Letting go of… battling my child’s supporters

When my eight-year old chooses to be obnoxious while in India, the treatment she receives is quite different from what she is accustomed too. “She’s just a child”, “she’s only eight”, “she’ll settle down”, grandparents and other ‘supporters’ will assure.

When she was about four, I once tried to give her a “time-out” in India. I left the room and noticed it was uncannily quiet – no protests, no whimpers, no whines even. So I peeked in to see the cook sitting with her playing a hand game. There were giggles and laughter instead of the intended introspection (if that is even possible at four). “She looked so sad sitting there by herself,” the lady said lovingly. Yes. I am often the only bully in the picture. But the ‘grounded’ child was having way more fun than I had intended.  

I sighed. I let it go. I felt outnumbered. I felt like the villain. I figured my child was shielded by several supporters who I would have to get past and any attempt at disciplining seemed arduous.

But today, I remembered a time when I had my share of ‘supporters’. I smiled. I felt good. I remembered my antics. I smiled again. Then with a shudder, I felt grateful my eight year old hadn’t thought of those (yet??). Sigh…it’s so hard to be on this side of the fence. Nobody had explained to me the hypocrisy involved in parenting .  

I sometimes wonder if our generation of parents takes parenting more seriously than we need too. Perhaps it is a good thing for our children to have these ‘supporters’. And even if I sound somewhat snarky when I refer to them, I am grateful for these interventions (well at least in the big picture; it is still tad infuriating when it happens). 

For in the big picture, these interventions from these supporters can amount to only one thing…love.   

Traffic!

It’s 5 a.m. I have been awake since 2 a.m. Mix jet lag with inherent insomnia and that’s what you get. Thoughts raced about in my head. As I stared at the ceiling, my mind traveled continents, mused on life, appreciated some, disapproved some… As the rest of the world snoozed, hardly a topic was left unturned – life, health, love, food, relationships, ambitions, politics, hopes, world hunger and even world peace (yeah yeah…so what if I’ll never be a Ms. Universe contestant?).

Sometimes I wish there were some recording device I could attach to my thoughts. For they run so fast and in random directions, I can barely catch them. They hurtle about in chaos and crowd - somewhat like the traffic in India.

As we rode the rickshaw yesterday, my eight-year-old exclaimed in excitement, “This is crazy!” More honks, more overtaking from both sides, more close shaves with a vehicle or two, she said, “This is like some big race.” I laughed. I also thought of it again as I stared at the ceiling.

The state of my mind is exactly the state of Indian roads. Too much chaos, too much crowd, too much traffic, too many thought of too many sizes and speeds. Yes, a bullock cart next to a snazzy Audi, next to a cyclist with a big bundle of something, next to a two-wheeler, next to the rickshaw that we were in. No wonder there will be some honking and swearing, right?

But guess what? It works. It’s crazy and chaotic and often frustrating and tiring, but it works.

Just like my mind and my thoughts. And ahem… there is some honking and swearing in there too.

So if a country of a billion people is hopeful that the traffic on their roads will get smoother, I for one, can certainly hope that the traffic in my head will get calmer. 

Letting go…of not appreciating “what is” enough

I always clean up my house before leaving on a trip. I love coming back to a clean house. Who doesn’t? But this is one time that I truly make an effort.
Yesterday, as I cleaned the fridge. Oh yes… You heard right. I cleaned the fridge. And cleaning the fridge always forces me to face some realities – some sticky, some old. So in that spirit, I wondered why it was important for me to come back to a clean house. I figured there is the somewhat sadness about the end of a holiday or vacation. So imagine opening the front door to be greeted by clutter and its bff reality.

My brows creased. And not at the sticky something I struggled with. This was my home and why should coming back to it be a somewhat sad thing in my mind? Why did I need to make sure that my “welcome back to routine” was a pleasant one?

This was my home. My clutter. My routine. My life. My happiness. My mess. Yes. Exactly. I fiercely continued to scrub the sticky something now chilled to eternity in my fridge.  

But I decided that if that was truly my viewpoint, it could do with some revamping. And it may be a worthwhile effort.

Although I did continue to clean the house, I did it with a certain appreciation… of my home. My clutter. My routine. My life. My happiness. My mess.

Letting go…of trying to do everything (and everything well) and the accompanying overwhelm

Just five minutes ago, I was surrounded by suitcases. Large suitcases that we take to India lay in front of me with their large mouths gaping open. “I am going to stuff each one of you,” I thought to myself. With stuff. I sat surrounded by a mountain of stuff. Stuff of all shapes and sizes. Shoes, lotions, clothes (wait did I remove the tag?), chocolates (ahem… many unfortunately now in my tummy).

Gosh! So many more things to get. So many more errands to run. So many more things to pack. I furiously made lists. Wait, wasn’t there a list downstairs already? Gosh, cables and chargers! I thought with alarm. For the iPad, IPod, IPhone, Kindle, Netbook, Camera, Camcorder… Seriously? Did we really need to move all these things from one continent to another and back? Bills! Better make a list of all the bills to pay before leaving. Library books! More alarm. And did I make my doctors’ appointments for after our return? And to imagine all this running through a brain that can barely remember a thing! 

A zillion things raced furiously through my mind. I felt overwhelmed. I got up. I stood tall in the mountain of stuff and tiptoed gingerly trying to not step on anything.

Out of the room. Away from my lists. I came downstairs and sat down to write. Carelessly.  Irresponsibly. For that’s what I do these days.

I figured… try as I may, I will still not remember many things. Try as I may, I will still not have the energy to do many things. But try as I may, I may actually succeed in feeling less tethered and frayed, and just a wee bit more grounded. It seemed worthwhile. So I sat down to write.

I felt bad about feeling so overwhelmed about a trip we were all so excited about. And I decided to not let overwhelm win, or take away any of joy and anticipation of the trip. So I sat down to write.

No surprises then, about today’s topic.

Just when did our lives get so complicated? Just when did we become superheroes? Just when did we take on this mountain of responsibility on ourselves? Just when did we begin to go about life so overwhelmed?  

Generations before us have been doing the same stuff as us – raising kids, keeping jobs, managing the house. Is it our fervor to do everything; and to do everything really well that gets us into trouble? A friend and I chatted recently on how “good enough” was good enough for us. And although it is sad that I have to continuously remind myself of that, I am willing to make it my mantra. Want to try?

Letting go… of 'talking words'

Write a letter instead

There are three people in our family. One mother, one father and one daughter. Our lives merge in the evening when all of us are together. We love each other. So in theory, what a joyful union this would be. And it is.

But for a good part of our time together, we bicker, we disagree, we sulk, we try to control, we try to discipline, we try to defy, we try to push limits… At times it seems as if there are too many words in the room – too much talking – too much defiance – too much explaining – too many expectations.

And to think this perspective belongs to the one who does a good chunk of that talking (!!). I guess even I get tired of hearing my own voice! I do. I really do.

And even if my voice were as sweet (ahem…) as I’d like to believe, the tone is assumes, the words it selects, the expectations it lays down, the pressures it feels, the fatigue it reflects… gives it a different tenor. Agreed we are all tired at the end of the day. But this is our time together and I want us to get energy from it, not feel drained.

A few night ago, as I started lecturing one hapless eight-year old about something, I noticed how disconnected she was. She was trying to either ward off my words or they were making her truly unsettled and unhappy. So I let it go.

Although I stopped talking, I hadn’t truly let it go. The matter continued to poke at my insides. And so instead of talking, I sat down and wrote. I wrote a letter to my daughter. It was loving and yet it addressed the matter. It made me feel good. It made me feel connected. It allowed me to express my love (and concern about the matter). It was honest and genuine. Just the way I like things to be.

It was honest and genuine. Just the way eight-year-olds like things to be. But it was also more loving and less reproachful than my words would have sounded to her. She put it with the other letters I had written to her from the hospital. Letters which were light-hearted despite the surgery. Letters to let her know that I was going to be okay. Letters to let her know that she was going to be okay. Letters that gave her permission to not come visit me in the hospital as it made her uneasy. Letter that allowed her to be connected to me even when she did not visit me.

She eyed her stack of letters with a certain satisfaction. So I suggested we find a box for her to put them in. To my surprise, she found three. One box for each member of our family (in a rather Goldilocks kinda way). To be filled with letters from one another. “We can write letters to one another, Mom,” she said excitedly. What a lovely thought…

The Mom and Dad letter boxes still lie empty. But each time I look at the stack of boxes, I feel happiness inside for the potential they hold and for everything they hopefully will hold. 

Letting go toolbox…

One of my (lofty??) goals is to live relatively clutter-free. Sigh… our home is anything but that. Unfinished projects lie around, half-read books sit around like half-eaten apples, bits of paper – some trash, some important wait patiently - to be filed away neatly or to be thrown away completely.
And then there’s some stuff… some stuff that has made its way mysteriously into our lives and which sits around for no apparent reason. A strange-looking jar that someone gave us, table cloths that will never show up on any table, decorative pieces that will never ever leave the closet, colorful plastic bits of who-knows-what that comes out of goody bags and return gifts…  Sigh...you get the picture...

Somebody once gave me this advice. Take a bag and walk around your house. Pick the stuff (it may be one thing or a whole bunch) that you can look at and say “this is not me any longer”. Things that simply sit around, but don’t really resonate with your life any longer.

So if you’re feeling brave, try following the advice I once received. Take a bag and walk around your house. Remove things (maybe one, maybe a ton) that no longer resonate with who you are. Does it feel liberating? You tell me.

Letting go…of stuff being held on for nostalgic reasons

I am not exactly a hoarder. But I admit to being rather sentimental. Things have meanings, objects have stories, old letters make me smile, greeting cards from first grade are still around (ahem… not in my house, but my mother’s house).

I hold on to stuff. In an emotional hoarder kinda way.

The past is the past and that’s exactly where I would like it to be. Why then am I holding to the nostalgia via objects? Places have been visited; experiences have been experienced; sights have been seen. If they do truly matter, they will always remain in the mind and heart. Do I really need the objects to sit on my bookshelf reminding me of the person I used to be and no longer am? Is the inability to part with these objects my inability to let go?

Take for instance the numerous African artifacts in our home. The time spent in Africa represents an adventurous, spirited phase of my life. And maybe that’s what I have been holding on to for all these years.  

True I gave away numerous masks some years ago. But I looked at the beautifully carved combs, antique ceremonial spoons and remembered my adventures in this continent far away. I stroked the smooth ebony bowl and smiled at the quaint antique figurine. I was nostalgic. I was wistful. These objects represented a part of my life that I would never go back to. Even if I were to visit the very same places even, it would never be at the same level of adventure and exploration.

And guess what…I was quite okay with that. I had moved on; life had moved on; and there was little time for nostalgia or staying put in a nostalgic mode.

Of course there will be things that I will never part with. Letters for instance fall in this category. And this blog post is certainly not permission for my mother to throw away my old letters. Nor will I be able to part with some of my daughter’s baby stuff.

But I wonder if our inability to let go of nostalgia causes certain stagnation in our life. And objects that surround me cause nostalgia. And I want to keep moving…forward…

The letting go inspiration box

When we resist change, it’s called suffering. But when we can completely let go and not struggle against it, when we can embrace the groundlessness of our situation and relax into its dynamic quality, that’s called enlightenment

                                                                     ~ Pema Chödrön 

Letting go of… of things that make me feel less grounded

Yesterday, I mused on groundlessness. I hoped to identify all that is grounding and use it to find my way to strength, to a firmer ground. So I will feel less scattered; so I will grow roots again; so I will feel more connected to the earth, to those around me, to myself.

Yesterday, my friend’s facebook post caught my eye, my mind and emotion.  She poignantly questioned why women are so mean to other women. I have no answers. Just like you, all I have is some theories. But I felt her pain. And I wondered the same.

I reflected on the times when I had encountered the same. And since my mind was hovering on the idea of groundlessness, I realized how groundless these experiences had made me feel.

And I was just plain annoyed. I was annoyed for it felt like I was giving away my power - by allowing myself to feel groundless on account of someone else’s treatment of me. Hurtful words, judging looks, unkind actions…we’ve all been there. But I was just plain annoyed. Annoyed at how groundless these ‘less-important’ matters made me feel. Illness was a different matter. I seemed to have no control over it. But someone being mean to me was a different matter.

Or was it?

It wasn’t. It was just as outside my capacity and control. And it had the power to leave me just as groundless.   

Yesterday I mused about finding everything that grounds us – remembering, going back to it in moments of groundlessness. Today, it may be time to reflect on all that pulls us apart. Of everything that breaks our inner person into odd shaped pieces – pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that can’t be put back together. That leaves us with that uneasy feeling in the stomach; that uneasy sliding of the ground beneath us.

Perhaps it may be good to be aware of the little stuff just as much as the big stuff. To simply notice it; to recognize when it hit us. And to embrace our vulnerability as we feel the sliding of the ground beneath us. Just awareness may have to be enough. (Sigh… for lack of any better ideas or strategy?). Maybe. For awareness is strength in itself. The strength to steer us away from the groundlessness to seek a more grounding foothold.

What grounds you?

In the past few years I have often felt a sense of groundlessness. On several occasions, I have felt an inability to ground myself. Chronic illness can do that to you. Weakness and pain will do that to you.

This groundlessness I talk about is not a good feeling. It leaves me feeling scattered. My inside person seems to crumble into odd shaped unrecognizable fragments. Like a jigsaw puzzle that can’t be put back together.

Unfortunately, it lurks around even today. The difference between then and now is that I am aware of it. I was aware of it then too - but with a sense of confusion. I am aware of it now with a desire to do something about it. Earlier, I simply gazed at the pieces in bewilderment. Today, I wish to put the jigsaw puzzle back together. Piece by piece. Slowly. Steadily. And hopefully…without losing hope.
That said, I don’t have any answers. Just more questions.

I understand finding a way to keep myself grounded is important. But what grounds us? Is it family? Is it community? Is it friendship? Is it culture? Is it art? Is it nature? Is it your city? Is it your country? Is it exercise? Is it a good book? Is it dance? Is it music? Is it creativity? Is it inspiration? What grounds you? What grounds me?  

I imagine it varies by person. But if we can find a way to hold on to it…. and find our way to strength from it... If we can simply be aware of it…and find our way to it in groundless times… if we can remember it… and keep it always in our arsenal against groundlessness…

The jigsaw puzzle will begin to come together. Piece by piece. Slowly. Steadily.

The letting go inspiration box

Everyday courage has few witnesses. But yours is no less noble because no drum beats for you and no crowds shout your name.

                                    ~Robert Louis Stevenson

Letting go…of trying to finish all unfinished business

Is this for real? Am I still thinking and writing about my incomplete writing strewn around my home, computer and head? Why did I get into this in the first place? Why was it so important to me?  

 

Maybe looking at an unfinished piece makes me feel unaccomplished; maybe it feels as if I quit; maybe it makes me feel like I didn’t have enough grit or gumption to see it through. And that may be hard for a rather tenacious person like me.

Or perhaps I am mourning the lack or loss of energy, excitement and enthusiasm that pervaded at the beginning of the project. And so with surgical precision, I either want to finish it or toss it away permanently.

But life doesn’t always work like that.

 

My eight-year old has been knitting a scarf for over two years now. The colorful unfinished yarn lies beneath the coffee table ignored and dejected. Every now and then she picks it up and knits a row. Each time I see it languishing there, I twitch a little.

 

The bright colored yarn has been knitted to a good length. She could finish the project in a mere few days if she chose. Every time the thick vibrant yarn catches my eye, I am tempted to pick it up, knit for an hour and be done with the matter. Forever. But no, the mother in me cannot find that acceptable. So I continue to twitch each time I see it.

 

I try to sneak it in her bag when we go places. I try to remind her how excited she was about the project. How we had gone to the store and how she had picked the bright (and ahem… rather ugly) colored yarn. It was fat and soft just the way she wanted it; with the “fat” needles to make the fat and fluffy scarf. But my persuasion falls on deaf ears and she always has something more interesting to do. The knitting fever in her classroom had probably ended and so the fate of the unfinished scarf looms precariously.

 

Until I decided to settle the matter (Ahem… such determination normally does not bode well for our family - and I should have known better). I decided that the yarn had lived under the table long enough. So I told my daughter she had two choices: either to finish knitting the darn thing or I was simply going to unravel it and begin a new project with it. That way she would never have to worry about completing it.

But the only thing the eight-year-old heard was that I was going to unravel the whole thing and she was devastated. “You can’t do that!” Fat tears began to roll down her cheeks and she whimpered out some more unintelligible protests. “I’ve worked so hard. I knitted so much”. I felt ruthless and cruel standing there a monster threatening to unravel the poor child’s hard work.

So I backed off and told her I wasn’t going to unravel it but would like her to complete the project. Those of you who thought my plan was rather harsh and even extreme, I agree with you. I am not particularly proud of it either.

I realize that not everything in our life can be taken care of with surgical precision. There will always be unfinished business in our life. And I want to learn to be okay with it. To not twitch as much about it or try to fix it all.

Each of us has some form of that ugly scarf in our life – be it a relationship, a project, a dream… and we just have to learn to live with the incompleteness.

 

Letting go…of doing something just because you said you would do it

Last week I expressed dismay about not completing a thought. I wrote at length about finishing the incomplete thought. I set out on a mission.

I know of the incomplete prose that lies hidden in my computer and tucked away in notebooks strewn around the house. So I embarked on the project to dig them out and complete what I had started.

I riffled through electronic files. I found many. I read some; I balked at others. Some inspired me; others gave me a knot in my stomach.

I did find a piece of writing that I wanted to add to. I didn’t necessarily complete ‘that’ thought. I simply attached my present day thoughts to that piece. But for the most part, I was hit by a gamut of emotions when I read what I found.

While I imagine I may be a somewhat guarded person these days, most walls come crumbling down when I write and that was apparent. Emotions were staring at me through the black and white words. Some were heavy, some were fun, some were hard to read; but they were all in the past.

I had moved on. Away from the words I was staring at. True. They were all my words. But the flow of my words, the course of my thoughts, the beating of my heart no longer shared the same rhythm of the previous sentiment.

Completing the earlier thought seemed like a contrived activity. Like a phony project. And why would I want to embark on anything that doesn’t seem real enough?

So I simply let go.

Slow down Mommy…

Found this unfinished piece from some years back…

I scrambled through the morning rush trying to get my three-year old to school on time. I was on my routine brink of insanity. Thoughts rushed through my head; responsibilities wandered by; and a list of unfinished tasks meandered close by.

I scrambled and dashed and rushed. “Finish your last bite”, “where is the other sock?”, “let me clean your face”, “be still when I comb your hair”, “your left shoe is on your right foot”, “did we put lotion on your face – your lips look chapped”, “do you have your lunch box?”, “please don’t swing your lunch box like that…”  

Despite my barrage of words, the child carried on in slow motion (or so it seemed to me). Bewildered, bemused by the manner in which she was being herded around like cattle (Hey, cattle with a clean face! Remember I wiped her face and put lotion? Sigh… at least I think I did.)

Some whines, some protests, some disgruntled looks later, I was finally buckling her up in her car seat. “Lunch box! We forgot your lunch box,” I exclaimed. Within a split second, super-mom returned with it. I continued buckling her; muttering of course, how we were always late.

That was when she put her chubby fingers on my hand and simply said, “Slow down Mommy”.  And for the first time that morning, I slowed down. I stared at her, at her wisdom, at her intuition.

I didn’t know whether to feel proud, sad, or irritated. I kissed her; I thought I was going to tear up. Then of course, I noticed the time and started dashing again.

“Slow down mommy,” she said – simply, innocently and fittingly. The three-year-old was following her instincts. This wise little being innately knew what to do and what not to do.  “Slow down mommy,” she said…

I read this over and over. I wanted to complete the thought, remember? But I couldn’t.  My stream of thought, the range of current emotions, didn’t quite match those from that day.

For reading this was emotional. I was touched by the innocence, intuitiveness and astute observation of the child.

Reading this was painful. It was almost like a slap in the face. I knew from so many years ago – how not to be; how not to parent; how not to live my life. And yet I had done just that.

Reading this made me feel guilty. For my now eight-year-old no longer says, “slow down mommy”. She is often in a mad tearing rush herself. And I have probably made her so.

Reading this makes me wonder if I can do anything about it. Can I change the course or rather the speed, the hurry and the rush?

Reading this makes me want to try…