Thursday, March 12, 2015

Trade My Name


I am a war
I am implosion
The resolution of annihilation
Blood and bone and ash
Buried in the grass like a seed
Your Lilith in the garden
The original Eve
Swallowing misdeeds
With a swollen belly
And growing unease

I am a war
I am fire and brimstone
Traded my name for a backbone
Lost my pride in a bet
With vanity and debt
Gave it all to a boy
Who hasn't come for me yet
And I'm hurting and unsure
But not like I used to be
With head high and eyes shut
I finally see
It's not exile
I'm not banished
I'm free


Tuesday, March 3, 2015

The Things That I Forgot To Do


I was in bed, sick and useless,  basically all weekend. It had been building for a while. Last week I started to feel tired.  Overwhelmed.  Pulled too thin like a rubber band just before it snaps.  At work I say yes to basically any new project I’m offered, both because they’re interesting but also because I don’t want to miss any opportunity to learn a new skill.  At home I try to cook all the meals and pack all the lunches and go sledding and do laundry and make sure homework is done and fingernails are clipped and no one’s watching too much TV.  Sometimes I'm even social with other adult humans! (Hi mom!) And because I’m me I want to do all of this without any help from anyone, ever.  But even when I’m managing it all, I somehow still feel like I’m floundering.  Most nights I lay in bed and think about the things that I forgot to do.

I vented all of this to a friend last week, who assured me that I was a great mom. 
“I know I’m a great mom.” I replied.  “I must be with all this crushing guilt I feel all the time.”
I was half kidding, but half not.  I really do feel guilty most of the time, and it’s exhausting. 

Even as the progressive term "modern motherhood" is thrown around, the subtext continues to encourage a selflessness that to me seems both impractical and unattainable.  I think women have the unfortunate, inherited propensity of treating motherhood as a form of martyrdom; As though your success as a mother were measured solely by what you’ve given up.  Last year when I flew from Japan to the US for a week without my children, I had several friends comment that they were shocked that I was “leaving” my kids on their first day of school.  Mind you, they were with their father, safe and cared for, and it was the first time I had gone anywhere alone in more than five years.  Instead of a community of support and compassion I was faced with judgment and criticism.  

In the face of all this turmoil I reflected back on my own relationship with my mother.  It has never been solely her physical proximity to me that offered comfort, but her emotional availability.  I know that if I need her, she’ll be there. I don't need to hear her say she loves me for me to know without a doubt that I am loved.  When I was younger and she was in grad school she was very busy, but I never felt angry about that. I felt proud of what she was accomplishing. When she would on occasion go out with friends, or date, or go on trips, I never felt bitterness or abandonment. I felt a freedom to live my life knowing that she had one of her own.  She used to host Mardi Gras parties with all our friends and neighbors, and after I was ushered to bed in the early morning hours I remember lying there listening to her laughing, and I felt happy because she was happy.   

There’s this thing that parents say sometimes when explaining something to their children.  “I’m doing all of this for you!”  First of all, it’s a weird thing to say. It’s too much responsibility to place upon the shoulders of a child.  Second, it’s bullshit.   It’s a way to avoid responsibility or justify your decisions, because surely if you’re “doing it all” for someone else, then you’re absolved of personal accountability. So following that logic, if you go through life unhappy and unfulfilled, hey, you did it for your kids.  If you don’t accomplish what you want to in your lifetime, surely your children's success will negate that failure, right? THAT MAKES NO SENSE. Someday your kids will grow up and they will see you for what you are.  Not some perfect saint, but a flawed human no different from them.  They will not buy into this whole martyr thing then, if they ever did.  They will know of the sacrifices you made for them, but wouldn't you rather they remember the sound of your laughter?  Wouldn't that be more of a comfort and inspiration?  

We all know in theory that it takes a village to raise a child, but as a mother it’s hard to relinquish control to your village.  It’s hard to let other people, even family, help you raise your children.  It’s been hard every snow day in the past month to rely on friends and family to check on and entertain the boys while I work.  It will be hard to watch them get on a plane without me this summer. Alternately, it can be hard to withhold judgment when we see someone else seemingly doing this mothering thing with more ease, more help or more grace than we feel we have.  Motherhood is tough enough without all the outside influences and subliminal messages we're bombarded with on a daily basis.  Don't feed the machine.  It's broken and outdated and turns women against each other. We all mother differently.  Our children will be brilliantly diverse, isn't that great??! 

 I constantly find myself slipping back into this mindset of feeling like I should value certain ideals that I just don't.  So I get very silent and listen to myself.  I tune out the voices criticizing me for wanting a different kind of life.  I'm immensely lucky to have this village, so I'm going to let them help me.  I'm going to try to lead a life that I love, and in turn give my kids what they need, which is me, happy. 

Sunday, February 8, 2015

Back Like Lazarus

Hey pals, it's your old friend Michele, back from the dead like Lazarus to tell you all how it was on 
the other side.  

No, I wasn't in the nether, but sometimes it seems like I was stuck someplace for quite a long while. Driving around lost, searching for a familiar landmark to tell me I was headed in the right direction.  

  I have a very active imagination, which is great, except that sometimes I tell myself a story and the story feels so real that when reality deviates from my plot, I find it difficult to accept.  I get sad about things that never really were, and I hold on tight the notion that life isn't going the way it's supposed to go;  The way I've imagined it going.  It's childish, and I've learned that letting go of all that is a surprisingly wonderful feeling.  Like letting your soul take off its pants after a long day.  


The familiar landmark never came.  I never had that outside validation that I was going the right way.  I just had to tell myself a story, and in the story I was found.  And in one of those rare occurrences, reality agreed.  






Friday, January 30, 2015

The Illusion of Intimacy


I recently read this article about how the nude selfie and the culture of social media in general is changing our perception of what “normal” behavior is.  We hear about nude photos being leaked and condescendingly roll our eyes.  
Why did she take it? 
Why did he share it?

Because we are like dogs.   

In the 1890's Russian physiologist Ivan Pavlov discovered that when he rang a bell to signal meal time to dogs, they would begin to salivate whether he brought food or not.  There has since been ample research to confirm Pavlov's findings and in more recent years, brain scan researchers have found that people have more brain activity anticipating a reward than receiving one.  So when you hear the "ping" of your phone  it sets off a dopamine loop in your brain.  Dopamine is not simply a pleasure chemical but a wanting chemical.  It propels you to do something.  In this case, people send the naked picture or text message for the anticipation of the other person's response.
 
All of this got me thinking about relationships in this digital era.  It has become more and more normal to “meet” online and carry on relationships (romantic or platonic) wherein physical interaction is minimal or nonexistent.  When you are holding your phone you are holding the idea of a person; an idea you probably helped construct.  It's hard to judge someone’s character online because you are only seeing that which they choose to show you and which you interpret with prejudice.  A person may seem so perfect online but turn out to be nothing more than a very good salesman.  That friend may seem like your kind, but she’s taken subtle cues from you and tailored her responses accordingly.  It is a bit like the Emperor’s New Clothes.  We walk around cloaked in the illusion of intimacy.    And on some level we must realize it, but we want so badly to believe that it's real, because even with all the followers and likes and Facebook friends we are somehow lonelier than ever.


Alternately, when you are talking to a person in real life you don’t have minutes to carefully choose your words.  There are no filters.  You can’t sit in silence for two hours ruminating over what to say next. In real life it is impossible to control all the variables that you can online.  Real life forces you to be present in a way that online interactions do not.  I've written about this in the past, but no matter how honest you feel you're being online, the temptation to project what you think people want is too great.

There really are no victims in this dilemma.  No one's forcing any of us to feed the machine, and yet we are,  and in return it gives us a compulsion of the peripheral, creating a generation that is perpetually dissatisfied, easily bored, and emotionally detached. It’s fostering in many of us an addiction to adoration.  


Social media isn’t going anywhere.  It’s an integral part of our culture now.  This is not a tirade against it, but rather an attempt to perhaps open up an honest dialogue.  I'm not quitting the internet.  I'm not moving to an anti-technology commune in Oregon.  Yet I am very uneasy about what the future will look like if we continue to prioritize instant, fleeting gratification over real life connections.

Monday, January 19, 2015

Fortress Around Your Heart

A long overdue update:

Boys are loving their new schools, although Cole is a little confused as to why other kids, especially those who claim to be "friends" seem so mean to each other.  I worry for him a lot.  He looks older than he is and I think that can be a curse to a kid. And he's so good.  Seriously, the kindest soul I've ever encountered and sometimes I get scared that he'll adapt to his environment and lose that.


Meanwhile, there's Aidin. Oh man, this kid.  In some ways I don't worry about him as much. Cole possesses a certain eagerness to be liked and make everyone happy that people can take advantage of. Aidin simply does not.  The only way I can think to describe his personality is that he is physically incapable of bullshit.  That shy, quiet kid is still in there but he's finding his voice more and more, and that voice is honest to a fault. He isn't great at picking up on social cues, so he's often abrupt to the point of rudeness. We're working on that, but the plain fact is that he cares more about information than he does for making friends.

And then there's me. I finally got a job and celebrated like any other sophisticated woman, by eating 8 ounces of clearance Brie with Saltines. (Dear $9 "water biscuits" you are just crackers.  Get over yourself.)
It sounds almost too simplistic, but I'm good.  Not wildly ecstatic or horribly depressed, but existing in a comfortable state of good.  I kicked and cried and thrashed around and found myself in a quiet  stage of acceptance, feeling very okay with everything. I still have my moments, like when "Fortress Around Your Heart" came on the radio at a red-light last week and it was like Sting was apologizing for every hurt I'd ever incurred and I cried the whole way home (but was super low-key about it).


Whatever, I'm over it now, but it's a good song.  I don't care what anyone says.    




Saturday, January 17, 2015

Want and Will


Growing up I was taught that God heard and would answer all of my prayers.  True, the answer might not come in a way I expected or hoped for, but it would always come.  A LOT of my childhood was spent in prayer.  I prayed in the morning and every night before bed.  I prayed at church.  I prayed at dinner. I prayed when I did something wrong, looked up at the sky and imagined God's all-seeing eyes on me, full of disapproval. I prayed when I did something right, felt prideful, then guilty.  I prayed for my pets, my teachers, my family and my friends. However, in true human form, I mainly prayed for myself.

"I cannot find my shoe and I have looked everywhere. Please find my shoe."
"Melanie is a horrible tranch.  Please make her be nice to me.  Or die. But only if it's her time."
"Please make Zach want to go out with me."
"Zach does not want to go out with me. Please make Zach move. Or die. But only if it's his time."

 Yeah, I was fairly terrible. But then most children are. Children are only able to see a very finite future for themselves and that makes them careless and impatient. They cannot imagine the myriad of unforeseeable events that will shape and change their lives.   A child does not see the danger in becoming too attached to the idea of a thing or a person.  They want what they want without a thought as to why or what the consequences might be. A child with severe allergies would happily reach for the very thing that might kill them without an adult nearby to stop them.

So I was that kid who wanted so much, so fiercely.  I bowed my head and fed my desire to the sky and called it prayer.  Over and over I did this, until I reached adolescence, when I began that awkward journey into adulthood and constant praying was discarded along with all the other silly kid ideals I'd once held.  But unlike my belief in prayer, my faith in wanting never wavered. I started to look like an adult and speak like one, but the desire remained. Even when I felt like it might kill me, I let it linger.  My one last silly kid vice.

I'm thirty now and I only recently started to pray again because I radically redefined what that meant to me. I still deal mainly in supplication, but it has taken on the form of introspective meditation rather than pleading for specific things. It's my way of releasing the want.  Reminding myself not to be taken by the idea of things or people or places.  It's a constant clash between that reactive kid who wants so much and the adult who needs to extricate herself from cyclic temporal and emotional traps.  It's tough to detach in this digital plane where there is so much to desire and comparison is currency, but it's a battle of wills and this want has been winning a little too long.


Monday, January 12, 2015

The Hard Easy


I once bought an old kitchen table with the intention of painting it white.  I did, but I used the wrong paint so it looked terrible and uneven.  I should have stripped it and started over but I was lazy, so I just got new paint and painted over it.   The paint rippled and bubbled and looked even worse, yet I did that twice more before coming to terms with the fact that this table was a total loss and I didn’t care anymore.  The easy fix had become too hard. Repairing everything I had done to cover up my mistakes seemed too daunting. And somewhere in the dead of night Bob Vila awoke in a cold sweat and shed a solitary tear.

My head has become this manic courtroom waiting for a judge to pound the gavel and call for order.  I can’t stop thinking about that table I left in Japan and how beautiful it could have been had I taken the time and done things right.  I can’t stop thinking about all my mistakes and missteps, caked in cheap paint, quietly bubbling up to the surface no matter how many layers I blanket over them. I look back on the past few months and it almost seems as though I've been in a period of mourning.  Detaching yourself from the image of what you thought your life would be is no easy thing.   I'm not exactly sure how to articulate it, but I have become increasingly aware that I don't feel good.  I feel like a phony somehow. As though these layers have taken on a life of their own and have been running the show.

This morning I set about my regular morning ritual.  Boil water. Scoop coffee into the press. Pour water over the grinds. Wait. Press.  Pour. Usually the familiarity of the routine is comforting but this morning it just felt tedious. I felt antsy. Restless.  Dissatisfaction and unease are beasts that live in my belly these days and I could feel them gnawing away, relentless. In a childish fit of frustration I pushed my mug of coffee right off the counter. I guess I expected or hoped it would shatter spectacularly, but instead it just bounced off the linoleum and exploded very hot coffee all over my leg. 

Curses. Deep breaths.  Towels. Clean up.  I scooped the "Live in the moment" mug off the floor and set it in the sink.  This isn't me. This childish person so caught up in her own struggle feels inauthentic and uncomfortable.  I know, spilled coffee does seem rather anticlimactic, but just like that it was as though a switch was flipped and I felt overwhelming calm. Like some divine reassurance that everything will be okay.  And for now that's enough.