Paying Attention To Intention

A friend and I were talking about our mothers. Hers was a party- going and party-giving socialite, alcoholic, whose husband died too soon. And mine? Mine was a brilliant, artistically talented, funny, intellectual woman, under utilized, with not a nurturing bone in her body.

Whenever I am speaking about parenting, I begin by saying, “Let’s just stipulate that as parents, even if we do our very best, we will mess up in some way.” We will not give each of our children all of what they need. We will miss a number of significant cues, simply because it isn’t in our own psychological makeup to receive them, or because we are preoccupied, or because we are in denial, or because the demand at the time is more than we can handle. A turmoil of our own can muffle the voices of our children: myriad reasons, none of them intentional or malevolent.

 We rather helplessly carry our wounds across generations, so if we are really fortunate, at some time in our lives each of our kids will lay out all that we missed and let us know that if we are not yet forgiven, she or he is open to it. 

The good news of such a conversation is that we will get to say, “I am really sorry.” Then, with grace, we can patiently and compassionately, begin the healing with one another.

 As adults, it is incumbent upon us to explore not only the failures of our parents, but the instances in which they succeeded. We need, too, to go deeper, to understand that unless our parents were pathological—a completely different story—they intended to love us well and undoubtedly did the best they could with what they had to work with. And, as parents ourselves, we have done the same.

Something to think about at the beginning of the holiday season when family looms large and we are often encumbered with expectations, past disappointments and unresolved tensions.

My suggestion? Let us forgive ourselves and our parents for being who they are, or were, and know, absolutely know, that short of pathology, no parent intends to hurt their children. Not ever.

        

            

Allergic To . . .What?

After three visits to an allergist, which involved being poked in the arms and taped on my back in order to press unknown substances into my body, this Friday morning he rejected me, announcing that I showed no signs of being allergic to anything. Great! Never mind that my face, chest and neck are still streaky red and on fire.

So he sends me back to the dermatologist. I drive straight to his office and, standing at the desk of the busiest doctor in town, I say, “I know he is the busiest doctor in town, but I have been sent back to him by the allergist and either I see him swiftly or I shoot myself—whichever comes first” This gets their attention. All four of the receptionists stop what they are doing and look up at me, taking in the sight of my spottily crusty, inflamed face.

“Can you come in at 8:00AM on Monday?” the woman in front inquires, her face warm with compassion. “Will you be home this afternoon? I can talk with him and see if he can fit you in this afternoon,” she offers. I thank her profusely and give her the necessary phone numbers.

I also ask her to reorder the steroidal cream I was using weeks ago. It hurt like blazes but seemed to help.

But it turns out that the two doctors—allergist and dermatologist--must confer before any decisions about meds can be made.

So now I wait for the two of them to decide upon Next Steps For Stranahan, which may involve at least one biopsy of the affected skin. Never mind, there are acres to choose from.

Then there is some fancy Yale Medical School allergist, who, I am told, “can test you for everything”—what an appalling thought— to whom I could be sent, but I pray not.

I am making every effort to keep my sense of humor about this unpleasant turn of events. My walking companion says kindly, “I don’t even notice it,” which, instead of comforting me as she intends, lets me know that she hasn’t actually looked at me for two weeks.

 Well, to be fair, when you think of it, we are walking side by side, so she is not really seeing my face head on. And then there is my hat, the bright blue, Jackie O dark glasses and the scarf loosely wrapped around my flaming neck . . .

Still, contrast that with the reaction of my pharmacist today when I walked in in hopes of securing the steroidal cream from him. “Wow, Cecily! That’s some rash you’ve got all over your face!” That’s what happens when you’ve known your pharmacist all of your life.

The steroidal cream not yet authorized, I hang out at the pharmacy, making short work of an entire Kit Kat. It’s my opinion that chocolate is a powerful prescription for anything that ails you.

 Having never had a allergy in my life--I can stuff myself with peanut butter--It has occurred to me that, over time, I may have become allergic to myself: that 81 years of being me have thinned my skin and done me in, at least for now.

Nonetheless, I totally resist allowing this situation to become a drama; I won’t have it. I am going onto Amazon, as my daughter suggested, and buying the post- face- lift ice mask that fits your face perfectly—with a place to breathe--and has, I’m told, a band that goes around the back of your head to hold it in place.

When this helpful article arrives I intend to remain on my back, face-iced, on the living room couch for indefinite periods, hoping that, at some point, when I get up, I will look in the mirror and, once again, recognize myself. 

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Happy Thanksgiving everyone! With all the darkness in the world we can still be light- bearers of gratitude. 

Hanging Out In The Gray Area

At the Unquowa School annual meeting this week the Head of School, Sharon Lauer, spoke briefly about “loving the gray area.”  Never mind black or white, just so I can have “my gray.” She went on to say that Unquowa was a school that fostered and provided a container for kids to inhabit the “gray area” as they learned history, literature and explored the nature of different cultures.

I found myself imagining a child in the Maker Space—see blog: Social Skill Are Marketable Assets—gradually creating something with wood, a few nails, some fabric and markers and an adult comes along and inquires, “What are you making?”  The student answers, “I don’t know  . . .yet.”

 Whether it is an idea not yet fully formed, research not yet complete, or bits of something not yet expressing an end product, hanging out in the gray area means, “I don’t know . . .yet.”

It is the gray area, the “I don’t know “space, that is pregnant with possibilities. Buddhists teach us to “soften the mind,” to remain open to whatever might reveal itself: not to be so attached to our concepts and our opinions as if they were poured in concrete. When we do that we shut down not only to new pathways of thinking for ourselves; we also imprison others in our rigidly held views of them. We are all changing, shifting all of the time: some of us more than others, it’s true—the word “curmudgeon” didn’t arise out of nowhere—but at least, if we allow it, we are capable of actually changing, opening, our minds. “Allowing” being the key word here.

Essentially in our culture there are two respected states of mind: “Yes” and “No.” Clear-minded thinkers inhabit those spaces comfortably and with a certain culturally supported smugness. In Eastern thought there are three respected states of mind: “Yes”, “No” and “I don’t know.” And inherent in “I don’t know” are the possibilities, as I have said. When we trust and love the process for itself, new behaviors and potentially creative action can emerge.

This is not to say that we must never be decisive. Not at all. For example, the able Treasurer of the school can’t stand up at the annual meeting and report that she just “doesn’t know yet” what the financial condition of the school is. That would hardly go down well. Doctors are incredibly stuck in needing to know and preferably right now.  We want that certainty from them.

Nonetheless, a school that allows kids to hang out comfortably in the gray areas, helps to form creative and tolerant adults. Whenever we become aware of just how tightly wound we are about a particular situation or point of view, we can offer ourselves that same sort of release and relaxation.  We can take some deep breaths, soften, and “try on” another viewpoint. It won’t hurt a bit.

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Our thoughts and prayers are with those who lost loved ones in Paris on  Friday night. Trinity Episcopal Church Southport held a candle light vigil on Saturday evening. We prayed for the innocent dead, we prayed for the families and friends who mourn. We prayed for healing for those who kill in God's name that they may be released from the need to terrorize and be freed from their hatred. We prayed for peace in the world and for the collaborative wisdom  of the free world to create an effective and sage response to terrorism.

Permission To Be Empty Headed

As some of you may have noticed I did not post a blog last week. A friend shot me an email: “No Monday blog! Are you all right?” I was /am all right, but for the first time since I began the blog almost two years ago, nothing would jell in my mind. Nothing!

And it wasn’t my preoccupation with the World Series. I couldn’t care less about baseball. The Final Four (basketball) and World Cup soccer, yes. Baseball? No.

Nor was it my dismay over the Republican debate—who ARE these people? Nor was it the candidates’ subsequent petulant attack on the media for “unfair” questions that were asked. As peevish as it all seemed to me, I do think the journalists seemed more interested in pursuing ratings than soliciting information for the voting public.

Then, too, I have been in thrall to the most beautiful autumn weather I have experienced ever, stopping during my walk to photograph yellow-leafed trees filled with golden light and firing those pictures off to friends in the UK who, without deciduous trees, are deprived of our captivating Fall Magic.

As I searched my brain for clear blog ideas, all I could find was a blurry muddle, soupy gray foggy stuff that refused to take any shape.

What is this? This has never happened! No blog? Enter remorse and guilt.

Walking in the park on Sunday with my creative, television- producing, Emmy-award-winning, youngest son, I confessed. “I don’t have a blog to post tomorrow. First time ever.” I kicked at a pile of leaves on the path.

“Mom,” he said, “that can happen to anyone. It happens to me sometimes. You are open to inspiration—that’s the main thing-- but sometimes—hopefully not too often—it just doesn’t come. You have a right to be uninspired.”

“A right to be uninspired!” The words rang like victory chimes in my head. “Thank you!”

Of course: “A right to be uninspired.” Just like the right to feel tired and need a nap, or the right to want to be alone for awhile, or to say no when people expect and want you to say yes.  Or the right to change your mind when a commitment you made turns out to not be what you hoped and planned for. The right to be distracted by upcoming eye surgery to remove the cataracts that cause you to squint at your computer.

 And perhaps most significant of all, the right to be human and find yourself for a time in a soft, autumnal kind of muddle, just walking along, taking pictures of trees, the warm sun on your face, feeling drifty and purposeless.

I write so often about self- compassion. Time to pour some all over myself. Meanwhile thank you so much for expecting and looking for Life Opening Up. It appears that occasionally Life Takes A Rest. 

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A Perfect Tree