Life

Life is more than the moment and less than the view. It is more mystery than drama. What we don't know can bend us toward insanity. And what we do know is only a thought.

A wing and a prayer

It was a tough evening. I have been slowly recovering from an injury to my lower back, and sitting and driving continue to be uncomfortable (at best). Our kids were in activities at opposite ends of the city, and my husband was out of town, so I spent over two hours simply driving: back and forth, back and forth. When we arrived home, I was in agony, and headed straight for my anti-gravity lawn chair as if pulled by a magnetic force. I sunk back and sighed.

The evening was nice, so despite the late hour, I let the kids play outside. As I gazed out the picture window at the front of our house, I saw our three kids and the neighbor’s three kids gathered in a closed circle, staring down intently at the ground. I watched. Suddenly Yohannes came sprinting back to the house, and flew through the front door. He told me that a baby bird had fallen out of its nest.

"Oh, sometimes that happens", I absently acknowledged. He left.

The neighbor’s kids went inside, leaving my kids in charge of the casualty. I still hadn’t actually seen the bird and assumed that it was a baby that had simply hopped out of the nest, almost ready to fly. I had seen it many times before. A speckled baby, almost full grown, hopping across the grass, enjoying its new found freedom, with a protective mother or father swooping overhead or perching nearby.

However, when I saw Faven gingerly carrying a plastic bag over to our front deck, I saw a small—seemingly lifeless—“being” cradled in the middle. All three of our kids gathered around; Faven was crying and stroking the little bird, Laurèn was pacing and plotting, and Yohannes was whittling a stick with a pocketknife. When I heard Laurèn say, "I am going to gather some worms, you keep it warm", I reluctantly climbed out of my resting place and went outside. All three kids looked up at me, expectantly.

“Guys…… come on, I want you to come in the house; it's time to get ready for bed” I said, unmoved and (even) irritated.

“What!” said Faven, “We can't leave it.”

“We have to, there's nothing we can do,” I replied.

“Please Mom, we have to help it,” Laurèn said, while tugging gently on my arm.

I took a deep breath, trying to find the right words, “Guys” I started, “Sometimes nature is just hard. I’m sorry that the little bird fell out of the tree. But, I don’t think there is anything that we can do, it’s simply too small.”

Faven’s eyes were misty as she trapped my gaze, “He didn't fall out of the tree. His mom pushed him out. We have to help him.”

“Well” I faltered, “sometimes the mom does that. But, we can’t look after a baby bird.”

“Please Mom,” begged Laurèn, “we have to give it a try”.

“What are we going to do?” I asked.

“I can get some worms and feed him,” she said.

“Oh” I mocked, “You are going to chew up the worms, swallow them, and then spit them up into the baby birds’ beak?” Her expression and withdrawal told me that I had gone too far.

“I don’t know what we can do to help,” I admitted. (Silently, I thought: It’s just one bird).

Laurèn rested her head against my shoulder looking up at me, while Faven pleaded, “He's so cute mom… please.”

I gazed at him lying awkwardly on the hard wooden deck with the thin plastic “bed” crumpled beneath him, his head angled upwards, his body resembled an over-sized scrotum—less the feathers. Cute? I thought not.

Laurèn continued, “Mom, we have to. Give me your phone; I will look up wildlife rescue. We have to try Mom”.

Yohannes whittled, and looked up at me with raised eyebrows as if to say, I think they have a point.

“Okay” I ruefully responded, “We’ll figure it out”.

Yohannes quietly said, “Thanks Mom”.

After about twenty minutes on the phone, with three different people, I finally got some information from the Calgary Wildlife Rehabilitation Society (CWRS).  The woman who answered the phone at CWRS asked me some questions about the bird: Is it hopping around? No, it’s lying on its side with its eyes closed. Does it have feathers? Well, it is mostly just fuzzy, but there are some things that resemble feathers on its wings. Is it moving? Yes, it’s breathing and occasionally moving.

She advised me to take it to the nearest Veterinary Hospital, and gave me the address. I walked into the house, and away from the kids and asked her, “Will they take the baby bird no matter what, because my kids are pretty distressed, and I don’t want to bring it home with me again?” She calmly told me that they would definitely take it, and try and keep it warm until the CWRS could come and pick it up in the morning. The way she said it made me (all of a sudden) believe that rescuing baby birds was a normal thing to do.

The kids packed up the bird and we headed off to the Calgary North Veterinary Hospital. Faven held the box on her lap, and Laurèn asked her every two minutes how the baby (who they named "Beak") was doing.  Reality TV really doesn't get any better than this.

We arrived in the deserted parking lot of the hospital - and headed in.  Yohannes was still carrying the stick and the pocketknife.  Laurèn now had the box. I sheepishly told the admission staff that the kids found a baby bird in our front yard. I still expected someone to say, “So what!” But, instead, they treated that baby bird as if it was a treasure. While I did the "admission" paperwork for Beak, the triage staff called on the overhead, "Steve, wildlife admission at the front." The kids were elated.  I was stunned – wildlife?? Steve came out, and looked into our box and said, "Wow, this one has feathers, he is a lot older than all the other ones that have come in. He's cute." (Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I guess). Steve thanked the kids directly, and just like that Beak was out of our care.

The kids were so excited by the turn-of-events that they chattered and chirped like a flock of birds, all the way home. We got home just before 10:00 pm, and I tried to will them to settle down and go to bed. Eventually, they did. However, even after they were settled, I couldn’t stop thinking about the helpless bird. Why had it fallen into our care? Didn’t I have enough to look after—teaching my own “fallen” birds to stand on their own, and one day fly?

I felt a cold, detachment to this living creature that my children had immediately embraced. Initially, I was “put-out” by the fact that something was required of me. I was not grateful for this opportunity; I simply felt bone-tired. And then, when it felt like the kids and I were at an impasse, I had the briefest moment of clarity. Parenting is unpredictable and inconvenient at its best. Because of unexpected events, our heads are turned in a different direction, and our minds are opened to something otherwise hidden. The life or death of the baby bird was inconsequential to the experience—this was about supporting my children as they faced life. So, I turned towards them and their charge, and found the foot steps right alongside of them. I know that they were changed because of it, and (perhaps) so was I.

Homeless

This morning I woke up even earlier than the previous two, on this long-weekend sojourn to Vancouver. The air was crisp, despite the blue sky and waking sun. I lazily walked the thirty feet that separated the hotel from the Starbucks. I sat, invisibly tethered to my computer, watching and waiting, as words sporadically appeared on the screen. Situated at the corner of Denman and Davie, I could gaze out the window and see the ocean. The cars passing by, along with walkers and joggers provided a rhythmic backdrop to my morning. 

Suddenly, I noticed a man standing on the other side of the window, in front of me, but slightly off to the right. Though I didn’t look up immediately, I could see that he was gesturing. With an uneasy feeling, I took off my glasses, and looked up. He touched his heart with his hand and then pointed it toward me, palm open. My initial thought was that this was a “pick up” gesture. I smirked uncomfortably and looked away. He did not leave. And then, in my mind’s eye, I visualized his face and realized that he was familiar to me. 

Yesterday, my daughter Faven and I got a late start to the day.  Well, truly, she got a late start. I had been up early and writing at Starbucks for a couple of hours when she joined me around 9:30. I got her some breakfast, and we returned to the hotel room to gather our things for the day. By the time we set off, I was hungry for lunch. We left the hotel and headed north on Davie, toward the ocean. We turned right at Denman, knowing that there was a plethora of food vendors on that street. As I rounded the corner, I was passing by a large, curbside tree, and was momentarily spooked when something large moved, right next to my planted foot. I realized it was a man huddled there; I kept walking, taking occasional glances over my shoulder. 

Within the next block, we stopped to enjoy a shwarma, while sitting outside.  I continued to glance down the street to see if the person by the tree was—perhaps just an apparition. He wasn’t. I felt an inner tug to do some small thing to make his day a bit better. After we had eaten, we went back inside and ordered another shwarma; I chose a bottle of juice from the cooler to complete the lunch. We walked back the half-block and I bent down and simply said, “We brought you some lunch”. The man held my hand, and said “Thank you.” He had a vague expression in his eyes that stayed with me for most of the day. 

Faven was moved by the experience, and as she linked her arm through mine, she said, “Thank you Mom”. I thought I could hear tears hanging on her voice, but I could not be certain. I told her that we could not feed everyone in the world who is hungry, but we can feed one person at a time.

This morning, as the man at the window lingered, I realized that it was our lunch guest from yesterday. I looked up again, he pointed to the tree around the corner and then placed his hands in prayer position and bowed ever so gently forward. I sat in awe and humility. He walked on, and so did I; I think we were both standing a little bit taller.

Bent But Not Broken

I recently injured my back.  It turns out to be a fairly significant injury to my disc at L4-5 (low back).  I am not supposed to do any lifting, bending, or twisting and I need to minimize the time that I stand, sit and drive.  I do not care what your job is—these restrictions would make any job difficult.  Mine has come to a grinding halt.

I was setting up some in-house help, so that things wouldn’t completely fall apart, and the woman who I called was very sympathetic to my plight.  During our conversation, she said, “Well, at least you have children.” (pause) I also have pets, but I would hardly call them an asset at this particular juncture.  I had a sneaking suspicion that she did not have any children, so I could hardly fault her for making the assumption that anyone would make. 

Well, it is true, I do have kids!  I am blessed! It is also true that I would not be in this situation IF I did not have kids.  For the injury that I have is a bending-over-and-picking-up-my-kids-crap, kind of injury!! It is a strain of parenting that you cannot anticipate.  And truly, it can be something like a shoe or a sock that “takes you down”. My kids shed their garments like a snake sheds it’s skin—but with greater frequency!  Our floor is looking like the grounds after a day at the Calgary Stampede.  The best I can do is to kick the wayward articles into one heaping pile.  If I can pile it high enough, I can ju-ust reach it without bending over.

In the initial days after the injury, I carried on and did the best that I could given the circumstances.  That only made things worse for me.  I broke the news to the kids that they would now have to pitch in and do the lion’s share of my job – you can imagine their elation.  The one child, who you think would be the most helpful and understanding, began a sulk that has rivaled Ghandi’s hunger strike!  Another child follows me around as if I am no longer able to perform the most basic tasks, like going to the bathroom – “Mom, are you okay in there?  Do you need any help? Remember not to bend down.” And thank goodness for the third child, as that one is blessed with the characteristic of being a natural helper.  When he was in pre-school, he used to help all the “little” kids with their buttons and zippers in the coatroom. (That has sure come in handy, as he can now help me!)

However, it has not been smooth; the first morning that the kids were “on-duty”, I told them of the chores that needed to be done before school.  If this were stand-up comedy, it would have been hilarious.  One child was asked to wash the few dishes soaking in the sink.  Another one was asked to scoop the kitty litter.  Awhile later, they asked me to drive them to school.  I asked them how the chores went (while convalescing in an anti-gravity lawn chair, in the front room).  One of them said, “Oh, I forgot, and I don’t have time to do it now”, and the other one said, “You wanted me to do that now?”  I reminded them through gritted teeth that these daily chores were NOT optional!

I would be remiss if I did not mention my husband, who goes into over-drive during these kinds of circumstances.  That is a blessing indeed! It is unfortunate that he has also had to manage being on-call at the hospital.  Our community has also been a great support in taking kids to and from soccer.

We all know that we are more than our physical symptoms.  My life has been stressful (by times), and I have no doubt that this has played into the injury, even if only because my muscles were so tight.  According to author Louise Hay,  “Ignoring your body just makes it try harder to get your attention—your body is asking for your help.” Further, she says, the back “represents the support of life”; so what better way for me to heal than to ask my family members to be the support in my life.  

Flummoxed

“Hey guys, I would personally like to thank the member of my family who knocked over the jar of olives in the fridge, and left it to ooze over three shelves of food and containers.”

“Oh, what was that?.... You didn’t mean to do it. Unh huh, I see.  Oh, well then, never mind.  I was just wondering what I was going to do with all my free time today– between the laundry, pumping up your bike tires, fixing your rear brakes, gathering the garbage from the van, cleaning the house, feeding the pets, picking up groceries, mowing the lawn, walking the dog, cooking, planning your summer camps and checking into the hospital for a lobotomy!”

Do you ever have one of those days?  The kind that is overwhelming from the minute you get up?  The kind where you are so flummoxed that you water the near-dead plants, and then a minute later – while talking to the dentist on the phone, opening a can of beans to pour in the crock pot, and taking your sick child’s temperature – you water the same plants again, and water pours through as if the plant is a mirage?

Do you ever want to run, full steam ahead, into a brick wall – thinking that you can actually run right through it? Imagine how good that would feel.  Bricks and mortar flying in all directions, a hole the size of… of an elephant, and you standing on the other side, victorious (and free)!  Or, quite possibly, lying on the ground amidst the rubble, with broken wrists, shoulders and collar bones, with blood gushing down your forehead as if you are the centre piece in an elaborate water fountain.  

Okay, I'm not going to do that!

But truly, I don’t know what I AM going to do. I am running a three-ring circus without a safety net.  I am training circus animals who would rather not eat than perform.  I am a juggler incapable of keeping the balls in the air – and the moment I bend down to pick one ball up, several more fly in from all directions; I feel like I have tripped a trap in a paintball battle field.  The bruises are beyond the depth of my skin. 

There is only one thing left to do…… 

Better a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy. :)

Enjoy the audio version here:  http://snd.sc/12LpWxF

Count the loss

NEW to Mumfullness - At the bottom of this story, you will see a link to the same story, in audio format.  I have done this specifically so that my father-in-law can now "see" my stories.  :)

My counselor, Kimberly said, “Count the losses, and grieve them.” 
But, I don’t understand how I can count the loss of something that is so ever-present. 

Conflict.

Daily, hourly, moment-by-moment conflict.

It arrives, unbidden, like indigestion.

I know I have to do something, or my spirit will weaken in battle, and separate off, leaving only a protective shell. The daily insults and harsh words, the constant professing of a life that she hates, as if by some twist of fate, it is my fault.  As if . . . well, it doesn’t matter.  Her happiness does not solely rest with me.  I can only carry the burden for so long before I sag under the weight of its contents.  Contents collected through early years of hardship and loss. Not my burden and yet I have some responsibility to her, my daughter. 

The blessings and the burdens of parenting, under these circumstances, collide and explode so frequently, it is hard to recognize the blessing amidst the debris.  And yet, I am blessed – for no greater “teacher” have I had in these forty-seven years.  I am however, a reluctant student, for the mirror reflects too honestly what is mine alone. 

I am simultaneously student, teacher, coach and mother. A difficult set of skills to pull off.  It is a bit like trying to “score a goal” from the sidelines.  There, on the sidelines, it appears easy, infinitely possible.  But it is not.  On the sidelines there is no pressure, there is no risk of injury – or failure.  Oh that I could complete this task from the sidelines – I most certainly would! 

So, what are the losses I am supposed to stop and grieve?  Loss of a dream? Loss of self?  Loss of faith? Loss of relationship? Loss…loss…loss…

My greatest sadness comes from realizing that despite loving action and positive intention, I cannot remove the pain and suffering of another.  Moreover, I can become a source of pain in the midst of my own suffering.  Even when I feel her pain, through her actions and behavior; and even though I feel great compassion for the circumstances that brought her into our lives; and even though I desire, more than anything, for her to know peace, happiness and love; I cannot craft her healing. Not, on my own. 

It turns out that love does not conquer all; it is simply the footing for the journey.

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For Audio version, click below:

http://snd.sc/12ipois