A Glimpse of My Internal Landscape

Photo by: Cassandra Piper, 2001

I've had Billy Joel's song, "My Life" stuck in my head for awhile. The following is an actual account of how my mind works: thoughts interspersed with song.

"Got a call from an old friend, we used to be real close." 

Metaphor or literal, it doesn't much matter. The past year has been life changing: a call from a blocked number in the middle of the night waking me from my slumber.

"I don't need you to worry for me, 'cause I'm alright."

I'm likely in the middle of an existential crisis. I can see myself standing in the middle of my internal landscape. It's all mixed up, ravaged by natural disaster. Some of the landmarks by which I'd always defined myself are gone; lost to me in real time by death. Others are monuments I'd built, shattered by truths I'd never considered. Maybe they once represented defining moments. I wander about from thought to thought, aimlessly trying to find my bearings. Mountains have been moved, ravines have opened up, I can't tell if it's dusk or dawn. I have to walk over the paths by the river again. Worn there because I made them. They may lead somewhere important, others lead nowhere at all. When I stand on the banks of the river, pieces of me wash up like seashells. 

"I don't want you to tell me it's time to come home." 

There are moments of utter panic. Have you ever seen a dog terrified of thunder? Given the opportunity, it will run: without purpose, without intent. That's how it feels. I want to run. But I know that I can't outrun this. I have to sort through the rubble, knowing that it will never be the same again. Why would it? That's why they're called life changing events. Grab your compass, girl!

"I never said I was a victim of circumstance." 

Do you see that picture? It really didn't matter if it was the dead of winter. Nor did it matter that I was wearing skorts (it's a skirt, but it's shorts, too!) and boots. If I wanted to climb a tree, then I would. It's a split second in time. The whole story is that I have a friend that is an amazing photographer. We would spend entire days in cemeteries, by frozen lakes, in churches, in urban decay: I'd pose, she'd click. This memory is a seashell. It gives me a sense of the person I have always been, lost or not. I will climb the tree, I will defy the odds, and I'll be just fine. Better, in fact, for having done so. Lack of preparation need not be a hindrance.

"You can speak your mind, just not on my time."

I've learned just enough over the years to know that I need not be paralyzed by my discomfort. The landscape has shifted before. Maybe not so much in such a short time, but it will work out. Sometimes I have to still the voices, especially the internal voices. Old ways won't take me very far. I'll wear new paths to new places. In a way, it's comforting to know that I'm changing along with everything else. It helps to see it as an adventure.

The Day My Compassion Failed

I hold compassion as the greatest of all virtues. It bridges the gap between religions, class, countries. I admire Ghandi, Schindler, Jesus, Martin Luther King, Jr., The Dalai Lama, Nelson Mandela, Mother Theresa. You may have noticed that they don't all belong to the same religion or culture, that's because virtues don't belong to any one affiliation. They are a choice and a practice.

I thought I was a pretty compassionate person. I have an active imagination, which I think lends itself to the ability to see life from another's perspective. I imagine how difficult it would be to be homeless, how easy it is to become so. I hurt for those who suffer from cancer, the hungry, the addicted, abused and neglected. I cry when I see images of children who've survived terrors, because when I see them, I can't help but see the face of every child I've ever known. I've never known what it's like to be in these situations, but I can imagine and I'm sure it falls short of the reality. I always root for the underdog.

That being said, it bothers me to admit that my compassion completely failed me recently. Social media has bombarded me with what I initially thought was apathy and hard hearts. Everyone has an opinion on refugees lately. I spent 32 hours completely appalled at social media feeds. Disheartened, sick, fearful. I had to take a harder look at what I was feeling. I know these people. They are kind, they are passionate about causes. But they too, are fearful, whether it is recognized or not. I failed to have compassion, because I saw nothing but unfounded opinion.

I don't have a solution to a refugee crisis, it would be arrogant of me to think I did. This isn't a blog about fixing that particular problem, it's a blog about how I failed to be compassionate. I failed because I allowed my fear to be in control. In the days since, I've identified my fear. I fear a world without compassion. Everyone falls on hard times. My/your beliefs will not spare me/you (no matter what they are). It rains on everyone, bad things happen to good people. A world without compassion is a terrifying thought. Make no mistake. I understand that my own fear is the very same that motivates conflict, and causes panic, hysteria, hate, even war. Fear creates these things. My fear, if fed, would only lend to the problem, not a solution. 

So what will I do about it? I could easily choose to react with apathy, to disregard the opinions I don't agree with in my news feed, affiliate with only those that I agree with. Enforce a greater divide. It would be easy. What is right and what is easy are rarely the same. But I won't. No. I will try to understand the varying opinions. I would only succeed in feeding my own fear if I were to conclude that these reactions come from hard hearts. I will try to have compassion where I haven't before. Compassion for the average person, and for the privileged person. How could they know the hurts of experiences that they could never imagine?

If I say, as I am now, that my driving force is compassion, then I need to make it so. If you say that your driving force is your religion, then extend the accompanying grace. If you say it is a need to take care of your own, no one is stopping you. I have identified my fear. What is yours?

The Pursuit of Peace

At seventeen, I was devastated. Since I was so young, I can't really fathom the impact that must have had on my life. There have been many heart breaks and disappointments between now and then, with plenty of emotional baggage. In attempts to isolate the burdens I've carried with me over the years, I've smeared emotions across canvases, sat with uncomfortable feelings in thought and prayer and meditation, moved in breath and yoga to expel them, written them out, tried to create something tangible from them, so that they are outside of me, no longer in me. I can't measure the weight of the things I've worked through, but I can feel their absence. I do feel lighter. 

As a result of this work, I feel compelled to hear out those who've hurt me. It doesn't happen often, but there have been those who've sought me out. I try, as difficult as it may be, to be gracious. 

I am aware that I may not be able to relate to the how and why of someone else's decisions and actions. I realize that there may have been repercussions, too. Maybe the burden was great. There may have been choices that likely became such huge secrets that they would have made a fulfilling life improbable. Secrecy and regret do not breed authenticity or joy. I try, for the sake of empathy, to see others in the light of humanity. We are all flawed, we are all damaged, we all make bad decisions. What it really comes down to is the pursuit of peace, doesn't it? Reprieve from the burden of guilt, reconciliation with choices made. 

Perhaps I may seem emotionally removed. I've learned that emotional reactions don't serve me well. I'm not going to react with resentment and hostility. While I could have done without disappointments in life, I'm grateful for the experience and the knowledge I've gained. I've learned to be objective, analytical. Perhaps it is self serving on my part, because I don't care for the weight of resentment and anger. If someone comes to me in humility or shame, I can't in good conscience shame them further.

Life is short. Make amends. Let go of what can't be undone. Pursue peace of mind.

Peace Rose

Changing Seasons of a Teen Mom

Recently, on a glorious autumn afternoon, I found myself standing in a park. The sun was shining through the trees. There was a cool breeze, but the temperature was warming with the sun. It was my oldest son's birthday, and we were celebrating with a picnic. 

I recalled the day, 21 years before, when he'd been born. That particular early morning had been rainy and windy, it was still dark when I went to the hospital. Hours later, I held him in my arms. The storm had broken, and in the first rays of sunlight I looked at his perfection. I inspected his little fingers: long fingers, like my own. I whispered, "Hello! I know you!"

I'd barely turned 18 just two weeks before his arrival. I was an unwed single mother. I knew I was unprepared, and had little to offer. I had so many concerns. How would I ever pull this off? Would I be a good mother? I was so committed to this tiny person that I vowed I would put forth a noble effort. Ready or not.

Through the next few years of his life, I'd asked myself those questions again. Through diapers and colds, vomit and potty training, learning to talk and first days of school.  I was fortunate in having the support of my family in the early years. Later, as childhood faded into the teen years, our family of two turned into a family of four. Completed by a father and a little brother. The trials of the teen years had me asking the questions more frequently than ever before. I was certain that I would lose my mind. My dark hair began to grow out streaked with silver. How am I going to do this? Am I a good mother?

I recalled those questions while walking in the shade of the trees. The leaves had just begun to change color and fall to the ground.  All the days, hours, and moments of doubt and concern. All the seasons of change that accompany raising a child. 

Life is funny, isn't it? I'd had no idea how to be a mother, or an adult in general. Truth be told, that may still be the case. There's a quote by Hugh Laurie I've seen circulating a lot on social media lately: "It's a terrible thing, I think, in life to wait until you're ready. I have this feeling now that actually no one is ever ready to do anything. There's almost no such thing as ready. There's only now. And you may as well do it now...I do think that generally speaking, now is as good a time as any." I look back at my life, and realize there were a lot of things I wasn't ready for, and for good reason. Some things beyond my control, others not. But pushing through has always been my only conceivable option. Concerns? Of course. Not debilitating worry, but genuine concern. The concerns give way for asking questions, seeking answers, doing research. Striving for better, and giving more. The experiences between 18 and now have taught me that even the toughest situations can work out for the better. Beautifully.

Back at the park, I watched my son with our family and my heart filled with gratitude. It hadn't always been as picture perfect as it was in that moment, I'm sure I made mistakes along the way. But I adore him: he is smart, he is funny, he is kind, capable, handsome, and I really like him as the young adult he is. I wanted to sweep him up in my arms and dance around (like I did when he was little). I wanted to cheer:"Look! We made it, kid!"

For Tom

It's been about two months since I received the call that my dad was gone, and one month since I received the call that my brother was gone. It's left me with a feeling of dread every time the phone rings. There are ups and downs every day. Motivation and inspiration are difficult to find. I try to find gratitude, though. It's easy to find at least one simple thing to be grateful for, when you look. 

My youngest son and I celebrated our birthdays. We did our best to enjoy the days, but there were obvious missing pieces. My dad wasn't there. My brother Tom didn't call. 

I'm the youngest of 8 children. During the surreal time since the calls,  I've had the opportunity to be around all of my siblings. It was a blessing amidst the harshness of the reality. We had time to talk, laugh, cry, visit. The family dynamic is changed, or more likely: my personal identity seems altered, somehow. There came a point when I knew that after everyone had gone back to their lives, there would be nothing left to do but take a look at myself, and deal with me. I'm a bit on the introvert side, so these times of self-reflection are crucial to my sanity. 

My thoughts are broken, though. They wander aimlessly. My focus is lacking. But the thoughts ultimately come back to the same place. I recall with overwhelming clarity events of childhood, and specific moments of time. As if there's some hidden meaning I've missed. 

From the day I was brought home, I was immersed in music. Most of my siblings were teenagers, and mom was a big fan of rock. It may be debatable if I learned to sing or talk first, as well as if I could dance or walk first. "Dirty Deeds" by AC/DC was released the same year of my birth, and I can recall singing the words in the check out line at Safeway, while the bagger asked my mother if I was singing what he thought I was singing. I actually really believed that "We Are the Champions" was a family anthem. Heart, Queen, Foreigner, Bad Company, Led Zepplin, Pink Floyd, Rod Stewart, Fleetwood Mac. We blasted the records and 8-tracks on the living room stereo. I imagine that if I had a sound track for the early years of my life, it would consist of songs from these bands and likely a few more.

Growing up can be difficult, and I won't say that we didn't have our share of difficulties. But I knew I was loved by my siblings. Sometimes, a sibling would walk me up to the one gas station in our tiny town. They'd buy me candy and soda. To this day, I find comfort in a Pepsi, or a "Big Cherry" candy bar. They danced with me, played with me, protected and loved me. To some extent, it was as if I grew up with multiple parents. Even though I was the baby, I frequently referred to them as "my kids", so I always felt that it was a mutual need to love and protect them, as well.

There is still much that I want to say to my brother. I wasn't done. If I had him in front of me, what I have to say may sound something like this:

I remember when mom bought you your first acoustic guitar. It may have been for your fourteenth birthday. You promptly learned to play "Eye of the Tiger" by Survivor. You tried to teach me the lyrics. Over and over again, you'd start from the beginning, correcting my five-year-old version. So began our life-long singing. I like to think that I got to the point where I could match you and compliment you, listening ever so closely to your cues. Many years later, you would have a tune and encourage me to "sing something". I wonder now if you ever realized that not everyone has the ability to spontaneously sing from the soul. You did. I hadn't known how deeply your song lyrics were embedded in my brain, or the brains of others. 

I remember playing army men with you. We would set up entire armies on opposite ends of the room, then proceed to bomb each other with used batteries. Why were there always so many batteries about the house? Or we would take them outside in the front yard, where the summer weeds became great jungles. I can still remember what it felt like to be in one of my pretty dresses, and you'd throw a camouflage jacket on me and a toy army helmet, and give me a toy gun. That's the kind of princess I've always wanted to be since (kind of explains some later fashion choices). 

How you would take me away from the monotonous and boring task of grocery shopping. We'd head to the vending machines at the front of the store. You'd ask if I got my allowance, and I'd present you with my quarter. You'd buy a root beer. You'd convince me every time that there was a pretty good chance it was poisoned, or that it could be real beer. As the older, wiser, and noble brother, you were willing to take the risk of testing it for me. Halfway through my can of soda, I'd squeal: "Tommy!!! Don't drink it all!" This was the game we'd play, and truth be told, I never minded sharing with you.

I see you in my mind, you must be about 12 (and if so, I am three). You are teaching me techniques for fighting. My fingers are in your hair, and I'm pulling your head this way and that way. You are laughing so hard that no real noise of laughter actually comes from your mouth. Your eyes are almost closed, and I can see all your teeth because your smile is so big. It's my favorite picture of you, and it exists only in my head.

I remember the look of confusion and concern on your face (when I was twenty-something) when you told me to take it easy, to chill out, because I was taking things too far, too seriously. You were right, of course. But thank you for being kind. 

I could go on with a thousand more memories. But what I really want to say is that I remember, and I know. 

I know how talented you always were. With music, compassion, wit, sarcasm, humor, loyalty, philosophy, words. Your songs ring in my head still, and everyone else that heard them. They are haunting, and sad, and beautiful. Others are humorous and catchy, or angry and profound. 

I saw how your compassion was more like an art form. It extended far beyond compassion to animals, and was applied on a daily basis to where it matters most: people. You had the ability to make people feel special, seemingly just by association with you. You emitted a feeling of belonging through your charisma. In sincerity, you asked after people and their lives. From the lofty to the lowly, there are so many who were proud to call you a friend. I realize how people adored you.

I remember how you walked to the beat of your own drummer. Sometimes, I could dance and sing along beside you, because I could hear it, too. I know also how it could drive the linear thinkers a bit crazy, but they loved you for it, all the same.

I remember your wit and sarcasm and humor. You could deliver a brutal truth in such a way that even the intended receiver had no choice but to laugh at it. Sarcasm was so refined that only a few were able to catch it all, and those that didn't would often wonder how much you actually meant. You had developed cues to patch the gap between your wit and those who didn't understand it. You'd wait for it. When the look of confusion crossed their faces you'd jut your head forward a bit and smile. That beautiful smile! A smile with your entire face. Starting with your lips, lifting your cheeks up to your eyes, and then your eyes were completely laughing, too. Green eyes with brown sun bursts around the pupils. Sometimes greener, sometimes browner, always beautiful and kind.

I know you were a worrier. But you were always willing to help others take their minds off of their own worries. Through music, or shooting, or a hug, or a philosophical talk.  I never got the chance to thank you for what you did for me after my dad died. Two days had gone by, you'd held me and talked with me. I was talking about how I'd spent hours a day on my bike when I was little, and how much I loved it. As long as I could ride a bicycle, I lived to ride it. Especially down the long dirt road behind the house. Breeze in my face, the smell of sagebrush in my nostrils, pedaling as hard as I could down the hill, until the pedals themselves were moving so fast that my little feet couldn't possibly keep up. Just to arrive at the bottom of the hill and slowly make my way back up to the top.  You produced a bicycle from storage. You told me to have a go. I rode it up the hill, I raced down the hill. You waited, watching and smiling, and asked, "Well, how was it?" For a moment, I was 10 again, I was completely free of hurt and worry. Thank you. You did this kind of thing often, when I think about it. You were frequently my calm in the eye of the storm.

I'm grateful that I could see you in action in all your roles: friend, brother, son, dad, spouse, grandpa, uncle, musician. I see you in all of these, from my point of view (which is the only one I've got). It's a beautiful thing. I'll keep playing my memories of you in my mind. I'd say goodbye to you using some of your own lyrics, but I won't plagiarize your work. I'll just let you know that I finally figured out all the words to the first song you taught me, and I won't lose my grip on the dreams of the past, I will fight to keep them alive.

Grief

 My dad died unexpectedly last month.

Through the grief and heart break, here's what I've learned. Grief bombarded me from all directions. Yes, there was my own grief, in all of its forms: denial and isolation, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But there was also the grief and loss of everyone else, sometimes quietly and inward, other times projecting outward or just overflowing and messy. The second of these is much more difficult to deal with, because all I really wanted to do was deal with my own grief. As for the personal aspect, I suspect that these waves of loss in varying forms will continue to show up, unexpectedly, for a very long time. 

I hadn't wanted to write about my loss, it is mine (I think this would be called isolation). I wanted to share it with only an intimate few, if at all. Several times, as if watching from an outside point of view, I saw myself pulling away from a hand that was holding mine, and cutting comforting embraces short. Denial isn't so blatant as telling myself that this isn't true. It likes to creep into my head inconveniently when I'm falling asleep. I question what I think I know: surely, I'm just mistaken. I mean, "never" is a really long time to not see someone again. It is a difficult concept to comprehend. My anger hasn't been epic. Initially, I couldn't find a justifiable reason for anger, I still can't. But it has shown up in smaller ways: an impatience and irritation with things completely unrelated to my loss. It can seem justifiable in such a raw emotional state, to snap at the most inconsequential thing. Bargaining has shown itself in moments as some kind of retrograde reasoning or understanding with nature, or the universe, or the forces that be. I can only describe it as almost a sense of relief that this mighty little man didn't have to endure hospitals and medical procedures, or that he didn't have to stop working because his eyes got too bad, which they would have sooner than later.I also disguise bargaining as some kind of commitment to bettering my own health. Depression is likely the most familiar. I've visited it more than I care to in life. It feels like fog, and physical ache, and fatigue, no sense of motivation or direction. I currently have a back log of chores and things I am supposed to do.

My point, dear reader, is not to evoke your sympathy or empathy, although these are the greatest of human emotions. These are just my observations of my experience. I suppose that if there is an intended purpose, perhaps it is that maybe my observations could be worthy of helping someone else. Maybe you, in your own loss. I realize that loss and grief don't come only with death, there are so many forms of loss. A variety of ways the heart can be broken. I think the process of grieving is similar regardless.

I don't want the fog of depression to overtake me and completely envelop me. I try every day to find my bearings again, lest I get lost in the fog. I choose one small goal a day to achieve. Today, it was writing this. I acknowledge my thoughts and feelings. Observe them, write about them, paint them. I accept that they will come in waves and that the tide is higher at times. 

Even if I can accept that my grief will present all of these emotions, I cannot afford to be lost in the depression. But these emotions that I feel, or anyone feels, are best felt rather than suppressed or ignored. There's no right way or one way to grieve. Life will continue around me, whether I choose to participate, or not. There are still people to love and enjoy while I'm here, while they're here. There are sunsets to see, flowers to smell, things to be done. I will grieve, and I will live, too. It need not be an either/or choice. 

I realize that grief from this particular loss is not mine alone. My family members grieve with me. My mother, brothers, sisters, friends, children, and so on--grieve collectively. In an even bigger picture, every human being experiences a similar loss. 

Years ago, I stood within the walls of an ancient fortified castle. I heard and read the historical account of the battles and some of the people involved. I allowed my imagination to fill in the blanks about what it would have been like. The personal struggles, the romance, the scandal, the strife. I was both humbled and comforted by one thought: My experiences are not unique. Yes, the players may be different, each individual being unique, each interaction and relationship special in their own ways. But as a human collective: My experiences are not unique. It took the wind out of the sails of my isolation. The moment connected me to every human being: past, present, and future.  I could no longer feel alone. We all experience the same emotions, because we are all human. We are not alone, you are not alone. I am not alone in my grief. 

...and so it goes on.

A Father's Legacy

My youngest child has a hyphenated last name. We weren't trying to be different, we weren't attempting to be trendy, or break from tradition. I guess you could say it was an accident. It's actually comical when I look back on it. 

After 23 hours of labor, I had to stay in the hospital a little longer than expected. There had been some complications, and you can believe I was exhausted. Someone brought the paperwork to my room for the birth certificate. I handed it off to the baby's dad to fill out. I had been a single mom for 8 years prior, and it was difficult for me to receive help with anything. But I believed I was delegating an important task appropriately. After all, we'd already decided on the perfect name. 

Maybe it was fatigue, or the pressure of fatherhood. Maybe it was a slip of the pen. Maybe it was a mistake on the part of the courthouse. Maybe it was a complete disregard for what I'd said.

My family name was to be a middle name. It seemed really important at the time. Perhaps a mix of nostalgia, and loyalty. I emphasized: no hyphens! I didn't think of it again until a month later (I was haemorrhaging, after all) when we received the notification to pick up the birth certificate at the courthouse. 

The name was hyphenated. I think I flipped out.  It wasn't what we wanted. We could have changed it then, but defenses went up, and a legal name change even at such an early point would have meant more paperwork, and fees. We were broke, and it seemed smarter to spend the little money we had on more practical items. You know, like food.

It's actually been a source of contention over the years. On the one hand, I maintain that I said no hyphens, and what's the harm in having a family name as a middle name? On the other hand: a time honored tradition. There were actually conversations bordering on the ridiculous: arguing about what hyphens actually mean, are they legally binding? Grudges ensued.

So, what's in a name? Years later, the kid has meshed well with a too many consonants, multi-cultural last name that few can actually pronounce properly. It seems fitting to me now that such a unique child should have an equally unique name. Even if it wasn't planned that way. 

It seems that more and more often, a surname is the only legacy a child has of their father.  A legacy is so much more than just a name. A legacy is the time and energy spent in building it. A true legacy is built from Mentos and diet cola, paper planes, and skateboards. Toy boats in the river, and an imaginary island of "Broken Sword". Singing silly lyrics and playing a guitar. It's built from getting too caught up playing: like the trip to the emergency room because dad slipped through a window while his child was steering an imaginary boat. It's Christmas, birthdays, graduations, plays, soccer games, camping, and piñatas. It's vomit and dirty diapers. Time and energy, effort and work. It goes beyond handfuls of happy memories. It is the time that spans between them. How a child is spoken to, how a child hears a father speak of others. The attitude towards life that is carried to the child. If you can maintain it in the spaces between happy, then it's a job well done. It is a child who is secure, and happy, and confident, or not and it hangs on the health of a parent from whom they've learned. For better or for worse. Children who are sure that their father loves them, or question it. Rightfully, my children own this legacy. 

Body Shaming: It Isn't About You

Body shaming. Who hasn't experienced it? It just doesn't seem to matter how beautiful, or slim, or curvy, or tall, or short you actually are, you've probably had a back-handed compliment followed by a snippy remark. But that's just the point isn't it? It doesn't matter what you actually look like because it isn't really about you. It's about the insecurity of the person dealing what they believe to be a blow to your self-esteem. 

I wish I'd realized it sooner. That it never was about me. I'd started to believe many years ago that it was about jealousy. That's only partially true. Presently, I think that jealousy is a very obvious by-product of insecurity. If someone is not comfortable in their own skin, the go-to seems to be wondering why you should feel comfortable in yours. 

Each one of us has a way of having a dialogue with our selves. An inner voice. How you speak to yourself will inevitably become how you speak to others. Knowing this, I find it a little easier to react with compassion to those who are readily willing to share their opinion about how I look. I feel very sad for someone who needs to remark about my size and stature. I'd hate to hear their deepest opinion of themselves. It's sad, really. Because there is something beautiful and unique about everyone. The differences should be celebrated.

Be kind. Be kind to yourself, be kind to others. It doesn't have to be difficult. Don't be the random woman at the gym when I was 21: "Oh, you're so cute and little! Just wait until you have kids!" Ha! I'd already had my first child. Don't be the former co-worker: "You're dainty. Just understand: we love you, but we hate you."

It was never about me. It is never about you.  As for me, I'm quite comfortable in my own skin. I hope you are, too!