Emergency Landing

The baby is sick.  Your mom is dying.  A child is in the hospital. A relationship has failed. You did not get pregnant. You lost your baby. Your adoption failed. You were abused.  You were bullied.  You don’t know your biological parents. You watched someone take her last breath.  You survived a tornado or earthquake, but your home or friends did not.  You just found out you have cancer. You are changing jobs. Again.  You are moving homes. Again.  The plane is crashing.

These are only a few examples of traumatic experiences.  My father is a pilot, and he has told me stories of landing a plane in an emergency – “If you feel, you die.  You just have to stay calm and do the next right thing.” As a therapist I talk a lot about identifying, honoring, and expressing our feelings.  I believe in this wholeheartedly.  Yet in crisis, most of us are not stopping and saying, “I feel scared right now.” We are stuffing that down so we can get to the work of landing the plane.  And this has its critical place in our lives.  We have to land.  If my father had let his fear take over, he might have lost his ability to rationalize through getting that 78K pound hunk of metal on the ground. But think about if we are in constant crisis – landing the every day planes of our lives – but not ever turning to someone and saying, “I’m scared. This is hard.  Can I tell you my story?” We lose connection – with others, our lives, and most importantly ourselves.  We go numb from all the crises when there isn’t time to share the experience.

AFTER WE LAND, WE MUST SHARE THE STORY.

Another woman has lost her baby and needs to feel your tears with her.  Another man has lost his wife and needs to know you understand the loneliness too.  Another family has experienced so much loss and sickness and needs to feel like someone else gets it. Yes, they need your casseroles and donations, but more importantly they need your eyes to look right into theirs and let them know you feel their pain.  Even if you don’t know what it’s like to go through their exact situation, you know pain. You know need.  You know what it’s like for your heart to be ripping out.  You know what it’s like to feel so much shame you can’t face someone or ask for help.  And if you don’t know these things, then look deep inside your heart for all those stories you have stuffed down while landing your plane. They are in there – gifts waiting for you to unwrap and share with others.

No matter where we live or who we are, it is universal to feel sadness, shame, guilt, fear, anger, hurt, loneliness, and gladness.  We may not feel them for the same reasons, but we feel them.  And when we honor those for ourselves or others, a beautiful connection happens. We connect to the loving spirit inside of us and we connect to other people. My white American woman heart actually looks the same as my brown Haitian boys’ hearts.  When I tell them, “you guys, mom is sad today, and I’m sorry I am not able to decorate for Christmas today like we hoped,” I am met with love, kindness, forgiveness, and a chance to connect deeper.  If I had not told them that and hid my sadness instead, it would have shown up as frustration that the decorations weren’t “perfect” or the stockings were hanging crooked.  We may have all got wound up in the freaking lights yelling at each other.  But instead we all shared our grief, hugged, and actually got those decorations up anyway.

As I look at my nativity scene I’m reminded of Joseph and Mary’s emergency landing in a little stable.  Hope began here.  Hope for you and me.  Hope for the world.  We are not without crisis or pain.  But we can connect our hearts in it.  We can show up like shepherds and wisemen to bring gifts of love and healing.  We witness the story of the crisis and connect in the landing. 

~If you are in an emergency landing, give yourself so much grace for your quick action and courage.

~Remind yourself it’s okay to be a little bit numb emotionally in the beginning as you are searching for the answers and a safe place to land. 

~After you’ve landed, share your story with yourself. Share it with a safe loved one.  Be honest about how you feel and what you’ve experienced. 

~You did a good job – the best you could do.  Honor your feelings.  Tell your story. Rest your weary souls.

  

Dead End

I take the same route on my walk just about every day. I know it’s the safer street with less traffic, it’s nice flat land, and I have it timed out so I know exactly what gap in my day I can fit it in.  It is predictable. There is the same yippy dog that screeches at me, the same neighbors in their yard, and the same cul-de-sac I turn around in that tells me I’m halfway done.  Most days I feel proud of my little controlled path.  And then one day I realized I pass a DEAD END sign every day. 

This wasn’t just a real street sign to me.  It was a life sign.  Every day I’m on a dead end.  I know exactly how it is going to go, because I do my best to keep it that way.  But then I have to turn around and go back, and my perfectly controlled "walk" doesn’t lend itself to any surprise, mystery, or exploration.  As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I am making it a writing habit not to shame myself when I have these discoveries.  I am using it for my good. I am waking up and learning.  I know this precise trail has been my constant in the middle of chaotic schedules and uncertain life stressors. So, I’m actually really proud of myself for finding a rhythm that worked in the middle of disorder.  And on this particular day, I wanted a new way.  I realized there are things in my life at a dead end, and if I want a new way, I have to face a new path.

I took off down a road in my neighborhood that everyone says not to take because “so many cars speed and can’t see you.” That sounded scary enough, so I was in. At first the hill I was climbing was brutal. I was already hating this road.   And then I realized I was on top of the hill.  I made it, and it wasn’t that hard.  So I kept going into the unknown.

I passed a yard with a dog who must have some kind of anti-bark device on her. She barked at me, but it was just muffled. I felt sad she had no voice.  I’m sure someone didn’t like her bark, and maybe she scared people, but I found myself angry that she had been silenced.  I discovered a little bit of myself in her, and I was thankful to have witnessed her struggle.  I told her I was sorry for her loss and to keep on trying to speak anyway, and on I walked.

As I rounded the corner, there it was. A beautiful scene of a quiet curvy road surrounded by the trees touched by Autumn and a bit of sunshine poking through them. The light was there just for me – I’m sure of it.  I felt the cool breeze on my face and felt thankful that even on a scary new path there is light to guide me and hope to lean into.

As I made my way back, new neighborly faces nodded at me. I saw a home under construction, and it felt like my heart. I identified with the pain of my insides being exposed but the promise of new shelter and warmth.  I could feel the hurt of the brokenness and the hope for fresh joy all at the same time.  I took a deep breath and found my way back home. Even scary paths lead home.

I needed to try this new way.  The dead end wasn’t life giving anymore. I’m sure I’ll take that dead end road on days when I need certainty and a little flat land.  But the beauty is that even on my new path I know a few things to expect – discovery, pain, joy, hope, and the promise of Light. 

~What dead end road are you walking?

~How has it served you?

~How does it no longer serve you?

~What keeps you from trying a new road?

~After you’ve tried a new road, what did you experience? What gifts did it have?

Whale Watching

On a recent trip to Maine, I went on a whale watch tour.  I jokingly, but with some honesty, said to my husband, “If we don’t see any whales today I want my money back.”  Maybe 10 minutes later the marine biologist came on the speaker to welcome us on our voyage and remarked, “Please remember, we are going into the whale’s natural habitat.  We may or may not encounter them. They are not in a tank at Seaworld.  This is nature, and we can’t control it.”

My heart both sank and lept for joy with those words – “This is nature, and we can’t control it.”  The sinking is because I really want to control it. Don’t you?  I’m ashamed to admit it, but it’s so real. And if I break down my need for “control,” what I really want is something I can count on. I don't want the shock or surprise of pain and disappointment.  So I work hard to maintain a needed outcome. I write a lot about my self observations with some sense of shame, and I really want to point out this time that I am human and offer grace to myself in this awareness of control. Of course I want to control things - my past story tells me that chaos is always coming, so I must do my best to avoid it.  I must avoid the conflict and pain.  If I do a, b and c, then I won't have to suffer the hurt or disappointment.  I can give myself lots of compassion for feeling that way and also be aware I want another way.  So when the biologist said those magic words, I  felt released from the burden that “it’s all up to me.”  What freedom there was here on this sea knowing I didn’t have to say, do, or fix anything to make whales appear.  I don’t have that power. I can just sit, watch, wait, hope. I could also trust I would be okay if they didn't appear. But you know what, they did show up. 

I’m thinking about this in all areas of my life – how hard I work to fix, take care of, pursue, achieve, etc. to get a desired outcome and to tackle issues that feel as big as whales because I believe it's all up to me.  What if I pause? What if I wait in hopeful anticipation? What if I rest while the “whales” are swimming through their own forces of nature?  What if I could trust that process?  

We also learned that for every “blow” a whale gave and the number of times they surfaced, when they finally took their dive below, they would usually be under water for about 1 minute per blow they took.  So 5 blows = about 5 minutes under water. This is their breath – the needed oxygen they need to take the plunge and search for food.  They store it up as resources to do their work.  Everything in nature knows breath is the key component for life.  We rest to work.  We receive oxygen to use it.   I have been missing some breaths. I am taking plunges without breathing first.  And I’ve been coming up gasping for air most days. Again, I have compassion for myself in this. I've taken on a lot as a new mom of 3 at once, and I just want to do everything well and keep everyone okay.  It's normal to feel that way.  And it's also exhausting.

I am learning when I sit back and don’t try so hard, that’s when I take a breath.  The more breaths I take, the longer I can function.   I’m aware of my need for control and short temper with my kids when I haven’t gotten enough oxygen.  My body can’t draw on any reserves for compassion and patience.  It’s as if my demand for order is really my body’s demand for rest.  When I frustratingly ask my kids “Why do I have to tell you so many times to ________,” I’m really asking, “When can I get some rest” or “When will I get a break?” And here’s the thing – they can’t give that to me. I HAVE TO BREATHE.  I HAVE TO REST.  That’s up to me – not them.  And I can’t keep expecting myself to take a dive under water if I haven’t stored up oxygen. I’m just drowning.

On our way back to the pier that day, we encountered an unexpected whale surface.  The biologist excitedly shared how uncommon it was to see a whale in this part of the sea.  We were all just enjoying our boat ride back and were given nature's gift of one more sighting.  There is so much joy to experience after resting, waiting, breathing.   I am keeping those whales close to my heart to remind me of my own beauty – that with my breath I can truly see myself and others, and I have more to offer those I love.  I’m not powerful enough to pay money or achieve all the tasks in the world to make a whale appear, keep life predictable, or keep everyone I love free of pain and disappointment. Nature tells me I must breathe before diving, and that I must trust the process of life. It’s not all up to me.

Whale Watching

On a recent trip to Maine, I went on a whale watch tour.  I jokingly, but with some honesty, said to my husband, “If we don’t see any whales today I want my money back.”  Maybe 10 minutes later the marine biologist came on the speaker to welcome us on our voyage and remarked, “Please remember, we are going into the whale’s natural habitat.  We may or may not encounter them. They are not in a tank at Seaworld.  This is nature, and we can’t control it.”

My heart both sank and lept for joy with those words – “This is nature, and we can’t control it.”  The sinking is because I really want to control it. Don’t you?  I’m ashamed to admit it, but it’s so real. And if I break down my need for “control,” what I really want is something I can count on. I don't want the shock or surprise of pain and disappointment.  So I work hard to maintain a needed outcome. I write a lot about my self observations with some sense of shame, and I really want to point out this time is that I am human and offer grace to myself in this awareness of control. Of course I want to control things - my past story tells me that chaos is always coming, so I must do my best to avoid it.  I must avoid the conflict and pain.  If I do a, b and c, then I won't have to suffer the hurt or disappointment.  I can give myself lots of compassion for feeling that way and also be aware I want another way.  So when the biologist said those magic words, I  felt released from the burden that “it’s all up to me.”  What freedom there was here on this sea knowing I didn’t have to say, do, or fix anything to make whales appear.  I don’t have that power. I can just sit, watch, wait, hope. I could also trust I would be okay if they didn't appear. But you know what, they did show up. 

I’m thinking about this in all areas of my life – how hard I work to fix, take care of, pursue, achieve, etc. to get a desired outcome and to tackle issues that feel as big as whales because I believe it's all up to me.  What if I pause? What if I wait in hopeful anticipation? What if I rest while the “whales” are swimming through their own forces of nature?  What if I could trust that process?  

We also learned that for every “blow” a whale gave and the number of times they surfaced, when they finally took their dive below, they would usually be under water for about 1 minute per blow they took.  So 5 blows = about 5 minutes under water. This is their breath – the needed oxygen they need to take the plunge and search for food.  They store it up as resources to do their work.  Everything in nature knows breath is the key component for life.  We rest to work.  We receive oxygen to use it.   I have been missing some breaths. I am taking plunges without breathing first.  And I’ve been coming up gasping for air most days. Again, I have compassion for myself in this. I've taken on a lot as new mom of 3 at once, and I just want to do everything well and keep everyone okay.  It's normal to feel that way.  And it's also exhausting.

I am learning when I sit back and don’t try so hard, that’s when I take a breath.  The more breaths I take, the longer I can function.   I’m aware of my need for control and short temper with my kids when I haven’t gotten enough oxygen.  My body can’t draw on any reserves for compassion and patience.  It’s as if my demand for order is really my body’s demand for rest.  When I frustratingly ask my kids “Why do I have to tell you so many times to ________,” I’m really asking, “When can I get some rest” or “When will I get a break?” And here’s the thing – they can’t give that to me. I HAVE TO BREATHE.  I HAVE TO REST.  That’s up to me – not them.  And I can’t keep expecting myself to take a dive under water if I haven’t stored up oxygen. I’m just drowning.

On our way back to the pier that day, we encountered an unexpected whale surface.  The biologist excitedly shared how uncommon it was to see a whale in this part of the sea.  We were all just enjoying our boat ride back and were given nature's gift of one more sighting.  There is so much joy to experience after resting, waiting, breathing.   I am keeping those whales close to my heart to remind me of my own beauty – that with my breath I can see truly see myself and others, and I have more to offer those I love.  I’m not powerful enough to pay money or achieve all the tasks in the world to make a whale appear, keep life predictable, or keep everyone I love free of pain and disappointment. Nature tells me I must breathe before diving, and that I must trust the process of life. It’s not all up to me.

Reality and Resilience

Most days I wake up with my mind rolling through my schedule like a news ticker at the bottom of my brain.  It’s always there – scrolling and drawing me back to it – like a flashing “don’t forget!”  I find it hard to focus on what is plainly on the screen of my awareness. That damn ticker just keeps scrolling and distracting.  It’s been this way since being baptized by the motherhood fire 2 years ago.  Many messages I heard before the boys came home were:

“You can’t do this – bring 3 kids home and work. It’s too much.”

“You’re bringing 3 children home at once? That’s a lot.”

“How are you going to do that?”

I have always had an “I can do anything” attitude.  One of my mantras was LL Cool J’s “Doin’ it and doin’ it and doin’ it well.” So when people said these things to me, I was like “I got this. Watch me.”  Holy sheet, after 2 years of them home now it’s like, “I clearly don’t have this.  Don’t even look at me.” 

So the scrolling ticker in my brain is the last thread of “nailing it” I have left.  I am thankful because it keeps me going on most days and helps me meet the demands.  And I have also learned how it distracts and keeps me from being present.  I am constantly in schedule mode or “what is next.”  That ticker helps me not be caught off guard or miss something in a family of 5.  And I am thankful for that part of me.  And I have also missed out on a lot of joy and just being alive.  I moved so quickly and fiercely into parenting that now 2 years later I’m looking back and noticing where I missed some really important cues of just being right here, right now. 

Some hard realities I have faced as a new mother:

1    1. My hormones are jacked up just as if I birthed 3 babies. Post-partum depression is a very real possibility for any kind of new mom.

2    2. I cannot just go to work and plan my day as usual. I have soccer practices and games, doctor and other appointments (x3), etc.  There are 3 little men in my care to teach how to boil water, how to drive, and how to treat young women.  No pressure.

3    3. I have lost my identity somewhere along the way. I miss the fun girl I used to be – who dropped plans last minute and went to grab drinks with a friend or packed gear up for the weekend to camp with my husband.  She is still there, but she is in a corner of my mind grieving her lost freedoms.

4    4. I am lonely.  My friends are also in this stage of life, so I can’t just call someone up to go out on a whim. I contacted at least 10 friends last weekend to go see “Bad Moms” with me – NO ONE could go.  They were all out of town or busy being in this same stage of life we are all trying to figure out.

5    5. My marriage gets the shaft.  Conversations are about schedules, meal plans, someone’s health needs, school meetings, homework, clothing needs for growing boys, how to fit soccer club in the budget, and how to manage their trauma and special needs. None of this is in the least bit sexy.  We stare at each other not recognizing the other person sometimes. We are exhausted and hungry for deeper connection.

6    6. My needs don’t get prioritized. And when I do prioritize them, I feel guilty about the cost or time spent. I “should have spent that time or money some other way.”

7    7. Everything costs more, and I have a hard time budgeting for the constant unknowns of raising 3 kids.

8    8. There are more things I could add to this list, but the ticker just distracted me to the other things I need to do today and that I should probably wrap this up.

I am not knocking motherhood.  I am grateful for these boys. I am flooded with joy and gratitude when I remember seeing their little bodies crowd into a hot dirty room for “school” in an orphanage and now see them adorably run down our driveway to catch the bus after having a solid meal.  It’s those moments I let the ticker just roll, and I turn my gaze and attention to the miracle of their being.  I am reminded of who they are and who they are becoming. And I am part of their story. I am reminded of the first time I held them, the time I came home and told Todd I had met our children, the time we held each other and sobbed because we spent 2 blissful days with them before having to board a plane and leave them behind in a different orphanage with new faces, “new” soiled mattresses, and my old Bible with Psalm 139 bookmarked.  I am reminded of the beauty of being pregnant in the wait and then laboring in delivery - even in adoption.  And I am reminded what a toll that takes on parents, on marriages, and on our bodies.  I am in awe of the resilience we can muster.

Today I woke up hopeful. I noticed the ticker scrolling. And I also noticed it was Saturday.  I slept in a little longer. I asked my oldest son about the football game last night and about his time with his girlfriend.  I smelled the bacon Todd cooked for them. I poured my coffee and wrote this blog.  I am living.  I am doing the best I can. And I've got more blog posts up my sleeve about how I am making it in the midst of items 1-8 above.

I’ve got this.  Go ahead and watch me.