Утро вечера мудренее Russian folktales proclaim morning’s superiority over evening.
Morning is wiser than evening. I remind my sons to breathe when the stress mounts after 9 pm. Morning is wiser Morning is wiser. It will feel different in 8 hours after sleep.
I know this for fact my father says during a dark moment. It will look completely different in 10 years. They will not be the same after 10 years.
But neither will I. The same but different. Maybe better.
The great healer is not just sleep.
Time minutes passing soothes the burn.
10 years 2 years 5 months 4 weeks 7 hours just 3 minutes.
Breathe. Bow your head.
After that time Then we can ask forgiveness with sincerity pulled from deep yanked from the bottom so real.
Hang on. I’ll still love you as much 2 minutes from now. Six hours later.
“I don’t want to reward that bad behavior. All they want is attention, but if I give it, we’ll never get over this hump.”
A friend wondered aloud about how to deal with misbehaving toddlers. “I don’t want to just snuggle them up when they act like that.”
I sighed. My dear, dear friend. I know. But snuggle them. Pull them close, close, close. I misbehave when I want attention, too. And I want a hug and a smile. Snuggle them up now. Maybe when they are 19 they’ll still be willing to get a hug from you. They’ll still come close when they’ve been messing up. And they’ll want your warmth as love and forgiveness.
Come closer. Even closer. Come so close that I can feel your breath.
Be with me now. Just come close and be. We don’t have to talk. We don’t have to solve anything. We can just be close, in a space, together.
Open my front door and come in. There is laundry on the kitchen counter. Come in anyway.
The sofa is standing on end while we try to fix the broken leg. We didn’t finish up that project because someone needed something else. Come in and come close anyway. Sit down on the floor with me. We’ll just be.
Christmas exploded all over the house and hasn’t pulled itself back into it’s hiding place. A half worked puzzle is on that table. I’m not sure it will ever get completed. Come in anyway. Come close.
Send me a text to tell me how you are doing. Text me five times today. I want to know. I might not always respond, but I want to know. Come close with your words. Come so much closer.
You broke my favorite teapot today. I exploded a bit when it happened. Come closer anyway. Come and give me a hug. Come be with me.
I know the power of your touch and your embrace.
In Ted Lasso star player Jamie Tartt fails to deliver a victory. Sitting defeated in the locker room, Jamie looks up to see his wild (and drunk) father standing in the door. His father begins to ridicule him loudly in front of the whole team. Jamie asks him to stop. The father gets in his face and refuses. Jamie asks calmly again. The father amps up the cruelty. Finally Jamie punches his father in the jaw. The team silently watches while Coach Beard wrestles the dad out the door. Everyone stands in silence. Slowly, grumpy and tough Roy Kent begins walking across the room towards Jamie. The two have always hated each other. Roy walks up silently and forcefully embraces Jamie. Tight. He hugs and hugs. Jamie collapses on his shoulder and weeps. Roy continues to hold him while Jamie slowly returns the embrace.
Come closer, friends. We all need a little Roy Kent.
In 2020 we stayed apart. And we stayed close. So close to a few people and so far from others. As we came out of our little caves, everything seemed a little different. Friendships had shifted. Heads had grown taller. Voices had deepened. Mustaches started to grow. Allegiances and habits changed. We had been apart so much that we forgot how to be together. And we had been so close with others that we needed a break. But not really.
2023 is my year to come closer. Please come closer with me.
This year, when they need it, my tweens stay up a little later and watch silly cartoons with me. When I can, I jump on an airplane to see my kid miles away. We eat shwarma and talk about nothing.
I drive an extra 30 minutes for brunch with a friend that has known me so, so long. I feel grounded and trusted and loved in that hour of conversation.
I take an unexpected phone call from a dear friend. We unload. Really unload. Unload the things that weren’t there when we were 19. Weights have piled on over the years.
Life is so dirty sometimes. Come closer. I’m not afraid of mud.
My door is open. The house is messy, but the samovar is hot. Tea is ready. Come closer.
Kiss me three times on the cheeks and grip my hand. I see you. Your pain might be bigger than mine. Or maybe not. Come closer either way.
Sit down and whine a bit with me. I promise to forget the hyperbole by morning. But I’ll remember the proximity. I’ll rejoice in the warmth of your smile near me and the sound of your voice on the phone. Come closer.
God in the Eastern Christian tradition is a Trinity – Three in One, all three unique and all three so close. A circle of love that pulls in closer and closer. Love that pulls each of us in with its gravity.
Lend me your gravity. Come close and share yourself with me. Circle up and pull closer. I can listen. And I can share. Come closer.
This is not a drill. I’m coming closer this year friends.
I miss the time before we all went inside and closed our doors.
I miss who we were two years ago. Innocent, unafraid, careless, hopeful, energetic and silly.
I miss not knowing so many opinions from others.
I miss lighthearted friendships unworried by stances or beliefs.
I miss sweet little girls and friends curled up beside me on a Sunday morning brimming with hugs and giggles cheerful greetings and whispers close to my ear.
I miss untimid embraces laughter cheek kisses. I really, really miss thrice cheek kisses.
I miss lipstick. I don’t even like lipstick. I miss lipstick.
I miss a child who was seven and now is almost double digits. I miss things I missed with him: soccer seasons and trips to the city pool. Ten is just old.
I miss parties with too many people too much food and too much noise.
I miss planning without a backup plan.
I miss a crowded house unexpected visitors unplanned shared dinners or coffee.
I miss a giant bowl of hummus pita scooping dripping with olive oil.
I miss all that money that disappeared into a big healthcare deductible.
I miss knocks at the front door from kids who want Pokemon bandaids but have no wounds.
I miss friends who are somehow just not around anymore.
I miss a shared red napkin.
I miss the trampoline and the cherry tree.
I miss old thermometers that go in your mouth and require you to wait for the answer.
I miss out of town visitors. There have only been two in two years.
I miss three year olds who are now almost six. I missed four and five.
I miss two friends whose funerals I couldn’t attend and never will.
I miss so many godchildren.
I miss casseroles spooned out creamy goodness shared, shared, shared.
I miss wedding photos prom photos camp photos.
I miss the days when I could savor and when the time before seemed like normal time and the savor time still seemed novel.
I miss grabbing lunch with a colleague just because.
I miss not knowing words like mRNA ECMO Oximeter.
I miss what college used to be like.
I miss a college campus.
I miss not worrying that being unmoored would be met with criticism that fatigue might be called fear that fear might be called bad.
I miss not wondering if this is what people feel like during a war.
At the center of every Venn diagram is a small sliver. It’s the place where all is true.
In the simplest of Venn diagrams, with only two overlapping circles, that little sliver is the place for both. It is where both live. The longer we see it as a sliver, the smaller it seems. Only in that little sliver can both things be true. Everywhere else is either one or the other. Everywhere else is black and white. That sliver? It is the place where both coexist. Some say it is grey. But grey is something new. It is neither black nor white. That sliver? It is actually black and white. It is both.
And that sliver is where I usually live.
It is where I have almost always lived.
As long as I can remember, I have found myself firmly in the both. From most of my earliest memories, I remember feeling myself in the land of both.
I love Bert. You know Bert, right? The yellow cone-headed partner to mischievous fun-loving orange Ernie? Bert with his bottlecap collection, love of quirky pigeons, and constant frustration with noisy Ernie? I have always loved Bert, from as early as I could watch a television screen and voice an opinion, I have loved that yellow guy with the little tuft of black hair.
My mother always found this funny. “You like Bert? Who likes Bert? No one likes Bert.”
I have found this logic confounding for over 40 years. Bert is so kind and misunderstood. He loves the things he loves. Evidently the understated message of that partnership was that Ernie was the cool guy and Bert was always trying to spoil Ernie’s fun. The viewer was supposed to sympathize with Ernie’s plight. My love of Bert might have something to do with being an oldest child, always guarding my possessions and time from other smaller people. But, even before my life was caught up in dodging siblings, I loved Bert.
Bert is a fun guy, too. He passionately loves the things he loves . . . like doing the pigeon dance. He makes no apologies for these things. He wants to set his own boundaries about his space and the activity around him. (And Ernie doesn’t respect Bert’s boundaries, but that’s a subject for another essay.) My whole life I’ve identified with Bert. I just adore that guy.
The truth is, in my own life, I am generally Ernie. I live a lot like Pigpen from Charles Schultz’s Peanuts cartoons. A noisy mess follows me wherever I go. I make spontaneous plans and invite friends over at a moment’s notice. I am 45, and I rarely put away my own laundry. I make up crazy dances about various food items to get my kids excited about what I am cooking. And my kids are NOT toddlers. Not even preschoolers. These habits make me so happy, and sometimes they drive my own life partner nuts. He does not thrive on noisy people-filled chaos the way I do.
And still, he also finds it a bit funny how much I love Bert. People just were not supposed to like Bert, I guess? Apparently I am in the habit of scandalizing people. For the record, I don’t like beer or Jane Austen. I don’t like the Christmas carol “Mary Did you Know.” I’m a Russianist, but I don’t really like Dostoevsky. I am full of scandal.
In a recent oft-repeated discussion about my feelings about Bert, my sweet husband looked at me.
“You know how you think Ernie just keeps spoiling things for Bert? Lots of people feel the same way about Bert. He keeps spoiling things for Ernie.”
“Oh, of course. I know!” I replied. “Ernie is such a fun guy. He just wants to live his happy life. I get that. I get Ernie.”
My husband looked a bit confused. “You do get Ernie?”
“Sure! I know Bert is annoying to Ernie. I know Ernie is charming. But I love Bert.”
But this is when it hit me. For 40-something years, I have been loving Bert and confounding everyone by this love. Did they all think it meant I did not like Ernie? Maybe I have never stated that out loud. How has this misunderstanding happened my whole life? Even as a 4 year old, I loved Bert, but never to the exclusion of Ernie. I wholeheartedly love Bert, but Ernie is fantastic, too. I didn’t realize I need to explain that. I did not realize one love was to the exclusion of the other.
For me, it is both, not either or. I live in the both.
As I entered the oft-dreaded adult years of my life, I found, shockingly, that it is exhausting to live in the both. The world tends to not be designed for people who live in that little sliver. So, I learned to walk carefully so I could manage. I learned to watch my tongue to avoid awkward moments.
There are rules to follow.
On the playground with toddlers, do not talk about writing a dissertation. In fact, pretend like that part of your life does not exist. If it comes up, other moms will gawk, look confounded, say the dreaded phrase which has no appropriate response . . . “I don’t know how you do it.”
Among coworkers, do not mention how many children you have. Actually, if your belly is growing, figure out how to strategically hide it behind your desk in your office. Sneak into meetings early to avoid the conversations. Why? The best thing that could happen is that dreaded phrase again. “I don’t know how you do it.” The worst that could happen? Lots of it has happened, but it is not for public consumption. At least not now. Maybe some day.
When you are with other families who homeschool, do not talk about your kids in public school. Definitely do not talk about how much you love public schools or how much you value your own public education. More importantly, do not share about any parenting struggles. It will likely come back to your poor decision to put your kids in public school.
When you are at your beloved public school, do not mention that you have homeschooled or are homeschooling. Again, that dreaded phrase. More likely, “So why in the world did you decide to do that?” Or the ad nauseum, “Huh. But your kids seem normal!”
Basically, if you are both and both happily exist in your world, hide one from the other when you are in a group. It just goes better.
It often feels that everyone happily survives in one of their exclusive circles, while I am constantly trying to breathe in my little sliver of the Venn diagram.
For years I have been knowing that I can be both. Because I am. I can love being a mom and love my own work. I can love homeschooling and love public schools. I can love Bach and Beyonce. I can devour non-fiction and love novels. I can miss my kids when they are away and love that they can go away. I can love both Bert and Ernie. In fact, I can identify with both Bert and Ernie.
I thought I had been suffering the life of the both for long enough to at least know how to walk. It is a hard life, but the older I have gotten, the more willing I have become to quit walking the tightrope. I live firmly in the both. It is ok if people do not understand that. It is often lonely, but it is ok.
And then a new year dawned.
Never before has it seemed so critical to know how to live in the both. Never before has it felt so misunderstood.
This year has been the year of both. Not grey. Both at once. Not or, but and.
Both feels so obvious and so natural to me.
I can mourn the chance to be with my friends and feel happy for the quiet time at home.
I can hate wearing a mask and still wear it, even among dear friends.
I can love my church and my faith and agree to show up less often than I would want.
I can feel sick of screens and keep using them anyway.
I can be uncertain about something and do it anyway.
I can be sad and grateful.
These juxtapositions seem not only acceptable, but necessary to me. The two always seem to live together. Living in both makes me whole.
There was a day about ten years ago when a major international conference in my academic field was held locally in my town. I had an infant at home, but the location meant that I could still present my research. I spent a weekend constantly shuttling back and forth between speaking and listening to linguistic lectures among colleagues and friends and rushing home to nurse my infant. I ended the weekend with a beautiful church service. It was crazy. It was too busy. And it was beautiful. Rarely in my life had my own being felt so whole. So full. So deeply human and myself.
This is truly how I have felt throughout ten months of pandemic. So wholly human. So able to embrace pain and joy at once.
The pandemic grounded my older kids in such unexpected ways. I have been given so many stolen moments with them. So many unexpected gifts. And, yet, I mourn for the experiences they wished to have this year.
I miss my extended family and friends so deeply. I’ve felt so lonely. But I am so grateful to have slowed down and had time with my husband. More walks and talks and drives together than in any past year of marriage, other than maybe our first.
Sorrow and gratitude mingle together so naturally. They belong together.
As a teenager, I read The Hiding Place, by Corrie Ten Boom, about her family’s experience hiding Jews in their home during World War II. One part has never left me. Near the end of the book, she and her sister Betsie were imprisoned at Ravensbrück concentration camp. They were forced to live through a terrible infestation of fleas. Corrie was lamenting the horror of these conditions, and Betsie encouraged her to give thanks for the fleas. What an absurd idea! But Betsie was resolute. In fact, they later learned that the fleas kept the abusive prison guards away from them and spared them so much suffering. Gratitude for suffering. Gratitude and sorrow are good bedfellows.
In his beautiful Akathist Hymn entitled “Glory to God for all things” the Russian Metropolitan Tryphon wrote of the joy found in suffering, and of the wisdom it gives us.
“Glory to Thee, sending us failure and misfortune that we may understand the sorrows of others.”
If my discussions with friends this year have shown me anything, it’s that many of us feel this.
I suspect many of us live in the land of both. We are just learning to embrace it. We can be both. We can live in both.
Maybe we need to make those slivers in the Venn diagram much larger. There is room for many us to live in both.
I was twenty years old when I discovered my desire to look away, to judge, and to control. And I was twenty years old when I decided to abolish it. There are split second moments in life that are so meaningful, they never leave you. This was one of them.
The year was 1996. The month must have been March or April. It was still very cold in St. Petersburg, but it wasn’t 30 below zero. Spring was coming slowly; we could feel it in the air. We were still bundled tightly, but I could manage to stroll a bit in the white afternoons. After a day of university classes, I was planning to take in a ballet at the Mariinsky Theatre on a Thursday evening. It would be a night of watching internationally acclaimed dancers for the meager price of about seven dollars.
The odds were in my favor as an American student in immediate post-Soviet Russia. Everything was cheap when I exchanged dollars for rubles. Inflation soared in 1996. Russian families stored U.S. dollars in their sock drawers as meager stable savings. They scrimped and ate little as salaries were withheld and not paid for months at time. Neighbors loaned money to each other while they waited for employers to pay them again. Heat in my dormitory was scarce. My roommate had traveled thousands of miles from Siberia to live in my dorm room with me. She had five pieces of clothing, plus an overcoat, a hat, and gloves. We washed our clothing in the bathtub and hung it to dry in the room at the end of the hall. It took days to dry. If you opened the window to help it along, the clothing would freeze solid in second. But who would open the window anyway? I washed with Woolite in the bathtub, but I also bought souvenirs and treated myself often to delicious street food for what would be pennies.
I had time to spare on Thursday evening. It would take too long to go home before the ballet. I had light dinner at a cafe, and then I headed to a favorite place. St. Nicholas Cathedral sits just across from Mariinsky Theatre. Before the ballet or the opera, I could attend vespers, the daily evening service, in the quiet and dark lower church of the cathedral. It was among my favorite places in the city, and my favorite way to spend an evening: the quiet beauty of the icons and music in the cathedral followed by the grandeur of the ballet. It’s no secret that beautiful churches and ballet were among the many reasons I went to Russia. Getting both in the same day? Glorious.
As I approached the cathedral, I could see several older women standing in the cold on the steps. It was a familiar scene. Beggars at the church. Often their hands held out. Sometimes a small container on the ground in front on them. It was a gauntlet one must survive to enter the beauty of the gilded cathedral. Sometimes one could run the race by simply not making eye contact. Sometimes not.
This day, as I walked up, one elderly woman called out and asked me for money. I turned and looked her in the eyes. My confidence in Russian had grown over the months. I feared not to enter into a real dialogue with a poor stranger there on the steps of this enormous blue building.
“Why?” I asked her.
“Why???” she asked in total surprise and dismay. “Why would you ask why?”
“Well, why do you want money?” I replied, with bold confidence.
“Because I am an old woman, of course,” she responded.
In that moment, in an instant, I learned the meaning of the English idiom “my heart sank.” I actually felt my heart drop a bit in my chest. The reality and weight of the interchange began to replay over and over in my mind. It actually replayed for weeks, like a scratched vinyl record from my childhood. In this moment, almost a quarter century later, I can still hear its echo.
Why did I ask why? Why did that seem the good word in that moment? Of course this woman needed help. She stood cold and bent in the waning afternoon, hoping for help from strangers. She was living in the distressing upheaval of a nation turned upside down – a place where once guaranteed pensions were disappearing and where an emerging stock market was making a select few people very rich and leaving others confused about an economic system broken to pieces. Was being old a reason to need help? In a Russian city in 1996 it certainly was. She was hoping for maybe 100 rubles from me – a sum that would amount to an American nickel. A nickel from a college student who had the means to fly across the ocean for an educational adventure. I had questioned her request for a nickel.
I can’t remember if I asked her name. I hope I did. I’m sad I don’t remember it today. But I will always remember her. I left her with some cash from my pocket, and I walked into the beauty of the cathedral. I lit candles, prayed silently, listened to chanters, and pondered my need to ask why. And my need to control what happens to my gifts. Why had I done it?
I had done it because it was a habit I had seen in my life at home. We often asked “why” when asked for money. Was it going to a worthy need? Was the person faking the need? Would it go to beer instead of food? When asked for help, the normal reaction was to question if the need was real. It was to attempt to uncover a lie. We must find if the beggar was worthy of our gift.
On that cold afternoon in the face of a woman wrapped in old woolen shawls, the fallacy of those questions was laid bare to me. Why do we question these things? Why do we sit as judge as to whether the receiver is worthy of our gift? Why do we withhold a gift?
But I also was faced something else. Why did I want to look away? Why were the rows of beggars something to survive on my path to something beautiful? Why did I wish I did not have to face them? Why are we so eager to turn our eyes away from pain, especially the pain of others?
So often people quote Fyodor Dostoevsky at me. “Beauty will save the world.”
Ah, yes. How we adore beauty – a word perfectly placed in a poem, the tight harmony of a group of voices, delicate brushstrokes on a painting, the faint trickle of a cold mountain stream. We find peace as we turn our attention to these things, as our souls are nurtured with wonders of the natural world and of human creativity.
I ponder this truth often myself. One cold Saturday a couple years ago, my son headed out to a high school forensics tournament, armed with a dramatic interpretation piece from a Vonnegut novel. It centered heavily on the horrors of gun violence – a powerful piece, but a deeply troubling subject matter. He would need to perform this intense material at least 4 times that day, maybe 6 or more.
“If you are going to perform that piece, you must commit to me to think on beauty during the rest of the day,” I told him. “When you aren’t performing, you must look into the eyes of your friends and laugh with them. You must put down your phone and notice the people around you and the beauty of the sky. This is how you will survive this day. Do not be eaten up by the darkness of your presentation.” I knew this approach to be essential.
In the midst of that day, he texted me about his success at the tournament. “And I’m doing what you said, Mom. I’m thinking on beauty in all the between moments.”
I was at peace. I knew this path to be worthwhile. But I also knew something else. He shouldn’t turn away from the reality of the material he was presenting. Because it also was truth. And it was sorrow. I could not and would not ever ask him to ignore those things. I would ask him only for personal balance for his own peace.
The philosopher Vladimir Soloviev, in his Essays on Beauty, Love, and Ethics, pointed out that Dostoevsky spoke of beauty in the context of its unity with truth and goodness. It is not that Dostoevsky suggested our personal creation of beautiful things would save the world. Dostoevsky knew that all that is beautiful is born of truth and goodness. Beauty and truth, as encountered by the human soul, made perfect in the Incarnation of Christ, are goodness. These three exist in unity. And these things will save the world.
We will never be saved simply by making the perfect harmony, or by painting the perfect painting. I won’t even be saved by planting the most perfect and colorful garden, as much as I may try for that to be my salvation. My salvation will be found as I run towards goodness and truth. As I determine to see those things for what they are, I will see beauty. And I will see sorrow and pain. And here, in these moments, I will encounter the face of God.
As a nation, as a culture, as a people, we often want to focus only on the pleasant narrative, on the one that makes us content and comfortable. We would prefer to press forward to the beauty of the cathedral and brush past the poverty and pain at our feet.
“Let’s just discuss things that are encouraging,” I’ve been told often. “People stress too much the bad things in the world. That will just make people angry at each other.”
It’s a baffling perspective to me. The revelation of pain and suffering will make us angry? Will make us fight among each other? I hope it wouldn’t. I hope instead that when we look into the eyes of the one with an outstretched hand, we are moved to share in her grief. When confronted with her sorrow, with her aching feet and hungry belly, we would find her to be one with ourselves. And when we don’t? Perhaps we need to look right at her more often, to listen to what she says, to face the depth of her suffering and the truth of her existence.
That cold afternoon in St. Petersburg, I made a decision. Never again would I ask why. Never. If someone asked me for help and I could give it, I would. If they were humble enough to ask, I could be humble enough to relinquish my control of the situation and give something. And if I couldn’t help or give what they asked? That was okay, too. I could honestly say that I couldn’t help. But there would be no more whys.
I also decided something else. I would not look away. I would look directly into the eyes of struggling around me. It would not be hidden from me. I would allow it to break me, too.
A few years later, I would make the same decisions for my own children. I would not hide the realities of the world from them. We would fill our days and lives with truth and goodness and beauty. But truth would include pain. When someone was dying, we would go and visit and bid them farewell. We would hold their hands and see them fade away. When people were hurt in our communities, we would be honest about it, even if we were part of the problem. When we read literature and history, we would dig for the real stories. When there was a funeral, we would show up. And we would look death in the face. We would know the reality of suffering and we would endeavor to enter into it with others, to carry some of their pain.
I fail at this goal often, but I never forget that woman’s shock when I asked why. I always remember my ludicrous voice on that day and wish to never hear it from myself again.
As for me and my family? Sometimes this means people don’t like us. Sometimes it means we are bolder than people want us to be. Sometimes it means we make mistakes along the way. Often it means we are burdened and troubled with the pain of others.
I hope it means we slowly begin to embrace humility and patience. I pray it helps our souls to shine with love.
One of the most austere places of contemplative prayer on earth for Orthodox Christians is the Holy Mountain, Mount Athos. It is a peninsula in Greece filled with many beautiful ancient monasteries that have functioned for centuries, housing pious men of prayer. These men live in community and also as hermits, committed to a deep ascetic life of prayer, fasting, and work. The peninsula is open only to men, a tradition that goes back to its origins and for the purpose of focused ascetic life. (The Orthodox Church also boasts many large and beautiful women’s monasteries, which are also known for similar asceticism, prayer, and work.) Mount Athos is deeply revered in our tradition for its wisdom, prayerful silence, and peace.
But there was a time in history when women and children were permitted not only to visit Mount Athos, but to live there. It wasn’t for the purpose of joining the monastic communities. During World War II and the Holocaust, the monks of Mount Athos opened their home to Jews in Europe whose lives were in grave danger. Whole Jewish families came to live on the peninsula, seeking refuge from the dangers of the world around them. The monks committed in those days to change their norms, to make themselves a bit uncomfortable for needs of those suffering around them. They changed their whole way of life to serve and help a group of oppressed people who were not like them at all. A relatively simple action, in fact, but one that challenged centuries of tradition and also saved the lives of their neighbors.
Today I’m asking this of myself and my friends. Are we willing to make ourselves uncomfortable for the sake of those suffering and oppressed around us? Are we willing to open our homes to serve them? To speak and stand up for those who might not look or act exactly as we do? Are we willing to change our status quo to do the right thing? To risk ridicule or judgment from those close to us as we challenge our long-held norms? It’s easy to see the honorable path when we look back at history. In the moment, we have to struggle and take risks to see it and choose it.
(See Mountain of Silence by Kyriakos Markides for more details on the Holy Mountain and the Holocaust.)
I’ve been raising sons for 19 years now. There’s this thing that happens. I know it well. One brother (often it’s the older or larger of a pair, but not always) begins covertly, out of my earshot, picking on the other. It’s lots of little things. Teasing, stealing a toy or favorite piece of clothing, saying something mean or rude, refusing to help with his chores, ridiculing his friends or personal convictions, pulling his hair, eating the candy he had been saving. It goes on for a while. Maybe 10 minutes. Maybe an hour. Maybe even whole week. Or three weeks. It festers while the pestered brother keeps trying to brush it off and be the good guy. But, then, at some point, that underdog just can’t hold it in anymore. He cracks. He does something really extreme and violent. A sudden punch to the face, a bite on the arm, a slap on the cheek, a screaming tantrum with verbal threats, even a kick where it hurts most. That act of violence is shocking to the pestering brother, but even more to me. I react firmly and quickly, because, of course, I’m not raising violent sons. I’m raising sons who can reason and think and negotiate. Right? This cruel aggressive offender will be punished. He was in the wrong. He was, it seems, the only one in the wrong. I had barely realized all the moments that led to this aggression.
But I’ve been doing this for 19 years. By now, I’ve learned one or two things. I’ve learned that when a shocking eruption like this happens, I’d better slow down and ask some questions first. And I’d better be ready to really listen. Because there is almost always something serious that led to it. Often it’s much more serious than that quick reactive and painful action. The slap to the face? It’s not necessarily going to solve the problem. In the moment, it seems to have made it so much worse. It wasn’t exactly the perfect plan. But know what? It sure got our attention – both mine and that of the original aggressor brother. It made us notice things. It made me stop and take the temperature on a smoldering relationship that was sitting there right under my nose in my own home. And it makes us jump in and do the deeper constructive problem solving that is needed.
I’m 44 years old and this is what I’ve learned. I’ve also learned that many people don’t like bold, opinionated women. So I write about being a mother. There is plenty there for now.
It took me twelve years to finish my MA and PhD. Far too long by university standards, but it happened despite the rules. It happened because I was on leave of absence for two of those years. Those years didn’t count towards the ticking time clock. Ten years is when time runs out. I wasn’t a student those years. I was turning babies into toddlers those years. Because in the same twelve years I also gave birth to three of my four babies. And I led another from toddler babbles to teenage rants. He ran around campus as a three year old with soft curls, sometimes hid in the back of a university classroom reading Percy Jackson as an eight year old with crooked teeth, and sat attentively listening to a dissertation defense at the age of 13.
I was too slow. Anyone would tell you that. I stared down dates on the calendar as they passed away without enough research happening. I went whole semesters with insufficient progress. “You’re wasting time in your life plan,” an adviser told me more than once. I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. Most times I laughed. One time I cried.
He had never asked me my plan. Others had asked, but he hadn’t. He held the reigns, but he never really asked the plan. It’s not all his fault. I didn’t offer the plan either. There was a reason. I had a dirty secret. I didn’t have a plan.
I desperately wanted that dissertation complete. I wanted it badly enough to lie on the sticky kitchen floor crying about it to my patient spouse while a two year old stepped on my head. I wanted it enough to push through. And I did.
But the calendar was elusive. Life was happening in all the moments. Every single moment life was just so much itself. Oh, the life that happened in those twelve years! Teeth were knocked out, screaming infants learned to sit and walk, pneumonia came and went, three boys learned to read, grandparents and childhood friends were buried, friendships were shattered, friendships were born, siblings were married, people who rode on my hips became people who challenged my interpretations of novels and poems, a baby marriage grew into something stronger and bolder. None of that was my plan. And all of it was my plan.
If I’ve learned anything in 19 years of being a mother, it’s that life happens now. Today. Life is only today. It’s not what we’re waiting for or what we regret. Those things are real. If we ignore the past, there will be pain. If we ignore future, we might be unhappy and frustrated. But that’s all slippery and mushy. Today we are here. Today we breathe and we listen and we see.
For nine weeks, we’ve been clearing our calendars. Blank space stares back at me. Empty days. Canceled events. It’s the thing we often wish for. Extra time. No need to go anywhere. Space to be and think. And now we hate it.
I can’t remember any time in my life I’ve felt as confused about public discourse and conversations with friends as I have in April and May 2020. Recently, a friend sought me out to spend hours explaining to me why my beliefs are far too politically liberal and divisive. Less than 24 hours later, another dear friend literally yelled at me for being offensively politically conservative. I hadn’t mentioned a single word about politics to either person. Both took me by shock. Both have haunted me. And baffled me, too. Friends who frequently criticize me for being “too busy” have insisted that I’m wrong to want to stay home a bit longer in this state of pandemic. If a purple elephant stepped onto my lawn tomorrow, I wouldn’t feel any more perplexed and troubled than I have this month.
But I shouldn’t be confused. The common thread must be restlessness. Most of us are tired of living in a state of quarantine. We’re tired of Skype music lessons and YouTube church and Zoom Lego building sessions and conference calls. We miss our friends. We miss three dimensional conversations. I know I do. Extroverts are struggling so deeply in this. I haven’t had a single conversation with anyone outside my home that hasn’t wound its way around to this.
“When do you think this will end?” “How long will we wait to get back to normal?”
We can’t talk without discussing this. It’s expected. I probably raise the question myself at least half of the time.
But what if we aren’t waiting?
What if there is only now. Today. Because life happens today.
Anyone familiar with the lives of various saints has probably heard a story about St. Francis of Assisi. Once someone approached him while he was working in the garden and asked him, “Father, if you knew today would be your last day on earth, what would you do?” He looked up and replied, “I would keep hoeing this row of beans.”
Perhaps this is because St. Francis had repented and was content with his spiritual state. But, when I hear the story, I always think the same thing.
Today is today. Now is now. And now is good.
One doesn’t have to scroll long through social media posts about parenting to notice two diametrically opposed themes. The first is begging for a break from the tiresome effort of parenting. The second is deep sorrowful laments that children are growing older and more independent. The dissonance continually hammers in my mind. How do these both happen?
I’ve certainly engaged in both myself in the past and probably will again. I’ve shed tears at graduations and passages plenty of times. Less than a year ago, I stood in a foreign airport and put my first baby alone on a plane to another country. I cried huge tears behind sunglasses in a Starbucks. Less than a month ago, I hid myself alone, fully-clothed, in the shower just to escape another round of piano music from an eager son. Parenting is hard in all the extremes.
But most often, I’m consistently struck by the beauty of the present.
The Eastern Christian tradition firmly embraces the notion that inasmuch as we are eternal beings, made in the image of an eternal God, we can experience eternity here today. We mustn’t wait until death to enter into the joy of eternity. Heaven is the eternal present, where all is rolled into one. As we enter into the joy of the Divine, we experience little glimpses of eternity here in our life on earth. Our notion of communion of the saints, our connection with those who have died before us, our prayer that their memories be eternal are all wrapped up in this. We know the veil between Heaven and Earth to be thin. We assume we can live in the eternal present with those beloved ones even now.
In Little Fires Everywhere, Celeste Ng describes the relationship between a mother and child as this eternal present.
To a parent, your child wasn’t just a person: your child was a place, a kind of Narnia, a vast eternal place where the present you were living and the past you remembered and the future you longed for all at the same time. You could see it every time you looked at her: layered in her face was the baby she’d been and the child she’d become and the adult she would grow up to be, and you saw them all simultaneously, like a 3-D image. It made your head spin. It was a place you could take refuge, if you knew how to get in. And each time you left it, each time your child passed out of your sight, you feared you might never be able to return to that place again.
I gasped audibly when I first read this passage last year. If there ever was a painting of the glimpse of eternity I find in being with my children, Celeste Ng has painted it. And though she didn’t say it, her brush strokes have also woven into the tapestry of my knowledge that this extends even beyond the grave.
What if we aren’t waiting?
It’s been two years since I’ve seen my beloved grandmother. I’ve been waiting for a trip to finally see her this month. We just canceled it.
It’s been almost five months since I’ve seen my parents. I’ve been waiting for a trip to see them in June. We just canceled it.
This was not my plan. But, maybe, like those long months and years of writing a dissertation, I never really had a plan.
What if we aren’t waiting?
What if we do need to stay home in quarantine for two more months? Or 20 more months?
What if this is today and now? Nothing else and nothing more. What if there is only the now?
In my now, my people are all under my roof. There is no more worried prayer when teens come home late, because they are just here. As we’ve settled into a routine, there is laughter and willingness to play board games. Books are shared. At midnight, a kid emerges from a bedroom to talk to me about an idea he has. And that is the now. Right now. That is the present.
It was those moments of the present that made it take twelve years to get a PhD. Because I tried to stop and be in those moments. I couldn’t miss those twelve years while waiting to get to a dissertation defense. I had to live them as they come. Kids don’t always emerge to talk about something real. When they do, that is now. Childhood friends don’t die every day. When they do, that is now. Friends don’t call crying with struggles or questions or even shocking complaints every day. When they do, that is now. Raspberries don’t ripen for picking every day. When they do, that is now. Kids don’t vomit on the top bunk every night. When they do, that is now.
I’ll admit it. I’m impatiently waiting for my peonies to open. I walk out each morning to check their progress. Was there ever a more anticipated and slow-moving blossom than a peony? But they will come. When they do, I will rejoice.
I think it’s more than seven weeks so far. I’ve actually lost count of the days we’ve been sheltering at home in a pandemic, keeping prayerful (and sometimes not-so-prayerful) watch, as we await the days when life might return to normal. We have no idea when that will be. Maybe soon. Maybe not. We’ve reached a pretty dark spot in this experience. Tempers have worn thin, not just at home, but in the world around us.
Emotionally, it’s been the darkest, most difficult week of the whole ordeal for me. New deep lows have come to sit with me. The most draining part of being a mother? It’s not 2 AM diaper changes or 2 AM arrivals home from teenagers, though those certainly hearken grey hairs and tired souls. The hardest part is walking through struggles with your kids while simultaneously managing your own. Shall we hide a few more minutes in the shower to cry through a pain, and then emerge with resolve to comfort smaller tears or react with patience to an ugly outburst from a stressed child? Shall we vomit it out in a phone call with a friend or sister while pacing the sidewalk in front of our house, saving our people from our own tension? Shall we stay up too late and share it in an email, still to arise in the morning pretending to be well-rested? Or shall we do none of these? Will it instead spill out over dinner with the whole brood?
The answer, of course, is all of the above, plus a few other variants, which might involve exercise or gardening or prayer or just neglecting the laundry.
For those of us who escape the pandemic in physical health, we will also have walked through such a storm, and so much entering into the emotions of others. It’s spilling out into texts and video chats and social media and long walks and everywhere else, too.
We are so deeply in touch with our humanity in all its beauty and all its ugliness. And we are finding the paradox in which both exist together – wholeness and brokenness, side by side, rolling around together in beds of flowers and mud, both showing themselves, not so much battling, but simply coexisting. We pray for beauty and wholeness to win, but we’re honest that it’s all there together. And, in that acknowledgment, we may be healed. But maybe not quite as quickly as we hope.
As I roll around in both, I’m struck by a duty to savor this time, not just the beauty, but also the ugliness and the sorrow. Rolled up together it is our humanity.
So I’m offering today a little ode to my people, those who share a small number of square feet with me today and tomorrow and for the unforeseeable future.
Let us Savor
To my people You five who endure with me days and nights of being together these things I hope we remember:
The day the cherry tree began to bloom, you rushed in with joy tell me how those little pink blossoms were coming a beacon of hope for warm days.
We watched our new neighbors riding up and down the sidewalk on brand new bikes and we wished we could invite them into the yard to play. So we hoped for the day when we can. And we chatted from the driveway.
I was so tired and anxious. So I stayed up too late. Some of you did too. And we struggled to get out of bed in the morning. Or even to fall asleep at night. And we dreamed crazy dreams that we told each other over too late breakfast that should have been lunch.
I let you play so many hours of Minecraft. And I worried that I was neglecting you. But you showed me your amazing creations: castles and churches and our own house with my flowers in the front. And I was pretty sure you will be fine.
Dad worked more hours than we ever thought possible. And we listened to him talk to people by phone during the day and at night and on weekends. And he told them how he had found money to help them. And we wished Dad wasn’t so tired. But we knew his work mattered.
People were angry. They put signs in their yards. They said mean things. But we tried to remember that they were also scared and anxious.
Neighbors did the kindest things like bring us a bag of fresh brussel sprouts that taste so yummy roasted with butter and a bit of cheese.
Sometimes we painted together all six of us around the table doing things I always wished we would find time to do. And I marveled that something so sad was giving me some extra time with all five of you here to create with me.
I questioned myself constantly. Was I giving you too much to do? Not enough? What did you need in this time? I hope you didn’t notice how much I questioned and worried. But if you become parents, I hope you will know it.
Tomie dePaola died. And we were so heartbroken. But we dove into his chapter books and walked through war with his family. And that little Tomie cheered us so.
We tried to pray together at home. Sometimes it was beautiful and sometimes we fought. But we kept trying.
We argued over dinner almost every single night. I wondered sometimes if it was even worth it. But then we also laughed. And this was life.
Sometimes you prayed and chanted without me while I rested in another room. And I listened and thought I was hearing the sound of days beyond when you could do that for me when I am gone.
A blue heron flew in to visit our neighborhood. A turkey vulture landed in the backyard. Owls hooted at night at the front window.
We went on little hikes but not as often as you played Minecraft. But when we did we saw crawfish and red-winged blackbirds and baby geese and snakes. And you threw stones in the water but they didn’t skip.
We missed going to church. Oh, how we missed going to church. We watched it on tv. And it wasn’t the same. We tried, but it just wasn’t the same. There was joy, but we didn’t want to settle for this.
We rarely drove the car. But some days we did. To take a surprise to a friend. And we stood in driveways and talked and wished we could hug. But a smile in person helped so much.
We missed our friends. And that made us cry.
We went to the grocery with masks. And waited in a line for a cart and a chance to shop. And sometimes that made us cry in the car. More than once it made us cry in the car. But sometimes we saw a friend at the checkout. And we talked about life with her. And we were whole again for a bit.
The house got messy. And I didn’t have the energy to make it nice.
Dishes got left out dirty. And sometimes that ended in a shouting match.
We played board games and laughed but not often enough.
The lilacs bloomed and I cut them and brought them inside hoping they would mask the clutter with their beautiful smell.
You camped in the backyard. And I was happy to stay inside.
We were driving down the street and saw a friend out walking and we stopped in an intersection to roll down the window and wave and yell.
You all told me as soon as the irises began to bloom because you knew it would keep me going and give me life.
And you were right.
Wanna join me in a another poetry challenge? What do you want to savor? What is your ode to your people? Write a poem and send it to me.
At Midnight 