The Tornado of Indecision

I’m watching my eighteen-year-old daughter struggle with a big decision right now. She’s trying to decide where to go to college. She applied to multiple schools and she has a broad selection of choices but she doesn’t know the answer. 

I, too, at fifty-four, feel like I am at another crossroads. Do I want to stay at my current job or is it time to move on? Will leaving this job and moving onto another just be more of the same? What is the right answer?

A few nights ago at dinner I tried to tell my daughter that the college answer would come, that by questioning herself she was working out a path to her final decision. In the moment I think I said something like, “your not-knowing is going to help you to ultimately know.”

As she often does, my daughter looked at me like, “… the fuck?!!!” I couldn’t explain it more but because I am in a similar position right now (though not nearly as proportionately big) as my daughter, I have faith in that approach.

Not-knowing is the starting point on the path to knowing. Not-knowing is a place of so much information and possibility that it is impossible to move from that place until some things filter out. In the not-knowing there is an absence of clarity. It’s like the Wizard of Oz tornado —  porches, shoes, trees, cows, and bicycles flying every which way. It’s not safe to move from the basement during the not-knowing. You just wait it out.

Then there is the space-between the not-knowing and the knowing. The space-between is the aftermath of the tornado. Come up the stairs of the basement, open the door a crack and listen for wind, walk outside and look at the damage. Take a deep breath. Take another. What’s next?

In the space-between there is a bit more calm, but still chaos. You still haven’t arrived to the place you want to be. For my daughter she sees that she’s getting closer to having to make a decision. As she looks around her post-tornado inner-world she sees that there is so much information to sift through — how much financial aid am I getting?; do I like the campus?; do I want a bigger or smaller school?; should I go to California?; do I want to go where my friends are going?

For me, in considering the possibilities of my professional life — staying in my job and making the best of it, leaving my job for another known job, or leaving my job and free-falling until I find another job — I also have many questions. What if a new position is filled with the same baggage as my current one?; what if I leave this job and I regret it?; what if I’m just making this decision because I’m emotional about something else?

And in this space-between is the big question, “How will I know?” What I’m starting to understand is that we do know the answers to these big questions. Deep down in our gut-space is the truth that will be revealed once we work our way through the space-between.

For my daughter she will have to churn through her questions. She’ll have to struggle and face her fears of making the wrong decision. She’ll have to ask herself hard questions and listen. Same for me. The space-between is the hardest part because it’s a little bit of both the not-knowing and the knowing. It’s crazy making because it’s neither one nor the other. It’s exhausting to be in both places at the same time.

Patience and faith are the way through this space-between. All of the questions and confusions that exist for my daughter regarding her choice of a college will slowly get answered. As this happens, things will start to look more like they did pre-tornado. Roofs will be repaired, trash hauled away. The sun will come out the weather will be calm. 

I, too, have to slow down my process. I can’t race my way out of the space-between. I have to listen to my questions and explore the answers. I have to prune the wind-ravaged trees and replant the daphne that got pulled out in the storm. 

And while we do this work, my daughter and I, we have to have faith that the answers will be revealed, that we will soon know what we should each do next. This is easier for me because I’ve lived a long life and I can reflect back on my history and see how this process has played out. For my daughter, it’s a scarier place because she hasn’t been here before.

All I can do I is tell her that she’ll know soon, that the answer will come. I can help her patch the roof and clean her yard. I can comfort her in the space-between and remind her that she’s on the path to the knowing.

This is a really hard place, this space-between. It’s rendered both of us impatient, cranky and emotional. But it’s not forever. I imagine us one day, soon, sitting on Dorothy’s front porch, lemonade in hand, sun shining, a gentle, warm wind blowing. We’ll be smiling, not saying anything much, just relaxing, finally home., knowing our answers at last.

Mary Oliver and A Pink Sky

This morning when I walked to the end of our hallway I could see the sun just coming up. I saw out of the window at the top of the stairs that the lake was purple, tinted by a fuchsia-pink sky. I hurried down stairs to get to the living room window and see it more fully, but by the time I got there, the pink had disappeared, like a secret shared and then quietly put away.

My morning poem today was Varanasi by Mary Oliver. Mary Oliver is one of my favorite poets. Somehow she always leaves the door open for me to enter her images and feel a little bit of what she might have been feeling when she experienced the moment she wrote about. 

In Varanasi, Oliver describes a woman bathing in the Ganges River in India. The description is simple, everyday, but Mary Oliver, in her way, brings the image into full view with layers of emotion. When I read Mary Oliver I don’t really understand how the poem is affecting me in the moment. It is only after I complete the poem that I am aware of the felt-sense in my body, a churning combination of excitement, melancholy and gratitude for being invited into the space Mary Oliver created. 

The last line of Varanasi is “Pray God I remember this.” As I sat quietly this morning reading Oliver’s words, I thought about the pink sky that I’d see for just a blip this morning, how it had come and gone so fast that all I had was my memory of it. I wondered how long this memory would last.

I thought about why Mary Oliver felt the need to pray to God that she’d remember what she witnessed; why she had to take that extra step in her mind to intentionally hold the majesty of what she witnessed. 

I let my mind take me through my own memories, allowing myself to settle on the ones that showed up first, and strongest. I thought about the moment I saw my daughter after she was born, how it felt to meet her outside of my body for the very first time, how my heart swelled and then almost exploded; how that moment of meeting her was the only moment in time in all the history of the world.

I thought about the time flying home from New Orleans with my partner, tired and sweaty from a long weekend, feeling so in love that nothing mattered — not my grubby clothes or clammy skin, not my middle seat or the fact that I’d get very little sleep before a long day of work the next day.

I thought about the time I laughed so hard that water came out of my nose. I was with new friends in India. We barely knew each other. A giggle sparked another and another until the four of us were swallowed up by breathless laughter, laughing like I don’t remember laughing since middle school. 

Each of those memories I called to mind this morning brought me back to moments in my life where I felt truly present, completely embodied with the experience. Each of the memories has been locked into my psyche because with each experience, I felt utter clarity — in my body, my mind, my spirit — that I was only in that moment, nothing before and nothing after. 

Maybe this is what “presence” is — being so completely in a moment that the moment stays, or at least it can be called back after many years. Maybe “presence” means having the consciousness, as Mary Oliver did, to note the profound, heart-moving moments in our lives. 

I return to the last lines of Varanasi:

I can’t say much more, except that it all happened 
in silence and peaceful simplicity, and something that felt 
like the bliss of a certainty and a life lived 
in accordance with that certainty. 
I must remember this, I thought, as we fly back 
to America. 
Pray God I remember this.

I wonder, as I get older and my memory softens, what images and experiences will fade and which ones will stay. I wonder if Mary Oliver wrote that poem right after seeing the woman bathing in the Ganges or if it was days or months or years after. 

As I sit here, just a few hours after seeing the pink sky, I can remember the pink sky, but more than the colors and textures, I remember the feeling of delight in my body, of excitement at seeing the pink sky and the purple lake.

I think about getting older and losing my memory, like my mother-in-law whose memory is quickly fading, how she can’t remember details like she used to. I wonder if, in the absence of the details, she remembers the feelings, the sense in her body. I hope so. 

I know I have other memories, mental recordings sealed into my neural pathways; I know I’m creating more every day. I think about those three memories that are as clear as if they happened yesterday, how I have been able to keep them because I was wholly in them. It’s a reminder to myself, like Mary Oliver gave herself in Varanasi, to note those moments when they come, so they stay with me as I go. 

Conflicts from Different Angles

I listen to a lot of podcasts. I prefer science or psychology podcasts and non-fiction self-help books based in brain science. For some reason, I can digest complex emotional or scientific concepts in listening format when I am walking much more easily than when I am sitting still, reading from a book. 

The other day I heard someone talking about conflict. The person being interviewed (and I honestly can’t remember if the speaker was male or female or what I was listening to), talked about the concept of conflict of hope versus conflict of despair. I’ve googled the terms “conflict of hope” and “conflict of despair” to try to track down who this enlightened person was but I cannot find any reference. So, in full disclosure, all of what I share today is from memory, extrapolation, and my own interpretation of the concepts.

The speaker talked about the importance of conflict in moving things forward, but explained that there are different ways to approach conflict — from a place of despair or a place of hope. Right away I identified myself as someone who approaches conflict from a place of despair. “Desperare” in Latin means “to be without hope.” When I am in conflict I am often desperate; desperate to make sure my side is heard, my point is made, and my position is known. 

Starting from a despairing place puts a tenor of negativity on any ensuing conversation. Instead of opening up the arena for thoughts and ideas to move back and forth, it creates a desperate situation. Instead of a big green open field, the background of a conflict of despair is like a frightened family batting down the hatches for a hurricane — plywood goes up, sandbags go down, just hide in the corner and wait for it to pass. 

Conflict of hope, on the other hand, starts with a belief in possibility — for change, for connection, for resolution. Rooted in hope, it invites opportunities for truly listening, believing that both sides of the story have value and both parties should be heard. There’s still a conflict but the energy that sets the stage comes with a promise of a collaborative endpoint, an outcome that meets somewhere in the middle, honoring both sides of the story.

This is a new concept for me. I grew up in a dog-eat-dog family and learned the my-way-or-the-highway approach to conflict early in my life. As an adult, especially in intimate relationships, I’ve struggled to embody the concept of hopeful conflict. 

When I heard the comparison of conflict of hope versus conflict of despair something clicked for me. It made sense. I could see myself in my memory, image after image, preparing to discuss a conflict, setting up in my crouched stance, boxing gloves on, cornered and desperate, ready to fight. 

And I could see how I have rarely felt like a winner at the end of a conflict rooted in despair. Even if I “win” I feel bad, like I’ve survived a tornado and have a lot of clean up to do. Instead of feeling resolved, I feel ashamed, unsure of myself. Because conflicts of despair lead to such despair, I’ve avoided having conflicts at all, instead adapting indirect, dysfunctional methods for getting my needs met. And of course that hasn’t worked so well either.

You only know what you know until you know something different. My partner has been telling me for years that she hates having conflict with me because I get so jacked up. She’s right. It’s how I knew how to have conflicts. I didn’t understand that there was a different way. The truth is, conflict of despair sucks. It’s a fast train to feeling like shit — on all sides.

I’m dipping my toes into having conflicts from a place of hope. I’ve had a few and I can feel the difference. Without the desperation of winning the conflict, there are infinite possibilities for resolution. It’s a creative endeavor filled with possibilities. I wish I could remember who shared this wonderful concept with me so I could learn more and tell them thank you. But for now, this loose interpretation is all I’ve got. I hope it helps you as much as it has helped me.  

Sisterly Ice Melt

 

As I walked along the wintery shores of Lake Michigan with my two sisters I felt the 150 years of connection bonding us to each other. The frozen lake is ominous and beautiful. In some places the white of the ice is so white that it looks silver. The subtle movement of the ice on the lake, rhythmic and peaceful, is like god breathing deep below the surface.

Watching the floating ice blocks in the lake I thought of us, once frozen together into a single chunk, three girls together, moving through the water. When we were young, so close in age, each managing the chaos of our childhoods, we wove ourselves into each other, not even knowing it was happening. As we’ve grown older we’ve stepped in and out of closeness over the years, the times of separation always feeling wrong, uncomfortable, almost unbearable.

It’s different now. We are three women in our fifties, each living in a different city in a different state. As I walked with my sisters, carefully watching our steps to prevent falls for our aging bodies, our eyes leaking tears from the cold, the skin on our cheeks tightening with the wind, I noticed a shift. 

We are not often all together, just the three of us. Today, as we walked, our sisterhood felt more spacious, more open. It was like the molecules of the solidly frozen block that contained us all for so many years had warmed a little bit, enough for cracks to form and become separate floats of ice.

For so many years, for so many reasons, we were united for survival. We each understood each other in ways that only we could. As we walked that day, side by side, I felt a deep contentment, a familiar comfort in being with both of my sisters in our home town, bundled up like when we were kids. 

At the same time I felt like an observer. The space between us was clear. We are each our own person, different from each other, living our distinct lives all over the country. We all have children of our own now and jobs, and partners and communities. There is much about each of our lives unknown to the others. We are floating in different directions, yet fundamentally part of the same block of ice, further away from each other, but always close. 

As I buckled in for the four-hour flight back to the west coast I thought about my sisters. We’ve spent so much time in our lives afraid of separating. We created drama and conflict to keep the energy alive when it was waning. I’ve spent years in therapy talking about my relationship with my sisters. I think about both of them every single day.

My therapist says that when images accompany a feeling, it is a sign that there is a depth of knowing, a deeper awareness or understanding. The separated ice blocks tell the story that I feel. I am calm and comforted as I imagine my sisters and I, each as one part of a bigger piece of ice, floating close together, but independent of each other. 

Our unified ice block was necessary in the past. We needed it when we were young. We needed to show our allegiance and support to each other against the world. But we don’t need it any more. We’re all okay. The space between us now is a good thing. With a little bit of space we can see each other more clearly. As we float on the surface of the water, our differences can come into focus, each of our distinct shapes, contours, and textures become visible. After so many years, we can truly see each other. 

Lamplight

I have an old lamp in my living room that belonged to my grandparents. It’s got an oblong rust-orange glass base and a big wide fabric shade with two light bulbs, each with their own pull string. The 1970s style blown glass lamp lived in my Nana and Papa’s living room on their fourteenth floor apartment on the north side of Chicago.

The lamp has followed me through moves in three different homes of my own. Now it lives in my living room. Every morning I come down the stairs and duck into the living room to pull the string under the shade of that lamp to light up the living room. Then I go into the kitchen to make my coffee. Once my coffee is brewed, I pour a cup and go back into the living room where I open a poem book, choose a poem, and read one before I meditate.

The big orange pull string light sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t. The switch is sensitive, often triggered by someone walking by or plopping down on the couch. It will turn off or on, seemingly at will. I’m always happy when that happens, like I’m getting some kind of sign from my Nana — a playful hello or I’m thinking about you.

A few months ago my younger brother texted me to ask me about my Nana. My brother is fourteen years younger than me and he has very few memories of my grandparents. For him, he and my brother were just annoyances to Nana. For me, she was my greatest fan and my staunchest ally. When I shared my own memories of Nana with my brother it was as if we were remembering two completely different people. 

In one form of meditation I practice we are invited to bring into our consciousness a memory of a person, a time, or a place where we feel loved, comforted, and accepted exactly as we are. Almost always I imagine myself — age 8, 9, 10, 20, 23 — getting off of the elevator to Nana standing at her front door, arms spread wide, waiting in position to wrap me into a giant hug.

It’s a feeling that’s seared into my memory and reinforced over years of recalling that same memory. I believe that we hold certain crystal clear memories — memories filled with more detail and specificity than others — because we learned something important from that experience. It is memorable. It matters. 

I have other crystal clear memories as well, memories that aren’t so beautiful. Those memories also taught me something about the world and my place in it. But for those memories, I need healing, cleansing, therapy.

My memory of Nana, arms outstretched, hugging the air even before I get there to fill the space in front of her, is a nourishing memory. It feeds my soul and fills my heart. I know my brother’s memory of Nana is the more common one. Many people in my extended family missed out on the Nana that I knew. For whatever reason she did not give them what she gave me. 

I remember when Nana was dying. She was 82 and had liver cancer. I was living across the country from her, a young professional in my late twenties. I took a week off of work and went back to stay with my Nana and Papa to help take care of her. 

By that time Nana was spending a lot of time in bed. I spent my days with her. Lounging on Papa’s side of their big king-sized mattress at the back of their apartment. Nana had a cassette recorder by the bed and she’d put in one of her classical tapes, close her eyes and hum along. Nana would point to her chest of drawers across from the bed and instruct me to pull out a tray of jewelry or scarves.

She gave me her wedding ring, a one-inch simple gold band that stretches from the bottom of my second knuckle all the way to the first. I wear it to every fancy party, graduation, wedding or other important celebration. She also gifted me several of the big chunky necklaces that she used to wear. I still have them hanging in my bedroom, jewelry I never wear, but seeing them still reminds me of her.

This morning I had an emotional hangover. I had a hellish day at work yesterday, filled with a thousand moments of wanting to throw in the towel. As I walked to my meditation cushion I knew today would be a day of clean up, recovery and hard future planning. My morning meditation ritual would be more important today than usual.

And it was. Just as I finished my morning poem, the lamp went off. I felt a spark of joy right away. This was a sign from Nana and perfect timing for the start of my meditation. I closed my eyes I went to that memory —  the warm, comforting, supported hug place that Nana gave me. 

As I sat, eyes closed in the dark, breathing her memory into my body, I felt okay. I felt supported and loved. Everything would be okay. Today would be hard but I would get through it. When I got up to go to the kitchen I walked by the orange glass lamp and it turned on again. Thank you Nana, I love you too.

From Director to Consultant

Even though I’m a twin, I identify as the eldest (by thirteen minutes) in my family. I’ve always been incredibly capable, competent, and directed. I make plans, set goals, and get things done.

Parenting has been no exception. From the get go, I’ve had it all planned out and, when things haven’t gone as planned, I’ve pivoted and made new plans, better plans. And that’s the way it’s been for eighteen years. 

I could cry as I write this because I have no parenting plan anymore. My daughter is eighteen and she doesn’t need me to direct her life. My planning persona has collapsed into itself. The columns and rows in this spreadsheet are filled with error messages. The calendar is covered with ink smears and gibberish. The car is out of gas and I don’t have any of the right clothes to wear.

I feel totally out of control, like I don’t understand my job. I’ve been listening to self-help and parenting podcasts like a med student cramming for the boards. I recently heard a parenting expert say that when our kids get ready to leave home we have to convert from being the director of their lives to the consultants.

The key here is that to be a consultant you have to be consulted. In other words, you have to be asked for advice or support or guidance. Sure, we can try to continue to direct our children’s lives but their reaction will likely be to do the exact opposite of what we say in a defiant show of independence and autonomy.

Moving from director to consultant is fucking hard for me. I have to don a verbal straight jacket to keep myself from barking directions and next steps. I’ve been pretty good about it lately because I am trying really hard. But if I’m honest, it feels totally out of body. I feel like I’m trying to quit smoking or eating sugar. My habit, my total addiction to directing my daughter is deprived every day. I’m tweaking from the withdrawals.

I keep telling myself that it will get easier with time. I will stop craving the need to direct my child’s life. I will wake up and my need for the rush of motherhood will be gone. It hasn’t happened yet, but I’m committed to keep trying.

I truly want to move from director to consultant. I worry that if I don’t I’ll miss the opportunity to really know my daughter. Whenever I hear those parenting experts share wisdom on best parenting practices, I think to myself, “Fuck, Fuck, Fuck! I did this completely wrong and now my daughter is completely cooked and what if I’ve ruined her by not doing all of those things I should have done?” 

This rabbit hole thinking fuels my desire to continue directing. If I can get a little bit more parenting in, maybe I can salvage all of my missteps. I know this is crazy. At this point, I can’t salvage anything but my future relationship with my practically grown daughter. 

Last night my daughter was doing homework and the dining room table, writing an essay for her Language Arts class. I really wanted to sit opposite of her and help. It’s been years since I’ve helped her with school work. But working on curbing my addiction, I took my laptop into the living room, plugged in my air pods and watched the final season of the Morning Show. 

A few minutes into my show, my daughter hollered, “How do you spell commiserate?” I put my show on pause and we went back and forth about how she’d spelled it, etc. Then it happened again with another word and then another. Eventually I turned the volume down on my show and put the subtitles on so I could hear her when she needed help.

“This is consulting,” I thought to myself happily as I sunk into the couch half-watching a show I didn’t really care about. “She’s in control of the asking.”

It was a small example, but an important one. I got it right this time and it felt good. This consultancy period is an important new stage of parenting that I can honor or ignore.

In one of my recent podcasts I heard that parents get 70% wrong and 30% right. These statistics made me feel hopeful, like maybe I’m in the realm of normal. Parenting has never been simple, but it’s never been this hard. Making this shift from director to consultant is one of the hardest things I’ve had to do. Will I achieve a 30% success rate? I’m trying. I’m really trying. 

Connection at a Cellular Level

 

My daughter said yesterday, ‘Mom, will you get a dog when I go to college?” The week before she said, “Mom, are you going to be okay when I’m gone?” 

“I’ll be fine,” I tell her, “I’m already preparing. I just started a painting class!”

I’m very attached. For years I’ve felt self-conscious about how much I love my daughter. Even when she is a total asshole, I love her. I try to minimize my love, to be more chill, like a cool mom who has a balanced life — mother and professional, partner and parent, friend and family member. 

When I was voicing my anticipation about my daughter leaving for college with a friend the other day, she shared some wonderful wisdom. This friend is in her sixties and has two sons in their late twenties. As we talked about my daughter’s upcoming transition to college, she said, “Motherhood….It’s something,” and then described how, the first time she saw one of her sons after two years of COVID separation she laid hands all over him. “It was carnal,” she said, “I had to touch him all over,” she said patting the air in front of her, “I actually read that the we share cells with our babies until they are twenty-seven years old.”

Hearing my friend say this was strangely affirming, like maybe my attachment to my daughter is biological, something I can’t control. I felt a physical sigh of relief. Maybe there is nothing really wrong with me after all. I’ve been thinking about this for the last couple of days and decided to do some research. 

What I found on the world wide web was fascinating. For example, while the majority of the cells that come from the fetus are destroyed by the mom’s immune system, some stay and become embedded in various organs, and become a part of the mother. 

According to the article I read, beginning in the early weeks of pregnancy, the fetus transfers cells to the mother and vice versa. The fetal cells have been found to stay in the mother’s body beyond the time of pregnancy, sometimes for many years (even decades) after birth. The mom’s cells also stay in the baby’s blood and tissues for decades. In one study, more than half of adults still had maternal cells in their blood.

This phenomenon blew my mind and warmed my heart. I found great comfort and affirmation in this newfound piece of scientific knowledge. Today when I was sitting on the couch with my daughter on a rare Saturday morning when we were both home in the same room with the same idea to chat, she stretched her long legs out next to my long legs and our skin touched in the two inches between her pants and socks and my pants and her socks. 

“We’re connected,” I thought to myself. “A little bit of me is inside of her and a little bit of her is inside of me.” I know other mothers (and children) must feel the same way. I know that for me, even when I have been ragingly angry or brutally disappointed by my mother, I still feel connected to her. There’s still something visceral that keeps me longing for her. I think she feels the same way about me and my sisters. 

One could argue that a bunch of random cells living in the liver or the pancreas doesn’t mean much, that it’s just a simple biological phenomenon and there is not necessarily an emotional impact. That could be true, but I don’t like that argument as much as the one my friend shared. 

I thought about my friend patting her tall son’s shoulders and arms and back and head, putting her open palms on his whiskered cheeks. Like coming home to the familiar smells, shapes, and sounds that you know so well you don’t even have to know that you know them. They are just there. 

When my daughter goes to college she probably won’t come home for any longer than a few months in the summer and then maybe a week or two for visits. This is what I am preparing myself for. I feel scared and sad and excited and worried. I’ll MISS her. It will be an entirely new experience to be so far away. 

I know I’ll be okay. I’ll get a dog. I’ll take another painting class. I’ll start a new hobby. But I will be okay. This strange, unrelenting attachment I feel, that I’ve always felt, is okay. Even though my daughter was born eighteen years ago, I’m still attached. I’m still connected.

And so is she.