Staying Awake

The snow is blazing through our downtown Main Street. I can see the Ellen Theatre sign and above it, covered in white, the name of some movie promising escape.

When our three children were little, my husband joked to them about how he would stuff his mouth with popcorn and then stick a straw in the side of his mouth. The coke would dissolve all the popcorn. Life can be avoided, muted.

Perhaps life is just too intense to face. If we did we might be overwhelmed, living always in the context of death, never able to turn away from the inevitability of our impermanence. Every time the marquee above the theatre changes or we make it to the end of the month without overdrawing our account, there is a certain relief.

And still there is the other side. I couldn't capture the children and hold to their youth, but instead the lines on their faces grow, just as my own. I even saw my father, stoic most of his life, opened by life's insistent refinement. Even rocks change. We seem to be barreling toward some profound love that rubs away illusion until we are rendered real. It is not ours to control. It is ours to stay awake.

Mindsight

I just finished reading "Parenting From The Inside Out" by Siegel and Hertzel. In it, the authors speak of "mindsight," or the ability to hear what's being said underneath the words being spoken. They say we can create a resonance between the parent's and child's brain that gives the child a sense of "we" when we use our mindsight, when we hear underneath the words to the deeper feelings and thoughts.

Siegel and Hertzel's ideas remind me of a time I picked up our youngest from school. She was in the sixth grade. I can see her seated on the passenger's side of our turquoise Lumina as she shut the door, glanced at me nervously and said, "What's wrong, mom?"

In that moment I made a choice to tell the truth. I could have denied it, thinking that would've been easier for her, but whatever was "wrong" with me that day, I acknowledged. Without realizing it, I gave her opportunity to trust her "mindsight". There was a resonance between us that in that moment that came out of truth telling.

When I teach my children to deny their feelings and thoughts, either directly through my words or indirectly through my behavior, I deny the development of a profound interpersonal skill, an Emotional Intelligence and a connectedness that supercedes logic.

Song from Maggie

As I widen my peripheral vision, I can see that we not only learn from our children (the ones we raise and kiss at night, worry and fret over, sometimes lose it with), but in this Information Age, we have an unprecedented opportunity to learn from all children.

Today, I received an email from Maggie Longmier, friend, songwriter and poet who lives in Knoxville, Tennessee. She wrote a song I've included on this blog, "Tears Turned Promises," about Darfur where 2.5 million men, women and children have been driven from their homes. They face starvation, disease and rape. The ones who stay risk displacement, torture and murder. All a far cry from life in the states and yet close to us all, if we will look.

The question of "What am I to learn from my children?" is profound. The next question of "Who are my children?" runs even deeper.

With my children, it is mine to know that there are no guarantees, no promises. I know that having watched three of my friends lose their teen-age sons. I know, from experience, that there is no perfect parent. I tried, watched my friends try, and saw a myriad of variations on mistakes. One of our jobs as parents is to be honestly human. That's what we are: human beings.

I do know that my internal clarity matters more when interacting with my children than any words or techniques (though certain words and techniques are more helpful than others!)

And, when I open my heart, I know that each child in Darfur has something to teach me, too. I know that their lives matter to me and that the well-being of my own children and their future is connected to lives in the Sudan because of our undeniable human connection which has always been.

If you want to learn more about what is happening in Darfar, please go to http://www.savedarfur.org/.

And, listen to Maggie's song.
Click to Download

Jan

Parents Who Keep Growing Up

Being a good parent includes a willingness to grow up so that I can say 'no' without rigidity and recrimination--not always an easy task for me or my husband. Many parents today, including myself, know all too well the permissive pattern of giving until you blow up--partnered with conversations that end in tears and slammed doors. Our work as parents is to be open-hearted and kind, with firm boundaries that make sense. This requirement is reason to see children as teachers.

There's a theory in family systems which talks about problems that emanate from the parents. I do believe it's not all the parents or certainly not always the parents issue when things don't go well. Children are negatively impacted by environmental issues or they may have learning disabilities or allergies or other health issues. They have their uniqueness and go through developmental stages, some stages more challenging than others and within those stages, some children more challenging than others. (I recommend the Gessell Institute studies for reading about developmental stages.) Genetics is a contributing factor in who a child is. It's important to consider all this and to consider what social pressures children might experience. And, it's important to consider the impact we have as parents.

When Carl Jung, the Swiss psychologist, said, "Children are educated by what the grown-up is and not by his talk." this pointed to me, the parent, to the notion that I hold responsibility for my being. The particular way I am reactive, and how I grow and change and learn about being real, approachable, vulnerable, loving....and assuredly authoritative....is my chance to grow up. Within this experience, the circle goes around. I learn from my child because I note my reactivity and so my child learns, not always by what I say, but also by who I am.

Jan

Life Made Easier

"Real Simple: Life Made Easier" the magazine on the coffee table reads. I'm sitting in a coffee-shop in Montana, comforting myself with the noise of people, ordering their breakfast for today. And while I sit, eyes on the magazine, the stereo plays John Lennon's 'Imagine'.

I can feel tears in my eyes, struck by how life isn't real simple for anyone all of the time, and how for some of us comfort and safety are hard to come by.

"Real Simple" is a magazine advertising what we all long for: simplicity, life made easier. We thought we'd have less paper ten years ago when we started using computers, more and more exclusively. But, I hear we use more--more paper, more things available for us to buy from places and people we'll never meet or see, more information coming our way, more games to lose ourselves in so that all that isn't simple in this world becomes manageable in a 'Second Life'.

What is it that we as a culture so desperately long for that a company can sell a magazine promising "Life Made Easier"? What do I long for, past remodeling my kitchen or the safe delivery of our first grandchild or my mother's well-being as she sits miles from me in what appears to be an endless fog?

None of that in my own life seems "Real Simple," and there are no promises or guarantees. And when there are no promises or guarantees, how do we bring babies into the world with worry of global warming showing up in tranquil Montana as glaciers melt?

There is so much to know in today's world, all with the flip of a switch and even a computer illiterate fifty-eight year old has access to knowledge and information beyond her wildest dreams.

Yet, the baby who is coming will have that aura all around him of the simple and the
immediate--not the "Real Simple" of clean organized kitchen drawers--but presence. He will for years emanate simplicity and teach his grandmother all about it, in the moment. And it is mine to learn again.

The Comparing Mind

The smell of hyacinth hits my nose the minute I walk in the front door of our house built in 1924 on the elm tree boulevard close to the State University. This purple flower is planted in a basket that sits in front of our green couch that can sleep two, side by side. It sits atop the tiny coffee table that is really a bench, and its job is to be purple and green and fill the air with the luxurious perfume of the hyacinth.

If only each of us did the peculiar job of being ourselves this well and didn't forget by seven years who we are, looking across at the daffodil, comparing its happy unwavering color to that of the deeper, more subtle hue of the hyacinth.

I wonder, when I pray in the mornings for the flowers that have grown in my garden, if some how the blame belongs with me. That they don't recognize themselves, as they are, is sometimes understandable and sometimes a mystery. And sometimes I feel an ache in my heart for all of our suffering, a suffering stirred by the comparing mind.

Would the hyacinth ever compare itself to the narcissus or the daffodil?

I wish I could envelop my children with a wisdom and knowledge that what they bring, who they are is enough. I can hold knowing that in every prayer, hold it as a possibility, know it for myself. The rest belongs to their path and a decision I hope they'll make to honor their uniqueness.

Self Awareness and Parenting

There are ways to notice when I am, as a parent, creating barriers through which my children are not seen as 'other' but as an extension of what I think they should be, how they should act, or even think. When I am in that place, my children are, in my mind, an extension of me, rather than who they are.

If I am aware of my language and my feelings, my bodily sensations, I can decide whether it's my turn for a time out or our time for a connecting conversation in which I see this child as 'other', as someone with their own particular way of viewing and experiencing the world.

Most communication occurs with tone of voice and body language, not with the actual words expressed. So, an important first step for me to take is to note whether or not I have any reactive demands or disconnecting feelings. Is my stomach upset? Do I feel angry or fearful? Do I think my child is a problem? Or is he or she someone who needs to change--preferably yesterday?

In my 30+ years of parenting, I was often reactive when a coat was misplaced, a spelling test failed, the proverbial milk spilled. As I've learned, over and over to reclaim myself, what I want to communicate with words aligns with the tone of my voice and the movement of my body.

One of the most salient questions of parenting is, "How do I reclaim myself now? Now who do I choose to be?" With reclaiming of the self, any important conversation can have an element of grace. The first step toward that grace is to notice my Self before I begin any difficult conversation. Where am I, really?

Neuroplasticity: "I changed my mind."

According to January 2007's issue of Time magazine, neuroscientist Richard Davidson of the University of Wisconsin at Madison, found that activity greater in the left prefrontal cortex than in the right correlates with a higher baseline level of contentment.... "Davidson recruited Buddhist monks to meditate while he measured their brain activity and discovered activity in the left prefrontal swamped activity in the right prefrontal to a degree never seen before from purely mental activity."

Davidson suggests that we have the power to change our brains, to actually 'up' the happiness point. We can reshape how we process information with Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and mindfulness meditation. We can change our brains when we think about our thinking, and the ability to change our brains is called neuroplasticity.

I've spent some time recently talking with two young mothers with pre-school age children, who are also Montessori teachers. They told me that parents today are more permissive than authoritarian, but when I pressed them further, there is a kind of 'blowing-up' these parents often report after over-extending themselves by giving permission to their children without also giving appropriate boundaries.

From the time our children were born, I wanted to be the best mother I could, and with all of my limitations, I did do my best. When they were young, what I couldn't seem to master or control were the times I was particularly reactive--the times I 'blew up'.

One of my mentors talks about time out. Except he's the one who takes the time out--not his boys. What a concept--a man I admire for his clarity and wisdom--taking a time- out so he doesn't lose his cool with his pre-school children.

It is with our very selves that we teach our children how to be, and as parents, most of us long to exemplify someone akin to the Dali Lama. The buddhist monks spend a lifetime in meditation in order to achieve a state of compassion. There is something about the boundless love most of us have for our children, the desire we have to provide the very best, that gives us both the courage and insight that says first and foremost: I will handle my own space, my internal world so that the emotional content I provide for my children to ingest comes from clarity.

And out of that, because of love for our own children, the work of parenting becomes a great spiritual gift.

Children Teaching Letting Go

In my imagination, I will die an old woman with beloved children and grandchildren gathered around me, and I will be ready. But right now, in this moment, I don't want to think about dying or the fact that I'll be a grandmother some time this glorious Montana summer.

Or maybe the baby will be born when the mountains are on fire and smoke bellows through our sleepy town. (We anticipate wildfires these days.) I want to keep my attention on anything other than the stunning realization that all three of our children are grown or close to it, and this is an era, for me, of letting go.

It started when our oldest child went to second grade. Before that I had home-schooled her, taught her how to tell the difference between a moth and a butterfly by looking at the fuzzy antennas the moth wore. I wrote somewhere in some journal about those days. I don't know where the journal is or as parents always say, where the time went.

I do know that when I look into the future now, I don't see our girl in her blue coat, zipped tight to her neck, looking a bit frightened and heading off to school and all the beginning and letting go that meant for me and for her.

Instead I see, or at best anticipate, a time when we will welcome new life, and see our children making choices without the need for approval or advice from parents, and in all this, there is a surrender that I must acknowledge.