Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘Pema Chödrön’

Other people’s dreams can be so tedious, I know, but it can’t be helped.

I’m at a support group with other parents of special needs kids; I can’t see the other participants (am invisible to them, too) because the room is all obstructed views. I ask if we can re-arrange the seats, but am told that I don’t need to be there, this meeting isn’t about me, I seem to be doing fine and this is a support group for people with urgent issues, but why do I ask, they wonder, do I need to talk? I burst out crying, “I ALWAYS need to talk,” and I’m whisked away to another part of the room before I infect the others with my hysteria.

I am led to a table surrounded by a Greek chorus of special needs parents who in real life know my heart the best, and I plead “When will I need to stop talking about this?”, embarrassed, ashamed that I’m not cool about all this, that my struggle means that I don’t love my son, that I’m not a good mother. “I mean, he’s healthy, he’s not in pain, he’s not sick, he’s loving, he’s great. So why do I still feel like I need to talk about this?” They absorb my words impassively. Without pause my words continue to flood out, “Sometimes I think about what it would be like if I could take all of his challenges away,” and they shake their heads vigorously, moaning, “No, no, we must never do that, it can’t be done,” but I can’t help it, the words are already out, Pandora’s box has been opened, and the only way to describe what that would be like is to show them, and I raise my face upward and gasp for breath, arms floating as if I am breaking the surface after being underwater much too long, and they all raise their faces too, and they all inhale deeply with me.

“But that’s not the right metaphor,” I said, “because that would mean that now, I am drowning.”

And I wake up gasping for breath.

———–

Last weekend I went on a retreat called “Living Beautifully with Complexity and Change.” Our theme, we were told, would be this prophesy, taken from Perseverance by one of our teachers, Margaret Wheatley.

From the Elders of the Hopi Nation
Oraibi, Arizona  June 8, 2000
 
To my fellow swimmers:
 
Here is a river flowing now very fast.
It is so great and swift that there are those
who will be afraid, who will try
to hold on to the shore.
They are being torn apart and
will suffer greatly.
 
Know that the river has its destination.
The elders say we must let go of the shore.
Push off into the middle of the river,
and keep our heads above water.
 
And I say see who is there with you
and celebrate.
At this time in history,
we are to take nothing personally,
least of all ourselves,
for the moment we do,
our spiritual growth and journey come to a halt.
 
The time of the lone wolf is over.
Gather yourselves.
Banish the word struggle from your attitude
and vocabulary.
 
All that we do now must be done
in a sacred manner and in celebration.
For we are the ones we have been waiting for.
 
————

In my dream, I was right. Drowning wasn’t exactly the right metaphor. I wasn’t drowning, but being torn apart from clinging to the shore. And the clinging, I see now, doesn’t come from me wanting him to be anyone other than exactly who he is, but from wanting the rest of the world to be a place where he — where all of us — is safe, welcome, valued. I know that to help the world become this place, I must let go, surrender to the river and its destination, and sometimes I can. There are no guarantees that the middle of the river is any safer, any less treacherous, but it feels like the right thing to do. Every moment becomes the chance to do it again, to re-commit to letting go and being in the middle, where all the important work gets done.

Here I float, in the middle of the river, in sacredness and celebration, banishing the word struggle from my attitude and vocabulary. Will you join me here? When I forget, will you remind me to let go?

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

You don’t know how it feels to be me.” Tom Petty

Community is a wonderful thing, a place where we feel a deep sense of belonging, a place where we feel seen.  The special needs parenting community has been particularly healing for me. Connecting with people who understand my challenges, my fears and my anger releases or lightens those very same emotions simply through the act of having them observed and acknowledged by someone who I believe understands them. Realizing that instead of just a “me” there is an “us” is a true blessing.

The trouble is that with every “us” there comes a “them.” By finding comfort and community with those who understand what it’s like to be me, I’ve been drawing a ring around the “us.” While I’m not exactly banishing folks who haven’t shared my experience to the space outside of the circle, I’m unconsciously not including them.

This weekend I was on a meditation retreat with the Buddhist nun and wonderful teacher Pema Chödrön. At certain points throughout the weekend, she invited questions from the audience. An audience that I realize now I saw as “them.” People approached the mic, shared their stories, sought advice. People who had no idea about my particular flavor of pain, but who clearly had their own: addictions, abuse, trauma, violence, isolation. It was impossible to not expand my circle to include them in “us.” Our pain is all the same, Pema pointed out. Only the storylines differ.

When I am in pain, I feel isolated, cut off and invisible. Why would I want to inflict that pain on someone else? It struck me that placing someone outside my circle was an act of aggression, of causing that very same pain. It’s a little embarrassing and ironic for a person who declares she wants everyone to be included.

“How did I get so lucky to have my heart awakened to others and their suffering?”

–Pema Chödrön

Read Full Post »

Life is glorious, but life is also wretched. It is both. Appreciating the gloriousness inspires us, encourages us, cheers us up, gives us a bigger perspective, energizes us. We feel connected. … On the other hand, wretchedness–life’s painful aspect–softens us up considerably. Knowing pain is a very important ingredient of being there for another person. When you are feeling a lot of grief, you can look right into somebody’s eyes because you feel you haven’t got anything to lose–you’re just there. … Gloriousness and wretchedness need each other. One inspires us, the other softens us. They go together.

Pema Chödrön (Start Where You Are: A Guide to Compassionate Living)

Lately it feels as if I am reaching the limit of my emotional capacity—my container, as it were, is if not overflowing, then damn near full. It seems like I’m looking at everyone around me through a pair of polarized sunglasses, bringing their pain, regret, injustice, joy and gratitude into vivid clarity. The highs seem higher, the lows lower.

Life seemed simpler when I was just bobbing along the surface. Digging in the dirt of the real and sometimes unmeetable special needs of my children, my family and even myself has brought me into contact with a side of life that I’d rather not know about.

Without afflicting you with the horrifying details, I was beyond saddened—I was sickened–last week to read of the case of abuse and coverup at the Judge Rotenberg Center. Years ago I would have shaken my head at the inhumanity of it; now I take it personally and read it as if it is happening to my own children. It’s so raw and extreme and I know it’s not helpful, but I don’t know how else to be right now.

It triggers a nerve, begging the question that many parents of children with special needs contemplate—what will happen to my child when I die in a world of so much fear, so much ignorance, so much evil? I know, I know, heavy stuff, and not what you came here to read about. I sat with the question for a moment, breathed deeply and got on with life. What else can one do?

And though this is the new normal for me, I can’t leave this post hanging that way. As I said, the lows are lower, but the highs are higher too.

This weekend we went camping with some old friends. Their daughter is only a few days older than my son, though cognitively and physically they have seemed light years apart for a long time. She is becoming a beautiful, intelligent, strong girl and I’ve observed for the last few years how she tries to make sense of the boy who she once considered her best friend, who cannot always keep up with her fun, but who delights so much in everything she does that he literally cannot stop laughing when he’s with her.

She and I had a few minutes alone together walking in the camp ground. Surrounded by so much nature, we got to talking about the cells that all living things are made of. It seemed a teachable moment, and so I then remarked on how there are genes in each cell which give instructions on what the cell should do, and that sometimes these genes start giving the wrong instructions. In her friend’s case, I explained, the instructions about growing and learning are a little mixed up. “But sometimes there’s a good side of these mix-ups,” I said. Her eyes lit up with her a-ha moment, she nodded and without missing a beat, she said, “Because he thinks everything I do is funny!”

To watch her have that awakening, that difference is natural and sometimes beautiful—I can only wonder why I spend so much time worrying about the world when it is filled with so much love, so much awareness, so much connection.

Heartbreaking challenge and breathtaking beauty. Wretchedness and gloriousness. They go together indeed. And luckily, as the emotional containerthat is my heart is pushed to the limits of its capacity, it is seemingly growing bigger.

Read Full Post »