Perception and Reality

Sometimes, during the relentless struggle with an at-risk child, it’s not only what 
happens that is notable, but what doesn’t happen.

I wish I could tell you about the time that my son sunk the winning basket in a
championship game, was the crucifer on Easter Sunday at church, serenely sat in a duck blind with his father and grandfather – patiently waiting and eager to
learn, took his high school girlfriend to the Jr./Sr. or secured his first apartment and landed his dream job in a big city.

Every parent has preconceived notions about their children from the moment 
we start dreaming about a family.  
But, perception can sometimes be a far cry from reality.

It’s one thing to envision your child as a gifted athlete and their gift turns out to be the violin.

But parents of addiction know another level of unrealized expectations.
Watching a child with inherent potential being sucked into a vortex, 
right before their eyes.  
Maybe it’s trial and error with alcohol, then a variety of illegal substances and they’re off and running to a point of no return….

Addiction can rob us of their youth.

However, their past doesn’t necessarily predict their future.
(See – All’s Quiet (today) on The Southwestern Front – 4/26/13 )


Families of addiction must practice boundaries, make tough decisions, 
move forward – then, let go.

And … don’t spend too much time looking back.  You’re not going that way …





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Bittersweet Transitions

I spent last week in South Carolina with my parents and my brother. 
The original foursome.
My father, brother and I have been facing the inevitable for close to a year, 
trying to figure out the right time, the perfect fit; and gathering the courage 
to set the wheels in motion.

My mother has vascular dementia.  
Her memory issues have become significant and her care was consuming 
my 80-year-old father.  
It might have been simpler, in some ways, for things at their home to remain
the same, but we had made the difficult decision to move her into memory care
in an upstate retirement community.

Now, it was showtime.

Driving South on 85, earlier that week, I could feel a low-grade current of 
anxiety running through my body.  The move date had been on the calendar 
for a month and I was determined to set aside other demands in my life for 
this short time and focus, solely, on my parents.  
Anticipating this looming reality, I reminded myself to stay in the present
moment and just breathe.
Don’t predict the outcome.
Leave space for not-knowing.

Too often, we decide how an event is going to play out before we even 
give it a chance to gradually unfold.  We like immediate answers.  We like 
predictable outcomes because they spare us from experiencing the 
uncomfortable feeling of not knowing.
Memory-care, I’d predicted, equals sadness.  Did I know this for sure ?  
Sad as this change might be, hopefully it would be a reprieve for my father, 
whose daily routine had become shaped by her constant supervision.  
For me and my brother, there was comfort in knowing our mother would 
be safe and supported and our father, who has more energy than we do, 
could take back a part of his active life.

We’d all come back together and taken our places in what Anne Morrow Lindbergh calls, the oyster bed, in her book, Gift From The Sea.  
I found a copy when I was gathering things to take to Mom’s new home.  
First published in 1955, it is still so relevant today.  
I wore my highlighter out as I reread it.  

The oyster bed is Lindbergh’s metaphor for a growing, ever-changing family.
“It is untidy, spread out in all directions, heavily encrusted with 
accumulations and, in its living state – firmly imbedded on its rock.”

And of a woman’s role in that oyster bed, she says this:
“Distraction is … inherent in a woman’s life … We must be open to all points
of the compass; husband, children, friends, community; stretched out,
exposed, sensitive like a spider’s web to each breeze that blows, to each 
call that comes.  How difficult for us, then, to achieve a balance in the
midst of those contradictory tensions, and yet how necessary for the proper functioning of our lives.  How to remain balanced, no matter what centrifugal
forces tend to pull one off center; how to remain strong, no matter what 
shocks come in the periphery and tend to crack the hub of the wheel.”

On the one week anniversary of this move, my mother appears to be
settling in to a new living state and demonstrating acceptance, grace 
and serenity – in her true fashion.

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All’s Quiet (today) on the Southwestern Front

He took the bus from work and met me on the 16th Street Mall, a well-known shopping and dining area. He’d suggested the restaurant and texted the directions. His sister and her roommate would meet us as well, after they returned from Whole Foods and put away their groceries.

The last time I saw him looking this sharp was, ironically, on Christmas Eve of the broken arm and percocet haze. He was crisp in a white button down shirt, a light blue patterned tie and khaki pants. He was beautifully, casually professional with a two to three-day beard and, for the first time, the haircut of a Colorado businessman, down around the collar.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and squeezed hard; he planted that familiar kiss right on my lips. He’s been a head-on kisser since he was a toddler, and doesn’t hold back when it comes to his mama. I love that about him.

He could have been anybody’s polished young kid starting out at an ad agency or a dot-com. So striking, that had I seen him earlier on the mall, I would have done a double take. The blonde waitress, who later approached our table, seemed to notice, too. The fresh, hip restaurant was buzzing with the energy of weekday patrons. I was surprised and taken with his choice; we ordered our beverages and waited for the girls to arrive.

Our party of four enjoyed a delightful adult exchange for an hour and a half. Inherently funny and today loaded with a healthier dialogue; he spoke with a lilting cadence. Absent was the reactive personality of the past. We had a balanced conversation. He was telling stories, but was just as intent to listen to ours and ask relevant questions. He was decidedly present and shared details of his job and impressive information about the city, which he’d come to love.

For so long, he’d been mired in his own problems; today he was engaging with the world around him, offering his sister business leads, sure of the goings on about town, like any young professional. Taking an interest in the route that his sister had driven from Virginia – by herself, I might add – he checked on her the entire way.

I couldn’t imagine a time in the past fifteen years that he might have joined us at a Thanksgiving meal to sit and shoot the breeze. Always fidgety, he popped up and down from the table, checking his cell phone, distracted. His uniform was a hoodie and baggy khakis – a little grungy – and that recognizable glaze in his eyes.

To the casual observer, today would have offered no indication of a struggle with addiction, much less chronic incarceration.

He had to be back at the halfway house by nine, so we said goodnight to the girls and walked back to my rental car. My hotel was nearby; I dropped him off on the way. Conversation on our drive centered around his imminent release from this facility. He explained to me that because of overcrowding, non-violent offenders may find themselves on an unexpected fast track. As his mother, my fear was that he was moving through the system too quickly.  My hope was that prison would slow him down, get him in front of medical care and counseling. Because he never got past the transitional diagnostic center, he never fell into that rhythm. I worried that he might not take the initiative towards consistent care once he was in charge of his own life.

Pat’s words washed over me, leaving a newly adopted sense of calm. “Let go – don’t create the story – he’s a grown man – it’s his journey”.

We pulled up to the entrance of his cinder block home. We planned to meet again the following evening after work. For the first time, in forever, I looked forward to our next visit.

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Vulnerability

Read to the end of this post if you want a feel good tip for Spring …..

Recently, I went to an hour and a half, candlelight, yoga practice. 

It was a cold, rainy Sunday afternoon at 4:00 and I figured that the class would be packed. 
I got there about 20 minutes early and secured a place on the 2nd row between the lines of demarcation.

When you enter the studio, your senses reacclimate.  
The room is darkened, hot and eerily quiet, except for the rustling of yogis laying out their mats, towels, straps, water bottles – stretching, breathing and starting to move inward – setting intentions for their practice.

For anyone who does not practice yoga, you are asked to leave your
keys, phone, shoes and other personal items in a cubby-hole outside of the room.
You are also encouraged to leave the chaos of your life and your ego at the front door.

I hadn’t been in several weeks and knew that it was going to be a challenge. 

Thank God the lights are low, because I don’t make a big effort with the yoga attire, hair or make-up and I generally wear my glasses. 
I take them off during the entire practice so that I can’t clearly see myself in the mirror, and like the emperor who wore no clothes, I pretend that no one else can see me. 

My guess, by the sleek silhouettes in the room, is that I am an elder.  
I’m not one of the superstars, which is OK with me, because I’ve already locked my ego in the car.

“The willingness to show up changes us; it makes us a little braver each time.”
Brene Brown,
Daring Greatly:How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead

Yoga is about allowing yourself to be vulnerable.

“Vulnerability is not for the weak hearted.  
It requires deep inner strength to admit what you don’t know, what you can’t do well, what scares you and what hurts you.
How do we develop the strength to stand in our vulnerability?  
On our yoga mats, we learn to honor it.  When we embrace vulnerability wholeheartedly, we discover a strength we did not know we had.  
As we attempt to do a posture that seems impossible or scary, once we set aside our ego, and stop struggling to get it right, we surprise ourselves and nail a pose we’ve never done before.  
We discover that accepting our vulnerability helps us create a boundary.  
We don’t push too hard, or go too far, which keeps us safe.”
(Dr. Gail Parker’s Blog – Taking Yoga Off Your Mat)

Relative to mothering addiction –

“Owning our story can be hard, but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running away from it.  Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky, but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and belonging and joy – the experiences that make us the most vulnerable.  
Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of the light.”
Brene Brown

I am drawn to other people who are willing to expose their vulnerabilities.

I, too, am learning to expose my own vulnerabilities in yoga and now, 
in my writing.

PS – 
Now that spring is here, pull up Feeling Good, by Michael Buble, in your music library.  
Raise the windows in your house or lower the windows in your car, press play on your music device, turn up the volume and let er rip……   

 
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