photo credit: lovelightlifelaughter

In my last post I might have casually mentioned that my current school work does not provide interesting blog fodder. So here’s a blog post about a book I’m reading for school. Haha. Either I’m a liar or I’m about to bore you to sleep. Rather than focusing on how neither of these options are particularly flattering for me, let’s focus on how reading this post could be an exciting gamble: will I be a liar? or will you fall asleep? [I think the fact that I am considering this a gamble might be an indication that I need to get out more.]

I’m reading a book, written by an Israeli Jew, about the history of the Holy Land’s landscape since 1948. [Commence yawn.] It is a little dry, so I am only on the second chapter, but the first chapter was all about how Zionists changed the map. Not being a geographer myself I was at first a little confused by this argument. Given that a map represents/reflects the physical landscape, how can one simply change it? Apparently my given was a bit off. The author argues that the Zionists were using the map not simply as a representation of the physical landscape, but as a political tool. How were they doing this? By changing the Arabic names of places (villages, towns, landmarks, rivers, mountains, valleys, etc) to Hebrew names.

Who knew names were so powerful?

I mean, I knew names were important because my name (in Hebrew) means princess, which I’ve always taken as an indication of both my identity and my inherent rights in life, but I guess I never thought of place names as particularly powerful. Perhaps because I’ve never really considered the fact that place names could be changed.

Now that it’s been pointed out to me, though, I can see where names could be a powerful political tool. Changing a place name is a polite way of saying that you’re also deleting a place name. Obviously, on one level, deleting a place name doesn’t change anything – the place still is what it is, it still has its landmarks, history, etc. But, on the other hand, changing the name changes everything. Especially when it’s done as a top-down decision. It’s hard to imagine someone else telling me my name has been changed. In some sense the name itself contains the history, the personality, and the relationships associated with a particular person/place. Erasing a name is one way to begin erasing a people, a history.

But the whole thing has me thinking about the importance of what we name things. It makes a difference, for example, whether I refer to Caleb’s morning nap as long or short. It affects how I view my time; it affects my consideration of his future naps; it affects whether my husband thinks my day has been easy or hard. Sadly it doesn’t change whether Caleb is well-rested or not (read: fussy or not), but it does affect pretty much everything else.

As it turns out, how I refer to my life also makes a difference. Some people refer to motherhood as a spiritual discipline, which is quite zen and lovely of them. I tend to think of it more often as a Sisyphean effort, which is not quite as zen and lovely. I find that I can’t quite make the jump from futile boulder shouldering to spiritual practice in one leap, so I’m thinking about whether or not there is an intermediate step – some more neutral way of referring to this new life of motherdom and studentdom in which so little seems to get done.

For now, though, I’m just going to say that Caleb’s most recent nap was very short and you should therefore feel very sorry for me and send me lovely things to make it all better.

I find it difficult to write posts for this blog because the majority of my life at the moment is spent either working on my comprehensive exams (interesting fodder for public consumption they are not) or caring for a small being who exists primarily to eat, shit, sleep, and cry, with occasional bursts of smiles that fool you into thinking babies are the cutest. Motherhood, I know, does provide plenty to write about, but frankly everything I can think to say about it is so cliche.

Parenting is exhausting. It’s harder than I ever anticipated and in ways I never anticipated. But every other mother has already realized this and those who have not been mothers have read plenty of other mothers who have told them this. The secret is out.

And that is what is so baffling and obnoxious about the whole business. I, too, prior to becoming a mother myself, had read these things. I, too, had friends who told me and read blogs that painted crystal clear pictures of how hard this would be. And STILL. STILL parenting is kicking me in the ass and surprising me with its common cliches. Well played parenthood, well played.

The bitch of it is (yes I do realize there is more cursing than normal in this post; turns out that’s part of parenthood too, at least in our house) that not only do you (and by you I mean me) not want to write about it (because hello whiny and cliche) and not only is it physically and emotionally kicking your ass (and again, by yours I mean mine), but it is also taunting you with its “I told you so”s.

And all of this you realize from the floor of the nursery where you’ve collapsed in pure exhaustion after finally convincing the small being other people refer to as a cute baby to please for the love of all that is holy sleep. Because not only do you have all of these circumstances conspiring against you but you are also dealing with a small person who refuses to use reason and realize that he is so unhappy because he is tired and therefore the smart move would be to sleep more, not less.

And then your husband comes home from work and asks you why you don’t blog anymore.

Not so.

As it turns out, there are different philosophies for parenting that run the gambit from attachment parenting to cry-it-out/babywise parenting to intentional lack of philosophy/trust your instincts parenting. And for each philosophy for there are specific books (or lack of books in the case of the last one). Moreover, there are large camps of parents who will swear up and down that a particular style of parenting worked like magic for them: baby was sleeping through the night by 3 weeks, baby never cried, baby never left their side – the stories are as varied and as contradictory as the people telling them.

Adam, with his busy work life, takes comfort in the advice of friends who remarked that they had read nothing and their daughter was thriving in spite of them. I, on the other hand, take comfort in reading as much as humanly possible. Perhaps it is because I am the one home with Caleb all day almost every day, or perhaps it is a function of my personality, but I prefer to know as much as possible. For me, book knowledge serves as an important counterpoint to the sheer ignorance I feel in the face of this little person who does not use words (or reason it seems).

I can’t, however, get behind a particular parenting philosophy. Partly it is because there are so many and they are so contradictory (though equally compelling), and partly because I’m lazy when it comes to embracing something wholeheartedly (I could no more allow my baby to cry it out all night long than I could handle having him attached to my body all day and night). Rather, I view reading as an attempt to acquire as many tools, tricks, and ideas as possible because in my sleep-deprived, completely worn out by the demands of another person 24/7, state my own ideas, theories, tools and tricks seem shockingly out of reach. My parenting philosophy (if you can call it that) then relies primarily on my instincts, best guesses, random hunches, desperation to select the best tool, trick, or idea that I have read about or thought of. It’s a hodgepodge. And, in the end, if the well-being of child depends on the consistency of a particular parenting philosophy then I will need to make Adam pony up money for Caleb’s future therapy. Meanwhile, however, at least reading makes me feel like I’m doing something right. And, frankly, whatever gets me through the tough days (and nights) is all I care about at this point.

To be honest, I’ve never been a big believer in heaven. For most of my life I’ve fallen squarely in the agnostic camp when it came to life after death. Maybe there is, maybe there isn’t. It never seemed particularly important to me – life now, here on earth, that was what was important and worth worrying about. Perhaps my anti-anxiety meds keep me from feeling all “angsty” about what comes next. But since we lost our boys, I find it matters more to me now. 

I have always appreciated the beauty of the ashes to ashes, dust to dust liturgy of Ash Wednesday. It has always struck me as a poignant reminder of our finitude and our ultimate equality – in the end we are all ashes. More than that, many years it has helped to put the rest of my life in perspective. Day to day stresses and frustrations tend to melt away when I am reminded of our ultimate end – it helps me take the long perspective.

But this year the words mean more than that to me. This year the phrase ashes to ashes brings to mind Micah and Judah, our twin boys, whose ashes remain in small wooden boxes on our dresser. This year I find myself hoping that when the time comes I will join my sons not only as ashes, but perhaps somewhere else – somewhere where I can get to know them. And even farther in the future, I hope someday Caleb gets to meet and know his older brothers. I hope someday we get to all be a family together. I don’t know that I believe in heaven any more than I did before, but I certainly hope for it much more.

So it is with some surprise that I find myself engaging in superstitious behavior now that I have a small child. In my rational mind, if I put in a certain amount of time feeding, rocking, singing to, and generally soothing my son prior to his nap this should result in a certain amount of sleep (at least as long as the soothing time, and probably longer most days). Not so. Apparently my son’s seven-week-old brain is not yet functioning on this rational level and so sleep seems to come willy-nilly. Most days it is twenty minutes here thirty minutes there. One afternoon I got a miraculous 3 hours out of him, but you never can tell. However, after a certain number of days in which the sleep count is particularly low and the fussing amount is particularly high, I begin to find myself engaging in high irrational behavior. I find myself thinking back to the last good, long nap he had and trying to replicate those conditions exactly. What time of day was it? What was he wearing? Where was he sleeping? What did I do before I put him down? What ambient noises were there? In my foggy, lack of sleep state I come to believe (fervently) that if I could just get those conditions exactly the same I could get him to sleep.

And … sometimes it works. But I’m starting to think that it works just frequently enough to keep me doing these ridiculous things. Is it possible that motherhood is slowly chipping away at my rationality? Will I soon find myself wearing particular socks in hopes that my $2 scratch-off lotto ticket will once again yield $20? I would do a web-search to learn more, but I’m pretty sure I peeked my head into the nursery about this time last time …

May God bless us with anger
at injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people,
so that we may work for justice, freedom and peace.

May God bless us with tears to shed
for those who suffer from pain, rejection, starvation and war,
so that we may reach out our hands to comfort them
and turn their pain into joy.

And may God bless us with enough foolishness
to believe that we can make a difference in this world,
so that we can do what others claim cannot be done.
Amen.

sprinting … oh sprinting: fast, powerful, distance, movement, joy. Who doesn’t love sprinting? Or the gym. Why do the elliptical slow and steady when you can push it hard? Isn’t that the point of working out? To push yourself to your limits? To see how far and how fast you can go? No pain no gain, right? Right.

The problem is, when I push it too hard too fast, I puke. Every time. This leads to some unpleasant, and potentially awkward, moments. I, for one, do not find puking an enjoyable past time. The taste alone is enough to make me go to great lengths to avoid it. And, when you have to do it on a hiking trail when other people are passing by … awkward. When you routinely have to ask your personal trainer to give you a minute so you can go puke in the bathroom … embarrassing.

I like it hard and fast (we’re talking about exercise here, don’t be dirty), but I don’t like puking. I’ll grant you that the purged feeling that comes after is wonderful. Puke once and I’m good, I can keep going and do even more. And I like that I’ve pushed myself to the edge (and fallen over). It makes me feel like I’ve done all that I can – a good workout. That’s what working out is all about, right?

It’s taken me awhile, but finally in my 30th year I’ve come to wonder if perhaps that is not the point of working out. Maybe the point isn’t to push yourself until you puke. Maybe the point is to move your body. Maybe the point is to take a break from all that mental and emotional working we do all day long and work our bodies instead. Maybe the point is to get stronger so we can do everything we want to do in life. Maybe the point is to be healthy so we can live long joyful and faithful lives. Maybe the point is simply to remember the joy of what is to be an embodied creature created in the image of God.

Recently I was reading the book Switch: How to Change When Change is Hard, by Chip and Dan Heath. In the book they recount a 2007 study done by Alia Crumb and Ellen Langer that studied the exercise habits of hotel maids. The researchers told one group of maids that their work was exercise. A second group of maids were told about the benefits of exercising but not that their work was already considered exercise. Four weeks later the maids who had been told they were already exercising had lost an average of 1.8 pounds. The other maids hadn’t lost any weight. The Heath brothers argue that this happened because when the maids were told that they were already exercisers they began to do a little bit more – an extra trip up and down the stairs, etc. And these little things? They add up.

The Heath brothers use the study to illustrate one of the ways we can encourage change in ourselves and others, but the study sticks with me because it reminds me that even the little things count when it comes to exercising. Anything is better than nothing. I don’t have to puke to workout. Talking a walk with the dog counts. Going a little slower on the elliptical machine counts. And maybe, when I don’t make myself puke, I’ll look forward toworking out a little more (instead of dreading the potentially awkward and embarrassing moments) and I’ll go a little more. And that can only be good.

Pregnancy, however, changed all that. When we lost our twin boys 19 weeks into the pregnancy I had already gained twenty pounds. (God only knows how much I would have weighed if we had been able to carry them to full term.) Having never been pregnant before, I figured that once I had given birth the weight would disappear. That only seemed fair. No babies, no baby weight. Anything else would go against my inherent belief in the karmic justice of the universe.

The universe failed me.

After the boys were born I had only lost five pounds. And, five months later, I’ve only lost a few more.

You would think that the death of twin boys and our grief surrounding that loss would be all-consuming. What is a few extra pounds in the face of such a loss? But, if I’m honest, on a day to day basis, it is the extra weight that bothers me the most. Maybe it is that the death of babies is too big to grasp most days, too big to carry around when the rest of life goes on. Or maybe it is simply that extra weight is the only thing that is tangibly different in my life now that we are no longer pregnant. Whatever the reason, the weight bothers me.

I told my spiritual advisor about it one day. It’s so frustrating I complained. And I’m so frustrated that this is the aspect of our loss that frustrates me the most. Sounds normal she said. Sounds like you are carrying the weight of this loss with you in more ways than one. Oh I thought.

Oh.

I had never thought about it like that. Maybe, she continued, maybe someday when you are ready, you will be comfortable with the weight of all of this, which isn’t to say that you can’t lose it when the time is right, but maybe accepting it is the first step. Oh I thought.

Oh.

That was three months ago and the weight still lingers. I still find it frustrating and aggravating. I still think the universe is karmically unjust. I still struggle with it. But I’m learning. I’m learning to be more gentle with myself and my body. I’m learning to treat myself like a small child instead of a wayward soldier. Rather than using my interior voice to yell at myself, to chastise myself when I eat what I shouldn’t or fail to work out, I’m working on pretending my inner voice is a kindergarten teacher speaking to a sad and upset five year old. I’m learning to give myself second, and third, and fourth, and hundredth chances. I’m learning to start over each day, to begin again. And, it’s getting a little easier. And, the weight is coming off (slowly, oh so slowly). Most weeks it feels like taking two steps forward and three steps backward. But I’m learning. I’m learning to carry this weight for as long as it is with me.

A gaggle of words babbled from my mouth: what hospice does, who a chaplain is – but really, what words are there to offer in this place? Only the comfort of knowing others have gone before you, questionable comfort.

It’s so easy to hide behind the badge. Who am I? Look – it says right here, I’m the chaplain. I’m in seminary – a senior. I studied for this. I’m prepared for this. I can barely begin to fathom this.

He wanted to know how you get over something like this. She said he didn’t think anyone ever got over it – you simply found a way to live with it.

They say grief never goes away. Not fully. You live through it. Rage at it. Blubber around it. Deny it. See if you can’t just sleep through it. And you survive. Not easily. Not the same. Not without your scars. But it passes just the same: bad gas you’ve been suffering under for far too long.

But they say it never leaves you, grief. It comes back – heavy thunderstorms that take you by surprise. A light rain shower that cools the joy. A cloud hovering on the horizon. It stays with you: creeping up behind you for a surprise party that leaves you insisting it’s your party so you can cry if you want to . . . It drops by for a visit, pushing at the boundaries of the life you have so carefully crafted around it: an unwanted visitor you come to expect more than you’d like.

They say she might not make it through the weekend, but the husband asks me to call back next week, check in then. I call the answering service each morning, dreading the news that she has died, wondering if the husband’s optimism has paled in the face of reality, wondering what his grief will look like and when it will surprise him in the years to come.

I noticed though in Jamaica that I checked in every night. I’m not sure you would call it prayer, or at least I’m not sure I would call it prayer. There was no two way, I didn’t take time to listen. But every night before I fell asleep, without thinking I ought to, I checked in with God. It sounds a little strange, but some part of me needed Her to know that I had seen it. I had seen all the poverty and walls and the people on the street asking for money or food. I had seen the shacks and the wires stealing electricity and the children without shoes and sometimes without even clothes. I had seen Her face in the children we met or heard Her voice in the songs the people sang.

I needed God to know that I had noticed. I had noticed the injustice and poverty all around us. I heard the statistics about crime and violence. I remembered the part where my country was indirectly and directly involved in the fate of this smaller island and the people I met. I heard. I saw. I remembered. And I knew God was still present even when it didn’t seem possible.

I realized tonight as I was trying to fall asleep that I haven’t checked in since I’ve been home. I’ve been busy I suppose. Emails and papers, television and laundry. And I guess I haven’t seen or heard or noticed the past few days. I wonder why it is so hard, in the comfort of home, to pay attention.