She's on Her Way

I had an unexpected reaction to being a one-person support staff for Macy’s senior photo shoot on Sunday. I had our wagon with the makeup, outfit changes, lint roller, etc. As we wheeled to the first area of the park, we passed the playground. There were toddlers everywhere.

My body went right back. It was like rewinding an old VHS tape. I’m immediately there. To all those afternoons in the grass. So many viewings of Finding Nemo. Big belly laughs. A million frozen blueberries after we picked them for the first time. Reading side by side (we still do this on occasion).

People say we look alike. We joke that we just have similar taste in glasses.

She has always been herself. From that first day of kindergarten where she left with her chin up and did not look back, I knew. She dressed herself in wild patterns in preschool and I did not say a word.

We go to the first site and the photographer is checking light. We’re laughing. She looks beautiful, and young. This is her first look and it’s meant to be a little youthful. She’s so beautiful, I can barely look at her. My heart is bursting.

I begin texting my best friends. I’m freaking out. It’s too much. The beauty is overwhelming. Guys, I was not prepared for being in my feelings! I was thinking about logistics.

We hustle to the bathrooms because my girl does not want to change behind blankets we hold up. Her next look is more how she feels now, her theater self. It’s more modern, whimsical. We purchased a quill and leather-bound book for the occasion. We head to the garden. More laughter. Our photographer pays me an unexpected compliment. It registers with kindness.

We’re in a field. We’re mentioning the cool feature on the back of the dress. She’s natural. We even see her teeth in a few shots. We’re having fun.

She’s so composed. She’s always been a serious person. I respect her so much.

We race back to the bathroom for the final look. It’s more edgy. The most adult. Our photo shoot is running over time. Should I pay her more? I brought cash in the exact amount plus tip. Shoot.

We walk down the lane where we took family pictures two years ago, where we will be again in a few weeks the three of us. But tonight is about just one person. This person who is becoming. I’m watching this shot be taken and I think, my God, she is a woman.

Yes she is wearing my clothes and we’re still working on driving, but she is a woman. I text my friends, when did this happen?!?

I see her childhood dimples and her first audition at eight years old. I see her face disappointments and still celebrate those who got what she wanted. I see her rolling her eyes at her sister, and learning how to push back in our relationship. I see her. I see her. I see her.

In all our primary relationships, we project. I saw this so clearly when I left my long-term marriage. We project so much onto people we care so deeply about. It’s normal. It’s inevitable. It is tragic.

I want to see her so clearly. I have always wanted that. And I know, too, that no mother ever fully witnesses her daughters clearly. We see them and there are hidden parts. This is part of it. But my God, have I tried to witness. And I will keep trying. Forever.

She’s always belonged to herself. And that remains.

I cannot describe how incredibly beautiful it it to watch a woman become. I see every version of her I’ve known. I imagine future versions of her, God willing. And I adore every. single. one.

I can’t help but imagine that this might be how God sees us. And how we must see ourselves. I’ve spent the past few years really adoring old versions of me. Versions who were afraid of her own power. Versions that loved so hard and tried too much. Versions that meant well and were so terribly wrong. I see her. I see her. I see her. I love her. Look at her become.

If God is outside of time, can they see us in all our versions at the same time? Is mothering the closest thing to God?

I know I’ve never loved anyone as much as this child. And I know I never will. (and of course, her sister, too).

I don’t parent from a sense of who I think my kid should be. That never made sense to me - to the point, that I’ve always been clear that I have no idea who my kid should be. I love her hard and I try to live my life in integrity. I give her access to supports and community that I think she may enjoy. I feed her and hug her. I listen to know her well. That’s it.

All of that to say, I fucking cherish her beyond all else. The beauty radiating from her on Sunday is so much more than youth and actual physical beauty. She is wise. She is grounded. She is powerful. She’s fucking magic.

I live with a lot of privilege. My job reminds me every single day what a gift it is to do it. But the greatest privilege of my life has been standing on the sidelines watching these kids as they become. My God, what a gift.

I hate greed

I’ve been feeling down lately. I was talking to my friends about this recently, as low energy and low motivation is pretty rare for me. I realized that everything going on politically is wearing me down. I’m barely even engaging in it and I’m still wiped. I spent some weeks in abject panic and anxiety.

And now I’m flat. But not irretrievably flat. I began to cry talking about it, so I’m not totally gone. But the conclusion I came to is that I do not understand greed. I do not understand why anyone would want to have power over the lives of others in an exploitative way. I do not understand the impulse to take more than is mine. And granted, I’m a very privileged person living in a very privileged country when you speak of global access to resources. I understand that I already take more than my fair share of clean water, electricity, and fuel.

In this case though, I’m speaking of men who have a pit within themselves that no amount of money or power can ever fill. Ever.

I imagine that feels like shit. Not to ever be satiated. To never feel comfortable when all the artifice falls away, when your nakedness is exposed, and you feel safe, good, precious. I can see by their behavior that they don’t have that. They could have that, if they’d put down their bravado, stop shouting, and be vulnerable. But they won’t.

And that would be okay if it didn’t ruin the world and everyone in it. Everyone who has done their sacred work of self-compassion, those who have worked hard to build community, and frankly, just those who are alive and deserve basic rights and dignity. We don’t need to be saints to be essentially sacred beings.

I feel disgust. I am enraged. And I am so damn tired.

And I feel silly for saying that because justice work and resistance has been going on for centuries longer than white folks ever realized. Because we didn’t have to. And most didn’t/don’t want to. I’m new to the conversation. Maybe that’s why I’m less resilient.

I’m sorry that’s not bolstering for others to read. I really am. I want to be the kind of spiritual leader who rallies everyone together, who leads the charge to fight against racism, xenophobia, misogyny, transphobia, and fascism. And I do fight those things in my own way - uprooting the seeds planted within me by this culture, seeing the people around me and responding, being emotionally available, and doing concrete justice work here in Portland.

But I also feel a little lost and a lot scared. I’m so angry.

I hate greed. I do not get it. How are we still doing this as human beings? We keep doing the same shit over and over. The devastation of a few men’s greed is catastrophic. And yet, here it is again. When are we going to stop letting men who must have everything take over so no one else has anything?

Sometimes I wish I was less sensitive, less attached to the outcome. It might be nice to care a little less. I have tried to have boundaries around how and when I consume media right now. But it seeps into my bones, my very spirit.

I wish I had a shiny happy conclusion to write. I’m low and for now, I’m listening to whatever the low wants me to know.

I Have a Thing About Time

I’m not sure what it is, but I’ve always been a pretty serious person. I recognize that life is both short and long and that all we have is the present moment. I was nostalgic even in elementary school. Yet, I have this other thing, where when it’s time to let something go, I really do. It’s a process to sift through, which was the impetus for creating this blog 10 years ago, but I release things initially pretty well and sort as I go. It’s a weird dichotomy because I imagine most people who are nostalgic also probably struggle to release. My ability to release has also grown quite a bit since I started my chaplain training.

Spending time with the dying has really brought this mindful part of myself into sharper focus. It’s a developmentally appropriate practice for the dying, if they are able to reflect, to engage in life review. Many people feel a sense of peace about the life they’ve lived, the relationships they’ve had, the work they offered. But sometimes people don’t. They have deep regrets. And it is in the privilege of holding space for the misery that is deep remorse with no way of going back, that I am even more committed to living my life as authentically as I can.

I left a long marriage. Every marriage is its own ecosystem. No one else knows what it is like to be in someone else’s marriage, even one you witness well. Not even the two people in it have the same experience. The relationship is shared, but the experience is still unique to the individual. Divorce is the same. Each person has the story of how and when and why it didn’t or couldn’t continue. And that is valid, because it is the story we create to cope. It is a tornado of loss, even when it is right. I have been so empowered by my decision to divorce. And it is fully in line with my values and my desire to live authentically.

We all live in the stories we make out of our lives. And at the end of it, we get to see if we think it was a good one. The fact that I get to sit in the room where this sacred work happens, and even more so, in the active stage of dying, where someone is leaving this life and moving to whatever is next, is such a tremendous privilege and responsibility. Learning when to touch someone and when to be still, recognizing when someone is doing their work of letting go that is not to be disturbed…I call it watching someone pull up their tent pegs. If we’re lucky enough to die gradually, as opposed to traumatically or suddenly, we go through a process where we pack up our bags. This is all happening on a spiritual plane. We release our people. We let go of all that is being left undone. And we rest.

We are embarking on a difficult time in this country and in this world. So the question is, what will we do with our one wild and precious life? How will we behave as structures in our country are threatened, as human rights are rolled back? I’ve been in a time of grief and reflection and the conclusion I’m coming to is that I want to double down on all the values I already live. If I have stuff in my car for houseless people, I’m doubling up. If I make donations to civil rights work, I’m increasing that payment. If I am part of creating and leading a congregation of marginalized people, I’m there every day I can join. If I have access to things other people don’t, I’m making sure I can have things to give away to facilitate greater access. This is the time to lean in.

No one knows the future. But I know who I want to be in it.