart.
Notice my prayers. Notice the gifts in my life, the incredible community of friends, the work that keeps opening up for me, the synchronicity, the doctors who helped me to get well, Rabbi Yael and Rabbi Linda.
One moment at a time is what I need to show up for. That's all.
***
Last weekend there was a huge snowstorm here and everything closed down including my work so I actually get three weekends off in a row instead of two. What a GIFT! It was snowing when we woke up Saturday morning and it never stopped all day, it snowed into Saturday night and Sunday morning.
I loved the hush of everything. I loved looking into the sky. I thought of other snowstorms in my life, especially of the snowy January and February that followed George's birth and how I wrapped him in layers of onesies and sweaters and snowsuits and put him in the baby bjorn so I could take him out with me just for a little fresh air and how a walk around the block was an incredible adventure and how I could feel his breath and gurgles against my chest and how I wrapped my arms around the baby bjorn and pressed him close against me. And how I remember and savor that delicious moment now because there I was, totally present, feeling the wind, the cold, and the love for my child.
And I thought about snowstorms when I was a child and how everything stopped in the big open of our backyard, set out in the mountains and how I would make snow angels and look into the sky and in the quiet there, I lost myself into the sky, into the falling snow. That quiet, that consciousness, is the place I ran away from, not knowing what to call it, not knowing that others felt it, too. It is the place that
am returning to in all weather, my life as part of an ongoing consciousness, part of the sky, the falling snow, the disappointments and suffering of all people and the release of all disappointments and suffering. Here I am, letting tears come and fall onto my keyboard, here I am writing it down.
Here I am, Christmas morning ( I need to get the kids dressed now and we're going out to the movies soon), wide awake.
I feel openhearted. I haven't sent cards or even an email message out but I am sending loving energy to all of my friends who are celebrating today, to all of the soldiers who are away and not with their families, to children and families who are struggling today, to people in the hospital, to people in my life who have helped me and whom I have lost touch with and are maybe disappointed in me.
I am more able to watch my mind this Christmas morning than I ever was in years past and notice when I am stuck in racing thoughts. I am more able to quiet my mind and meditate on qualities like love. I am better able to notice changes in my body as I change my mind.
Some days, that is. Yesterday was a long day for me; it was the kids' first day of winter break and we had no plans. It is too cold and snowy here to be outside much. George was really rammy, his energy just never settled no matter what activity I tried. Being inside with an overactive child felt annoying and draining.
Noticing that, I didn't take myself to a place of judgement. I just acknowledged that's how my day was going and that's how I was feeling. Fred came home from work early (at 5PM) to support me and when the kids went to bed we watched "The Wrestler" which I had been wanting to see for a year.
I am feeling so open and shifted today, maybe because of the support, the self-care, the sleep, knowing Fred is here with me today and tomorrow we have plans to go see my sister and family. I think it is more, though; I think being in that annoyed, crappy state of mind yesterday without judging it is what's created the shift.
I am incredibly grateful that I am becoming more mindful of my funny mind and the thoughts that churn through it.
When I came downstairs this morning, George was still full of that excess energy. We sat on the couch together and did a lot of physical play--clapping, rocking back and forth singing "Row, Row, Your Boat." His eyes were sparkling and he engaged with me for a long time and sang a lot. I imagine his soul saying to me Mommy, this is what I needed. Thank you for tuning in and giving it to me.
I can see that in the past few years. having a child with autism has been a great motivator for me to turn inward and turn to my energy and intuition more, especially because so often George can't express to me what he needs or how he is feeling.
But I also recognize that this past year of facing my cancer and getting rid of it has lead me to know that tuning into my energy and working on living mindfully is neccessary not just for George's sake, but for my own.
I want to live a happy life. Being present and open is allowing that to happen. I see now just how much I wanted to control my happiness before, to make the happiness happen. And how devastating it was when suffering happened, like George's autism being diagnosed.
And now I get that the hard, challenging things that happen in our life are part of the nature of life and that every human being suffers and feels fear. And that my response to what manifests in my life is the gateway to happiness; not a fake response, not "be positive." No. My response is now "be present." Notice what I am feeling. Notice what I am thinking. Notice conflicts that I create in my mind. Notice that I am feeling annoyed as hell.
Notice the beauty of being with my husband and children this Christmas morning, notice how it feels to be here with an open heart.
Notice my prayers. Notice the gifts in my life, the incredible community of friends, the work that keeps opening up for me, the synchronicity, the doctors who helped me to get well, Rabbi Yael and Rabbi Linda.
One moment at a time is what I need to show up for. That's all.
***
Last weekend there was a huge snowstorm here and everything closed down including my work so I actually get three weekends off in a row instead of two. What a GIFT! It was snowing when we woke up Saturday morning and it never stopped all day, it snowed into Saturday night and Sunday morning.
I loved the hush of everything. I loved looking into the sky. I thought of other snowstorms in my life, especially of the snowy January and February that followed George's birth and how I wrapped him in layers of onesies and sweaters and snowsuits and put him in the baby bjorn so I could take him out with me just for a little fresh air and how a walk around the block was an incredible adventure and how I could feel his breath and gurgles against my chest and how I wrapped my arms around the baby bjorn and pressed him close against me. And how I remember and savor that delicious moment now because there I was, totally present, feeling the wind, the cold, and the love for my child.
And I thought about snowstorms when I was a child and how everything stopped in the big open of our backyard, set out in the mountains and how I would make snow angels and look into the sky and in the quiet there, I lost myself into the sky, into the falling snow. That quiet, that consciousness, is the place I ran away from, not knowing what to call it, not knowing that others felt it, too. It is the place that
am returning to in all weather, my life as part of an ongoing consciousness, part of the sky, the falling snow, the disappointments and suffering of all people and the release of all disappointments and suffering. Here I am, letting tears come and fall onto my keyboard, here I am writing it down.
Here I am, Christmas morning ( I need to get the kids dressed now and we're going out to the movies soon), wide awake.
Monday, December 14, 2009
A week and a half ago it was 60 degrees out
and sunny; it was Thursday, the day I keep June home from preschool so that we can have June-Mommy time. We walked to the Elkins Park library and stopped at Elkins Perk for bagels with cream cheese on the way home. Being with June on a sunny day in December filled me with joy and when we arrived back home it was about 1PM and we still had a couple of hours until it was time to get George from school so we planted tulip bulbs that I had been meaning to plant for about a month and a half. I dug the wholes and June plopped in the bulbs and covered them with dirt
and I remembered how one of my first blog entries last march right after my surgery was about taking a walk George and noticing tulips and daffodils sprouting up in my yard and not remembering having planted the bulbs the previous fall. And there I was, with my garden gloves on, digging in the dirt with June, the sun shining on our backs and shoulders, laughing with her as she dangled worms between her fingers, thinking
I've arrived. I'm here right now, I'm in my life, breathing and laughing and being with June...whereas a year ago in this kind of moment, I know that my mind would have not only been circling around my to-do list but also be reminding me of all the things that I hadn't done right or well or thinking about people whom I "owed" a phone call to or ruminating about some mistake I'd made at work.
And now, the blessing that is coming out of my contemplative practice is noticing how my mind works, so that I can turn it off or at least be aware of it so that racing thoughts can't stop me from soaking in the sun and dirt and the joy of being with my daughter
who marvels at worms and how they squirm and how one can become two worms.
Having survived cancer, I am sure as hell not willing to let my anxieties or perfectionism rob me from living my life.
****
For the last two weeks or so, I've bundled up the kids in hats and coats at 5PM and taken them out for a brisk walk before dinner. George really needs physical activity to settle his sensory system and the fresh air does us all good. Entering the winter making a conscious effort to move my body is one of the ways that I'm hoping to fend off the usual seasonal depression that sets in for me about this time of year.
We look at our neighbors' Christmas lights. George gets fascinated by blinking lights and stops to gaze at them and jumps up and down. I wish he could describe to me how he's seeing it because I can tell that it is very magical for him.
June wants to celebrate Christmas this year, even though I've explained that Chanukah is our tradition. Sending her to a Jewish preschool can only do so much, Christmas is everywhere. It makes perfect developmental sense to me that it's hard for her to distinguish between "ours" and "theirs" and I'm trying to be low-key about it and not make a big deal about the distinction and focus on making warm Chanukah memories that will become part of her foundation.
There is one house we walk by that is the best: it's got a yard full of dancing santas, trees wrapped like candy canes and a glowing creche scene, complete with camels and the three wise men on their way to see Baby Jesus.
The first day we saw it, June asked me if she could sing a chanukah song to Santa(s). I said sure and she launched into a very dramatic rendition of "S'vivon, Sov, Sov" ("Spin Drydel") at the top of her lungs. We said good-night to the santas and walked over towards the creche scene. June asked me who the baby was and I said baby Jesus and that Christmas is his birthday and June said who is the Mommy and Daddy and I said Mary and Joseph and they are so happy that there baby is with them just how I was so happy when I got to hold baby George and baby June because you both were my dreams and then God brought you both to me.
And Georgie, who hadn't said anything for at least an hour and was jumping up and down as if his body was receiving electrical charge from the lights, started singing the song from Barney I love you, You love me, We're a happy family...
and it's not like he watches Barney or anything and we probably hadn't sang that song for a year maybe and he pulled it out, there in front of baby Jesus and he sang it beautifully, the whole thing.
And I don't know if his singing was the miracle of the moment or that June stayed quiet and let him sing or that I was alive and well holding my two babies mittened hands or that God had brought us all together, the four of us, our happy family
but I did thank God for my expanding heart, for all of my blessings, and for the beautiful story
of that baby, which evokes love and hope in my heart.
***
And that I'll figure out how to say to June that religion is a metaphor and that Judaism is our culture, a beautiful and complicated civilization with a language, food, ethics, traditions, etc. that we can draw strength and wisdom from.
But God, I offer to both of my kids, is the consciousness inside of us, around us, connecting us. God is our breath, our awareness. You don't have to know anything to access God; God is there, God is holding us.
I am so much more gentle and loving to myself now. I can see myself more clearly because I am not afraid to see my life clearly, its deep challenges and its blessings.
I am thankful to light my little Chanukah candles this December, this Hebrew month of Kislev, and watch them rather quickly melt. I may only have a moment or two to notice them because someone is whining to open presents now or needs their special holiday kiddush cup filled with more apple juice, but that moment is enough right now. To have one moment and really experience the candle's light allows it to stay with me when it is dark and gone.
and I remembered how one of my first blog entries last march right after my surgery was about taking a walk George and noticing tulips and daffodils sprouting up in my yard and not remembering having planted the bulbs the previous fall. And there I was, with my garden gloves on, digging in the dirt with June, the sun shining on our backs and shoulders, laughing with her as she dangled worms between her fingers, thinking
I've arrived. I'm here right now, I'm in my life, breathing and laughing and being with June...whereas a year ago in this kind of moment, I know that my mind would have not only been circling around my to-do list but also be reminding me of all the things that I hadn't done right or well or thinking about people whom I "owed" a phone call to or ruminating about some mistake I'd made at work.
And now, the blessing that is coming out of my contemplative practice is noticing how my mind works, so that I can turn it off or at least be aware of it so that racing thoughts can't stop me from soaking in the sun and dirt and the joy of being with my daughter
who marvels at worms and how they squirm and how one can become two worms.
Having survived cancer, I am sure as hell not willing to let my anxieties or perfectionism rob me from living my life.
****
For the last two weeks or so, I've bundled up the kids in hats and coats at 5PM and taken them out for a brisk walk before dinner. George really needs physical activity to settle his sensory system and the fresh air does us all good. Entering the winter making a conscious effort to move my body is one of the ways that I'm hoping to fend off the usual seasonal depression that sets in for me about this time of year.
We look at our neighbors' Christmas lights. George gets fascinated by blinking lights and stops to gaze at them and jumps up and down. I wish he could describe to me how he's seeing it because I can tell that it is very magical for him.
June wants to celebrate Christmas this year, even though I've explained that Chanukah is our tradition. Sending her to a Jewish preschool can only do so much, Christmas is everywhere. It makes perfect developmental sense to me that it's hard for her to distinguish between "ours" and "theirs" and I'm trying to be low-key about it and not make a big deal about the distinction and focus on making warm Chanukah memories that will become part of her foundation.
There is one house we walk by that is the best: it's got a yard full of dancing santas, trees wrapped like candy canes and a glowing creche scene, complete with camels and the three wise men on their way to see Baby Jesus.
The first day we saw it, June asked me if she could sing a chanukah song to Santa(s). I said sure and she launched into a very dramatic rendition of "S'vivon, Sov, Sov" ("Spin Drydel") at the top of her lungs. We said good-night to the santas and walked over towards the creche scene. June asked me who the baby was and I said baby Jesus and that Christmas is his birthday and June said who is the Mommy and Daddy and I said Mary and Joseph and they are so happy that there baby is with them just how I was so happy when I got to hold baby George and baby June because you both were my dreams and then God brought you both to me.
And Georgie, who hadn't said anything for at least an hour and was jumping up and down as if his body was receiving electrical charge from the lights, started singing the song from Barney I love you, You love me, We're a happy family...
and it's not like he watches Barney or anything and we probably hadn't sang that song for a year maybe and he pulled it out, there in front of baby Jesus and he sang it beautifully, the whole thing.
And I don't know if his singing was the miracle of the moment or that June stayed quiet and let him sing or that I was alive and well holding my two babies mittened hands or that God had brought us all together, the four of us, our happy family
but I did thank God for my expanding heart, for all of my blessings, and for the beautiful story
of that baby, which evokes love and hope in my heart.
***
And that I'll figure out how to say to June that religion is a metaphor and that Judaism is our culture, a beautiful and complicated civilization with a language, food, ethics, traditions, etc. that we can draw strength and wisdom from.
But God, I offer to both of my kids, is the consciousness inside of us, around us, connecting us. God is our breath, our awareness. You don't have to know anything to access God; God is there, God is holding us.
I am so much more gentle and loving to myself now. I can see myself more clearly because I am not afraid to see my life clearly, its deep challenges and its blessings.
I am thankful to light my little Chanukah candles this December, this Hebrew month of Kislev, and watch them rather quickly melt. I may only have a moment or two to notice them because someone is whining to open presents now or needs their special holiday kiddush cup filled with more apple juice, but that moment is enough right now. To have one moment and really experience the candle's light allows it to stay with me when it is dark and gone.
Monday, November 30, 2009
At our Thanksgving dinner
when everyone had come to the table, plates full from the bountiful buffet at the U.S. Hotel in Hollidaysburg, PA, where I grew up, where my parents live, all twelve of us--Mom, Dad, Sabba, Julie, Gal, Ben, Jake, Max, Fred, George, June and me--Gal raised his glass and everyone put their forks down and stopped talking and Gal said we are thankful to God for everyone's health and for everyone being here and Aunt Gabby is my hero. She has been through a hard time this year and they way she went through it makes her my hero.
Tears came to my eyes and to Gal's when our eyes met; I was incredibly moved by his sincere expression and his acknowledgement of what my year has been and how I've experienced it. I don't know if I take in the idea of "hero" which seems kind of exaggerrated to me, but I would say to Gal, maybe I am a model? and I will accept that
because I think I can tell you what it is that I've been trying to write about all of these months and what I've learned and what I'm living:
that God is with us in suffereing; that life is a mystery; that challenging stuff comes at us, it's just the nature of the world that we live in. That being present to the suffering, not running or escaping from it is powerful. That being present to the suffering alleviates the suffering.
That here I am, a 38-year-old woman who fills blessed, full of hope, energy and optimism, even as I say that my life is full of daily challenges: managing Type 1 diabetes, working to remediate my son's autism, which goes through phases where things are working well and then phases where things just aren't. That I made it through cancer and cancer treatment and now have a stronger commitment to build a life of physical, emotional and spiritual health and that I have discovered to do so, I need to not run from subconsious thoughts or fears but let them surface and acknowledge them.
and that a sense of inner happiness can be there, even when the outside of my life is complicated, hard and messy. Which is how it feels some days, it how it feels today, in fact, with George being off his gluten-free diet and not sleeping well for two nights now. Which is how it feels now, sitting inmy pajamas, needing to shower, pay bills and straighten up the house. Today I'm sitting with the frustration of George not sleeping and even though we've been here before, where George's behavior and regulation goes off when his diet is off, it still feels like it's going to be a lot of work to get him on track and I desparately want to be on the other side, where's he's sleeping and functioning well again.
And yet, that being said, I feel so totally different from how I might have felt a year ago. I am still feeling what is happiness and well-being, knowing that the frustration is just a feeling, even writing that now, it is leaving me.
I'm going to shower now and go take a walk. It's cloudy out, overcast, around 50 degrees. While I walk, I am going to try and focus on my breath and meditate on peace and see what thoughts and feelings come up and out of my mind and then I'll try to return to my breath,
it's a process, I haven't become a monk or something or a spiritual superhero for goodness sake, but I have gotten closer to living the life that I want to live and I am going to keep writing because I don't think that I expressed it exactly today as I'm feeling it.
Happiness is inner and my life doesn't need to be perfect or fill anyone else's longings. I am responsible for my happiness. The place where I am empty out and breath is where I feel God entering me, supporting me on cold, cloudy days.
Tears came to my eyes and to Gal's when our eyes met; I was incredibly moved by his sincere expression and his acknowledgement of what my year has been and how I've experienced it. I don't know if I take in the idea of "hero" which seems kind of exaggerrated to me, but I would say to Gal, maybe I am a model? and I will accept that
because I think I can tell you what it is that I've been trying to write about all of these months and what I've learned and what I'm living:
that God is with us in suffereing; that life is a mystery; that challenging stuff comes at us, it's just the nature of the world that we live in. That being present to the suffering, not running or escaping from it is powerful. That being present to the suffering alleviates the suffering.
That here I am, a 38-year-old woman who fills blessed, full of hope, energy and optimism, even as I say that my life is full of daily challenges: managing Type 1 diabetes, working to remediate my son's autism, which goes through phases where things are working well and then phases where things just aren't. That I made it through cancer and cancer treatment and now have a stronger commitment to build a life of physical, emotional and spiritual health and that I have discovered to do so, I need to not run from subconsious thoughts or fears but let them surface and acknowledge them.
and that a sense of inner happiness can be there, even when the outside of my life is complicated, hard and messy. Which is how it feels some days, it how it feels today, in fact, with George being off his gluten-free diet and not sleeping well for two nights now. Which is how it feels now, sitting inmy pajamas, needing to shower, pay bills and straighten up the house. Today I'm sitting with the frustration of George not sleeping and even though we've been here before, where George's behavior and regulation goes off when his diet is off, it still feels like it's going to be a lot of work to get him on track and I desparately want to be on the other side, where's he's sleeping and functioning well again.
And yet, that being said, I feel so totally different from how I might have felt a year ago. I am still feeling what is happiness and well-being, knowing that the frustration is just a feeling, even writing that now, it is leaving me.
I'm going to shower now and go take a walk. It's cloudy out, overcast, around 50 degrees. While I walk, I am going to try and focus on my breath and meditate on peace and see what thoughts and feelings come up and out of my mind and then I'll try to return to my breath,
it's a process, I haven't become a monk or something or a spiritual superhero for goodness sake, but I have gotten closer to living the life that I want to live and I am going to keep writing because I don't think that I expressed it exactly today as I'm feeling it.
Happiness is inner and my life doesn't need to be perfect or fill anyone else's longings. I am responsible for my happiness. The place where I am empty out and breath is where I feel God entering me, supporting me on cold, cloudy days.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
This time of year I have often become mildly depressed,
sometimes with consciousness of it and sometimes not, and right now I can feel my body shift into a kind of slow, hibernational mode, but I'm not depressed at all. I feel very close to God and very grateful. I feel very clear. I feel like my practice of being present is taking hold in a very powerful way, my practice of noticing. It's been 5 weeks now that my life has been out of any regular order, first the lice, then George's surgery, then George's recovery, then this week June's been sick. All of my plans stop and start; adjustments have to be made. Frustration and exhaustion has welled up in me. And then I've noticed those feelings of frustration or exhaustion, and I've emptied them from my body. I've breathed in and felt myself surrounded by God's presence, held, open to receiving blessings in the midst of what's going on. Just really, after cancer, the imperfections of life are just imperfections of life.
And actually I want to stop saying after cancer, referring to my experiences now as "after cancer," because it's more than that I am a survivor, it's actually about the process, the way that I survived. Which is that I went through cancer allowing myself to be vulnerable and in that place, I opened to God with a faith and trust that I hadn't gone to before. I'm ready to own that now, thank you very much.
And I know that surrender maybe sounds like letting go of control and I know that you may be reading this thinking sure she feels close to God, who doesn't call out for God in those liminal moments, when the border between death and life are so unclear and
to that I want to say I don't think that I could have understood this experience before it happened and to that I say that I have felt God's presence with me since I was a child and never knew how to articulate it exactly and to that I say I have always been a seeker and to that I say I am finally able to write and talk about God with no self consciousness, even if maybe here, now, struggling to write what I've been feeling I'm not making much sense?
Am I? Maybe I can come back to this feeling and maybe I can make more sense of it or write in images, write a poem. Now I just want to capture it, to say that in late October and early November 2009, as the days started getting darker and as my son went under anesthesia, twice, and then back to the hospital again, that during that time, I felt held up by God and surrounded by love and the purpose of my life became clearer.
***
A blessing that I want to record: Sandra, Fred's sister, has been around and helping us with child care quite a lot. It has been the hugest blessing. Sandra told me something June said the other day that made me feel like I am being the mother that I want to be: Sandra had trouble working the VCR and said she was sorry to the kids that she couldn't get their movie on. June said to her, "That's okay, Aunt San, my mommy says it's okay to make mistakes."
Because so much of what is happening in me now is about forgiveness, I just felt so elated to hear June internalizing and applying this idea that we all make mistakes.
For me, I see that one of my biggest mistakes has been constantly pushing myself to do, to achieve, to act, which has taken me out of being fully present in my life. I am saying now that I have been complicit in that mistake and in noticing this tendency, I have been able to catch myself. And forgive myself when I go of course, which I do almost daily.
June, I should say, is just becoming so totally herself; so magical and imaginative, so loving and outgoing and spunky. I want to give her so much, I want to protect her. I want her never to hide her voice or feel away from God. And I know I can only do so much and that she's at the beginning of her own, wild ride.
But I hope her seeing my happiness in my imperfect life will inspire her to keep at it, keep at her joy and bliss which seem to rise up and meet her wherever she goes.
And actually I want to stop saying after cancer, referring to my experiences now as "after cancer," because it's more than that I am a survivor, it's actually about the process, the way that I survived. Which is that I went through cancer allowing myself to be vulnerable and in that place, I opened to God with a faith and trust that I hadn't gone to before. I'm ready to own that now, thank you very much.
And I know that surrender maybe sounds like letting go of control and I know that you may be reading this thinking sure she feels close to God, who doesn't call out for God in those liminal moments, when the border between death and life are so unclear and
to that I want to say I don't think that I could have understood this experience before it happened and to that I say that I have felt God's presence with me since I was a child and never knew how to articulate it exactly and to that I say I have always been a seeker and to that I say I am finally able to write and talk about God with no self consciousness, even if maybe here, now, struggling to write what I've been feeling I'm not making much sense?
Am I? Maybe I can come back to this feeling and maybe I can make more sense of it or write in images, write a poem. Now I just want to capture it, to say that in late October and early November 2009, as the days started getting darker and as my son went under anesthesia, twice, and then back to the hospital again, that during that time, I felt held up by God and surrounded by love and the purpose of my life became clearer.
***
A blessing that I want to record: Sandra, Fred's sister, has been around and helping us with child care quite a lot. It has been the hugest blessing. Sandra told me something June said the other day that made me feel like I am being the mother that I want to be: Sandra had trouble working the VCR and said she was sorry to the kids that she couldn't get their movie on. June said to her, "That's okay, Aunt San, my mommy says it's okay to make mistakes."
Because so much of what is happening in me now is about forgiveness, I just felt so elated to hear June internalizing and applying this idea that we all make mistakes.
For me, I see that one of my biggest mistakes has been constantly pushing myself to do, to achieve, to act, which has taken me out of being fully present in my life. I am saying now that I have been complicit in that mistake and in noticing this tendency, I have been able to catch myself. And forgive myself when I go of course, which I do almost daily.
June, I should say, is just becoming so totally herself; so magical and imaginative, so loving and outgoing and spunky. I want to give her so much, I want to protect her. I want her never to hide her voice or feel away from God. And I know I can only do so much and that she's at the beginning of her own, wild ride.
But I hope her seeing my happiness in my imperfect life will inspire her to keep at it, keep at her joy and bliss which seem to rise up and meet her wherever she goes.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
George's surgery is behind us;
it was a slow two weeks, we were at CHOP more than we would have liked, but he's healing now, ready to get back to school on Monday. What a blessing that Sandra, Fred's sister, has been around and able to help out with the kids a lot. We could be at the hospital with George, knowing completely that June was in great hands with Sandra. And the people at CHOP, every one of them, every nurse, doctor, food service person, custodian, they are just friendly and kind and courteous and made being there as easy as it could be.
And I let myself be very present for George while we were there and while he recovered. We watched a lot of Food network TV together and cuddled. I mostly did well at not worrying about all of the projects that I need to organize in the house and about my work that I wasn't doing. After going through cancer treatment, I know now that I don't have to expect perfection of myself and I know that the world goes on even when I fuck up a little here and there...
and I know maybe that sounds a little bit obvious and trite but for me, it's been revolutionary. Allowing myself to make mistakes, allowing myself to be patient when things take a long time, doctors with their discharge papers, for example, I know now that I have some control in how I react and how I react can impact my reality. I can be in CHOP, waiting from 6:30AM to 11:30AM waiting for the nurse practitioner to sign off with George's discharge instructions that Dr. Tom gave me orally at 6:30AM, and I can be grateful for George's healing--or I can just be pissed off that it's taking so long. I meditated consciously on being grateful and I felt so much happier as a result even when feelings of being pissed off surfaced; I could look at them and say "I'm pissed off" and watch that feeling float away...
The mindfulness practice that I've been cultivating is mostly about noticing what I'm feeling and I'm realizing how in any situation, I'm internalizing the practice--
yesterday afternoon I got George in his coat and out in the backyard for some air. I sat in a green folding lawn chair, clutching my hot green tea while the wind blew against me. I closed my eyes against the sun shining and everything was white and for the first time since his surgery I could hear George singing. I felt how present I was to that moment--to the sun, the wind, to George's singing--all of it against the backdrop of everything that I hadn't done or accomplished in the two weeks that I had been caring for George since his surgery. I knew that all of that "stuff" was there but I was able to ignore it and embrace where I was.
A very close, dear, old friend of mine is in rehab right now. I found out a week ago, I found out about her alcoholism a week ago, and she hasn't been out of my mind since. Memories surfacing of our girlhoods together; memories of her father getting ill and dying when we were in high school. I can still see and smell the church that Sunday in June where his mass was held, St. Mary's in Hollidaysburg, and everyone gathering back at the house after the service to eat and the two of us drinking wine from boxes in plastic cups.
I remember the emotions of that day and I remember my girlfriend holding back, holding it in, holding herself together. They're just feelings, I think, remembering her and remembering her dad
and remembering her mom, who passed too, about eight years after that, of what, of drinking, they're just feelings, I think to myself as the sun against my closed eyes makes everything white, in my backyard, in Elkins Park, with my son, nearing seven years old, singing something intangible, what?
Then my eyes open, stinging with tears, Georgie, what are you singing?
My eyes open, stinging with tears, George, I want to know. I want to know what you're singing, what you're thinking.
I miss my friend and I miss all that I've missed, the years of her drinking and suffering and me, not picking up the phone.
(Why do we suffer this way--alone? They're only feeling, feelings--)
They are just feelings I say out loud wiping tears in the cold wind, taking George in to get warm the sun going down, approaching evening, November, dinner to make, calls to return.
And I let myself be very present for George while we were there and while he recovered. We watched a lot of Food network TV together and cuddled. I mostly did well at not worrying about all of the projects that I need to organize in the house and about my work that I wasn't doing. After going through cancer treatment, I know now that I don't have to expect perfection of myself and I know that the world goes on even when I fuck up a little here and there...
and I know maybe that sounds a little bit obvious and trite but for me, it's been revolutionary. Allowing myself to make mistakes, allowing myself to be patient when things take a long time, doctors with their discharge papers, for example, I know now that I have some control in how I react and how I react can impact my reality. I can be in CHOP, waiting from 6:30AM to 11:30AM waiting for the nurse practitioner to sign off with George's discharge instructions that Dr. Tom gave me orally at 6:30AM, and I can be grateful for George's healing--or I can just be pissed off that it's taking so long. I meditated consciously on being grateful and I felt so much happier as a result even when feelings of being pissed off surfaced; I could look at them and say "I'm pissed off" and watch that feeling float away...
The mindfulness practice that I've been cultivating is mostly about noticing what I'm feeling and I'm realizing how in any situation, I'm internalizing the practice--
yesterday afternoon I got George in his coat and out in the backyard for some air. I sat in a green folding lawn chair, clutching my hot green tea while the wind blew against me. I closed my eyes against the sun shining and everything was white and for the first time since his surgery I could hear George singing. I felt how present I was to that moment--to the sun, the wind, to George's singing--all of it against the backdrop of everything that I hadn't done or accomplished in the two weeks that I had been caring for George since his surgery. I knew that all of that "stuff" was there but I was able to ignore it and embrace where I was.
A very close, dear, old friend of mine is in rehab right now. I found out a week ago, I found out about her alcoholism a week ago, and she hasn't been out of my mind since. Memories surfacing of our girlhoods together; memories of her father getting ill and dying when we were in high school. I can still see and smell the church that Sunday in June where his mass was held, St. Mary's in Hollidaysburg, and everyone gathering back at the house after the service to eat and the two of us drinking wine from boxes in plastic cups.
I remember the emotions of that day and I remember my girlfriend holding back, holding it in, holding herself together. They're just feelings, I think, remembering her and remembering her dad
and remembering her mom, who passed too, about eight years after that, of what, of drinking, they're just feelings, I think to myself as the sun against my closed eyes makes everything white, in my backyard, in Elkins Park, with my son, nearing seven years old, singing something intangible, what?
Then my eyes open, stinging with tears, Georgie, what are you singing?
My eyes open, stinging with tears, George, I want to know. I want to know what you're singing, what you're thinking.
I miss my friend and I miss all that I've missed, the years of her drinking and suffering and me, not picking up the phone.
(Why do we suffer this way--alone? They're only feeling, feelings--)
They are just feelings I say out loud wiping tears in the cold wind, taking George in to get warm the sun going down, approaching evening, November, dinner to make, calls to return.
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