Mission: Care for Self Day #5

I knew sticking to this commitment to intentionally caring for myself everyday would be a challenge. I knew that setting limits to what I require of myself each day would be a necessary part of this commitment. I knew that I would struggle with a paradigmatic shift in learning how to balance my own needs with the often demanding needs of my children. I knew that it would be a task that would incite the kind of creativity that I often don't fan into flame on a regular basis. I knew it would be a challenge. But I didn't know it would lead me to a place of deep sadness. Or perhaps, unconsciously or subconsciously...or not, I knew that this sorrow existed and the busyness and failure to be truly present to myself was a way to avoid this space of deep sorrow.

Granted - it has been an emotionally-charged week. Brian traveled to Colorado for his Grandfather's funeral. Elmer was an amazing man and everyone who met him was sure of it. He lived a long and beautiful life - but knowing this still doesn't detract from the sense of loss. The 11th anniversary of Columbine came and went. And we discovered that my granny has been diagnosed with Breast Cancer. It has most certainly been a tough week. But I don't think that is the only reason I have met such sadness this week.

Because I've also experienced a growing sense of peace as I've faced this sadness. I think this may have something to do with joy and sorrow being interwoven or at least intricately connected. My hope is that the more time I am willing to face, to feel, to acknowledge the sadness, then the greater my capacity to bear it and grow in hope within it.

I've done a decent job at caring for my body these past few days. I am still trying to figure out what it means to begin really caring for my spirit. I'm open to suggestions.

Be forewarned squeamish readers: this is a gross one

I think I have a rare disease of some sort. I'm pretty sure I've suffered from it since shortly after birth (or perhaps I contracted it in utero). My meager attempts at self-medicating haven't really worked out so well and I'm trying desperately to make peace with the persistence of this illness. So instead of dissociating with an episode of the Bachelor where I can get lost in analyzing the messiness and pathologies of another, I'm attempting to work out some sort of peace treaty with my personal plague here in this space tonight.

For as long as I can remember, I have struggled with parts of me oozing out all over the place. Almost every place I've travelled to, every person I have met, every situation I have encountered - has been stained with the presence of my own personal form of ooze. The actual oozing isn't even what irks me the most -- it's that I feel like I have little control over when it oozes, where it oozes, how pungent the smell of the ooze is or how others respond to what oozes out. It manifests itself in the form of anxiety most frequently - rapid speaking and breathing, shakiness and unease. At other times it's demonstrated in a quickness to anger or tears. I honestly think I could live with the oozing if it only happened in the comfort of my own home - the place I love to hide and find rest in.

Today was a day where I felt like I oozed all over the place (and surprise surprise - I'm still oozing right here right now). And I hate days like today. I think part of the self-contempt comes from a deep place of shame because I often feel as though so many of my peers are better at controlling their oozing. I've at least come to believe that no one is free from ooze entirely, yet some exhibit a greater capacity to contain and prevent leakage. If only I could learn this skill.

But I haven't thus far. I haven't learned how to completely self-soothe in every situation. Maybe I'm not supposed to be able to accomplish such a task. If I knew how to control my oozing entirely I swear I'd never let it out in public. It never feels very safe. But if I did that then I may never be able to find someone who knows what to do with the substance that desperately needs to get out from inside of me. If I could control it, it would be left unattended deep inside of me - eating me from the inside out. It would turn into an even more deadly infection.

Yes, my oozing can seem obnoxious or annoying to some (especially when it leads to an inability to focus in class and a need to talk out of desperation to one of the few friends I feel understands me). It can create awkward moments of certain exhibitionistic behaviors. But there are times when my ooze temporarily loses it's stench and the sulfuric shades of green fade long enough to see the beauty amidst the nastiness. Do I really believe that? It feels a bit like I'm trying to convince myself that there is beauty in my own desperation, my own neediness that manifests itself in anxiety, anger and sometimes sorrow. But I do long to believe such a thing. It's easier to believe it on behalf of the other than it is to believe it for myself. Maybe someday. Maybe someday I'll make peace with my oozing all over the place.

Lost and Found

Has it really been a month since my last post? Apparently. So where have I been? That's a damn good question...and I'm still trying to figure out the answer. I think I've been lost in my own head. It's amazing how easy it is to get lost in there - so many corners to explore, so many places to hide. I often wonder if other people spend as much time retreating to their own inner world as I do. Do others feel haunted by all that they haven't made sense of or are they able to somehow disconnect, dissociate or detatch from the perplexities involved in the circumstances of their own lives?

Retreating to my own inner world is likely a favored coping strategy. Journals and music have been the avenues most frequented as a means to this end. As I write I release the words discovered in these solitary places that exist in my mind. Music offers a maternal presence in the journey - it's where I find attunement - the tone of the music, the lyrics of the songs - they offer a mirror to what I'm feeling, they provide the language I'm searching for. It is how I've survived, how I've tended to the wounds that have never really healed.

Perhaps these wounds are left unhealed because in my best effort to cope I attempt to be the doctor and the patient at the same time. Early in my faith I was taught to believe that Christ was the Healer - that He, and he alone, was the One who could wipe away the tears, stitch up the gaping wounds, and tend to the swollen ankle causing an undeniable limp. It's been over thirteen years and I'm still crying, bleeding and limping. Does this reality reveal his lack of healing powers? Or maybe it is reflective of my weak faith and propensity to live entrenched in sin? Or maybe...just maybe...it has more to do with our skewed theology. Maybe healing isn't about the tears miraculously disappearing. Could it rather be about someone witnessing them, acknowledging them, knowing of what they reveal, feeling their power to drench and tracing their faint stain upon the cheek of the wounded.

I'm beginning to believe in the power of Imago Christi. As I'm attempting to expose the wounds to another, I am hoping to learn something of Christ's healing in a new way. But this kind of exposure feels foreign to me. It is not about suddenly ripping my hand away from the infected and grotesque wound in an effort to shock, frighten or push people away. It is about taking the hand extended and squeezing it while I allow her to remove the inadequate bandages placed upon the wound so long ago. It's about letting the tears fall in the presence of another. Letting her see the pain and bringing it out from the seculsion of my inner world so that I stop hiding in the lostness of it all. It's about recognizing that when someone is standing right next to me, it's easier to contend with the limp that may never fully heal in this life.

The life of a Mommy Grad Student Intern

I'm realizing that it is going to be more of a challenge to keep up with blogging in the final stage of this three year adventure! Plus, it hasn't helped that we have had no access to internet in our new(er) apartment for the past couple of weeks. We were tapping into somebody else's wireless when we first moved in and we're pretty sure they either moved or wised up and password protected their connection. Too bad for us. So it will be a few days before we have internet (other than on our phones). It's amazing how much we've grown to rely upon something that I was officially introduced to when I was in high school - which wasn't really that long ago. Seriously...it's only been 16 years since I was a freshman in high school and signed up for my first aol account under the alias cheergirl or something like that! Okay maybe 16 years is a long enough to develop a dependency.

As I've already alluded to, life is pretty darn crazy right now. I've completed two weeks of internship and school and I've been off to a running start. I'm just praying that I can maintain the pace from now until Christmas when I'll have a brief interlude. So many thoughts have been racing through my head and I have a list of about five different blog-worthy stories or ideas...but of course I don't have the list with me right now as I'm sitting in Panera frantically attempting to get my internet-fix for the day! So instead I'll have to simply share the stirrings floating around in my head and piercing my heart in this moment.

Throughout this term I'll be insanely busy from morning till night every weekday except for Thursdays. Yesterday was my first official day off while all the kids and Bri are at school. I thought that dropping Krisalyn off at school for her first day of all-day kindergarten last Friday was going to be the BIG CRY day...but was surprised that the tears only lasted through my drive to my internship and for a few minutes after my arrival as I explained to my supervisor the significance of that day. The crying my have been prematurely cut-off because of the pressure to prepare myself for my first client later that day. Whatever the reason, I managed to cope (or distract myself) rather well that day. Suffice it to say, I was not expected to be nearly as emotional as I was yesterday after dropping the girls off at school and realizing that I would be alone for the entire day.

When I boarded the plane for my first trip to Uganda (when I went for 10 days by myself simply to become more familiar with the widow's plight so that I might assist in the development of a daily devotional or as I like to call it - Readings for Encouragment and Empowerment, something unexpected occurred. As soon as the doors of the plane were closed and securely locked I felt a lump surface in my chest -- not because I was afraid to fly or nervous about what I might encounter in the following 30+ hours of traveling, nor did I sense that it was linked solely with the anticipation of missing my girls and their daddy horribly. Instead, I sensed that it had something to do with realizing that I had not spent that much time to myself EVER in my life. I know that must sound like a ridiculous exagerration, but to my knowledge I had never spent more than a few hours in isolation (other than time spent sleeping at night and even in those times Lindsey and I often made our way to one another's bedrooms late at night in search of the comfort we found in one another's nearness). Without going off on too big of a tangent, the time I had to myself during that season of my life enabled me to begin peering into some dark and frightening doors to my heart that the constant presence of companions had distracted me from for far too long.

As I dropped Krisalyn off at her class yesterday morning I discovered that the uncomfortable and rather telling chest lump had decided to pay me another visit. But this time, I recalled the powerful nature of the time I spent alone on my way to Uganda, and I willingly allowed the lump to grow into an ache which permeated my entire body. It was an absolutely beautiful and wonderful day that consisted of two separate raw and honest conversation with great friends, a lot of cleaning (which obviously included singing loudly, dancing and more tears), and sitting on the little bench we have on our patio and refraining from dissociating for at least those moments. In those moments both joy and sorrow seemed to kiss, twirl and dip. How much I have loved the last nine years of my journey of motherhood - years of no sleep, diaper-changing, terrible (yet wonderful) twos, first smiles, first words, first recitals, first fears, first trips to the ER, first "you're mean Mommy"'s, trips to the zoo, finger painting, cookie-baking, fairy festivals, pumpkin carving, teething, personalized haircuts, and rituals of animal kisses and "how much does Mommy love you"'s.

Though many memories are yet to be made and I my role as a mommy has really only just begun in the big scheme of things, the season of having little ones at home has come to an end (at least for now). Bri and I are both still unsure of the journey ahead and whether or not we'll add to our already highly estrogen-dominant clan. But whatever happens, I am sure of one thing...I am an incredibly blessed woman to have shared in the lives of these three beautiful, strong and lovely little ladies. And I hope that this season of my life affords me the time and space to recover who I am behind all of those dark doors that have been avoided for far too long.