the person behind the curtain

the other day, i said to a friend, “i have a ridiculous amount of empathy for anyone trying to raise a child today.” i paused a moment then added, “i also have a ridiculous amount of empathy for anyone trying to grow up today.” after a beat i just went for the full message i wanted to convey, “oh shit,” i said, “i just have a stupid amount of empathy for anyone who even tries to get out of bed these days.”

i meant it.

why? because i am a person who tries to get out of bed and i know lots of others who try to do the same. i also know the thing we all need more of is empathy. 

here’s the thing: life is really hard. really. hard.

i’ve known this for a long time and yet it never ceases to amaze me how many ways this adage proves itself true. even still, we mostly keep on living. our lungs take in oxygen, our hearts pump blood, and we breathe and blink (as my daughter so beautifully states). difficulties we could never imagine present themselves. situations so absurd they border on comical (if they weren’t so terrible) knock us off course. rumors are spread, cars are smashed, jobs are lost, chemicals become so familiar to our systems that we sacrifice relationships for them, children suffer, people die, others live (especially the ones that are so hard for us to live with), and hurts of all kinds trickle into our lives like ants seeking a crumb on the kitchen floor. they congregate, it seems, until we feel hopeless or numb, overtaken and overwhelmed, defeated.

the most frequent action i notice, in response to the events and occurrences that make life hard, is isolation. “what would people think?” “they would never understand.” “this is all my fault.” “i suck!” “they have it so together.” “i am a magnet for this crap.” are all messages we play like a scratched vinyl record over and over in our heads. eventually the messages take hold and we hide away in our literal or intrapersonal closets.

what we show on the outside is oh so different from the mantras occupying our minds and keeping us hidden away. like the man behind the curtain in oz, we construct falsified selves that keep people so distracted or mesmerized or revolted or whatever that no one thinks to stop and evaluate whether or not this “wizard” is actually real. our false smiles, our impeccable appearances, our “i’m greats,” our excuses, and a plethora of other habits create smoke and mirrors. in our certainty that our pain is a reflection of our worth or that our suffering is an indication of our lack, we hide ourselves away. sharing our hurts, revealing our wounds, being honest about how much empathy we need all become impossible feats when we’re sure they’ll garner us nothing but more judgement, pain, and rejection.

none of this helps. 

it’s time to pull back the curtain. it’s time to let ourselves know that we are only human. it’s o.k. for others to realize this as well. sure, we’ve trained ourselves and the people in our lives to think of us as great and all powerful but we aren’t and there’s such relief in that reality. there’s comfort in your humanity greeting my humanity and expecting nothing more. or less. from this shared space we can welcome each other with the open arms and gracious acceptance that empathy paves the way for. we may not know the perfect thing to say. we might bumble and disappoint and need to actively fight our tendency to judge and label. we might have to appear unprepared and less than perfect, but we’ll be real and honest and known and loved from there. and Lord knows, we all need that. and we need to give it as well.

so i begin this week with the curtain open and my humanity up front. i welcome yours as well...even if you think i do not. one thing is for sure...our hurting, real, vulnerable, beautiful, frustrating humanity is the one thing that we most certainly share.

buying friends and followers

two emails hit my inbox at nearly the same time today. one was from an acquaintance who is a licensed professional counselor expressing surprise and sadness in response to her adolescent clients’ drive to acquire friends and followers on social networks. she was wondering if i could suggest resources for these kids (and their grown ups) regarding how to live healthily in this new race-for-friends reality. the second was from a stranger who had been “checking out my online presence” and wanted to extend to me a “special opportunity to expand my reach and build my following.” long story short, for a mere $100 he was offering to provide me with 1,000 facebook likes, 1,000 new twitter followers, or 10,000 youtube views. how thoughtful.

this is not a first. when my blog hit a certain number or followers and my professional facebook page began getting more traffic, the offers started rolling in. they elicit the same thought every time. “you think you’re having an impact now? just wait and see what will happen when you APPEAR to be having an even larger one!” who cares if the followers/friends/likes/views come from real, embodied people; if i SEEM important, i will become important.

it sort of makes me feel sick.

what makes me feel this way isn’t only the offers. it’s my response, which is, every time, to consider them. it is embarrassing to admit this.

i believe at the core of our being is a need to be seen. to be known. in my own narrative this is why God wired infants’ eyes to be able to focus only about as far as the crook of their parents arms to their gazing eyes for a long while after birth. it’s why we long to be gazed lovingly at as we grow. this same need is also why we are so sensitive to negative looks. critical glances. evil eyes.

in our current digital reality we so often trade the wishlongingneed to be known for an ability to be seen. we’ve traded self awareness and self love for self promotion. we/i toy with buying followers, friends, and likes. even if we don’t spend money for them we spend time and energy and attention to garner them. sometimes there is no cost and it’s pure fun or connection or information giving/gathering.

but sometimes it is not those things. sometimes we really believe that the numbers are what matters. 10,000 views are better than 500. 50 likes means more than 10. and so on and so forth. even if, perhaps especially if, we don’t admit it...we notice.

so i ask you now to hold me accountable and i am willing to do so for you. let’s gaze at each other in all the meaningfulgrowing ways and not in the inflatingthefalseself ways that we so naturally gravitate toward in today’s “bigger is better” economy. remind me that love is the only currency that buys friends and likes and that having followers pales in comparison to being known.

gun control

this post is the chapter i contributed to the book just moms: conveying justice in an unjust world. to read the other thoughtful chapters revolving around the challenges and joys of raising empathic, social justice minded children, you can order the book here:  http://www.barclaypressbookstore.com/Just-Moms.html

Gun Control

Doreen Dodgen-Magee 

Doreen Dodgen-Magee is the mother of Connor and Kaija and wife of Thomas. She relishes celebrating people and collecting unique experiences. A psychologist in private practice, she maintains a busy public-speaking docket and is passionate about empowering people to live countercultural, relationally rich lives. 

Her insights on the impact of technology on families can be found at doreendm.com.

TWELVE, and full of seventh-grade machismo, Connor hopped in the van after school with a mind full of ideas and a mouth full of plans. Sharing excitedly about his day, his diatribe ended with, “And all the guys and I have been talking, and I know what I want to do with my allowance. There’s a new airsoft gun I want to buy.” In a flash I became angry and agitated. Airsoft guns, which are realistic-looking guns that shoot small, round pellets and are used by middle school and high school boys to play “war,” were all the rage at the time. Any gathering of boys was sure to be peppered with talk of models of such guns and descriptions of face masks and other padding made to protect one from the inevitable bruises that come with a good backyard battle.

We had discussed “airsofting” at length in our home by this time. Connor had made a case for buying a gun and we, very reluctantly, let him use his own money to purchase one—with several clear stipulations. One: The gun could not look real. (He chose a clear plastic model with bright-colored insides, like a crazy water gun. It met our criteria.) Two: He could only use the toy when we approved of the people with whom he was playing. Three: We were not willing to tolerate this activity becoming an object of his obsession. The gun and one package of pellets would be his limit. We were not willing to entertain further pleading or incessant talk about the newest and most advanced guns, accessories, or strategies for “fighting.” And the stipulation supreme: We wanted to hear from him, as he engaged with this activity, how he aligned his desire to play war with his self-proclaimed pacifistic ideals. For me, this was the most important issue, and I wanted it addressed sooner rather than later.

Weeks passed and Connor fought a few battles. Bruises marking where he’d been hit healed, and still, nothing about his views on pacifism and airsoft guns changed. He just didn’t see the connection, he said. He was just playing a game, no different from the board game “Risk,” only with “running and moving,” he said. He also said he was drawn to the features on a new model of gun. 

That’s where everything went south. 

In the van, while Connor was merely commenting on what he’d been immersed in all day, conversing with friends, I found myself thrown wildly and deeply into a hole of unresolved pain. Ten years earlier my world had been rocked by a gun. This gun issued real, life-taking bullets, was far from bright and colorful, and was wielded by an angry and vindictive individual. The weapon’s similarities to all guns deeply impacted my ability to be neutral regarding all L-shaped objects with triggers and barrels. On this particular occasion in the van with my son, I completely lost my ability to respond rationally.

“When you have dealt with the death of your sister and nieces to gun-shot wounds made by their husband and father, then you can buy a new gun! When you have cleaned your three-month-old nieces’ blood out of your mother-in-law’s hair, then you can buy a new gun! When you are mature enough to understand how ridiculous you and your friends are, and you understand the idiocy of this ‘game,’ then you can buy a stupid new gun!”

The words came flooding out of me. Involuntary, loud, angry words. I was shocked and Connor was stunned. Leaning as far back as he could without falling out of the window, his face was white and his eyes were wide. My face was red and my eyes gushed with tears. We were at a painful crossroads. In that split-second I felt little difference between what had happened ten years earlier, on my mother-in-law’s lawn, and Connor’s desire to play war. Both had guns as central features, both involved power struggles and displays of violence, and both were out of my control. My emotional reaction sprang from the same well—I’m ultimately out of control over anyone but myself.

Throughout history kids have “played” their way through battles and wars. Researchers, historians, sociologists, and psychologists explain this as part of a child’s attempt to master the concepts of power, conflict, and resolution. In moments such as this, however, no descriptions help. My brother-in-law Dave (married to my husband’s sister) had no history of violent behavior, and yet shot his way into my mother-in-law Margaret’s home, killing his wife, Laura, and their three young daughters before throwing the gun down at Margaret’s feet and taunting her to pick it up and kill him. She was there with him for thirty minutes before any help arrived. Margaret lived the rest of her life from a place of deep woundedness and trauma. As her caregiver for these remaining years, I saw, firsthand, how guns can take and impact lives. 

While Connor had only been two at the time of the murders, he had grown up knowing how his aunt and cousins died—knowing how I felt about guns. It was not a nebulous issue. I was opposed and firmly believed that comfort with any kind of gun was unnecessary. He, however, felt he could hold on to a pacifistic worldview and still “play” with toy guns. He hadn’t played with them at all as a young child but now he was twelve and, while he was incredibly sensitive about relationships, highly compliant, and very loving, he never manifested concern about my feelings surrounding guns. In this moment, with his mom yelling at him across the van’s front seat, he no longer had the luxury of disregarding my feelings. They were bold and loud and in his face.

I pulled over. I got a hold of myself. We talked.

At root, the murders had forever changed me. They’d made crystal clear the point that I ultimately had very little control of the events shaping my life. They demonstrated that loving people is risky and that, sometimes, those you love will make choices influencing their lives and the lives of others in profound and painful ways. The violent deaths had served to focus my fear and expand my sadness. I could never again say “that will never happen to me” in relation to the reality of physical violence, in my own family or elsewhere.

During my roadside encounter with Connor, though, I came face-to-face with the reality that his experience was just that. His. Connor’s. While we may have shared a home, a lifestyle, and even, for a period of time, a body, we remained, uniquely, our own people. We agreed on some issues and differed wildly on others. He did not belong to me or have a lifetime subscription to my values and ideals. He was fully his own person, with his own independent thoughts, beliefs, and experiences. This realization has turned out to be the hardest reality of parenting for me.

I have attempted to assure myself that Connor’s upbringing will lead him to an adulthood filled with meaning, intention, and integrity, infused with expressions of grace, love, and empathy. In doing so, I have at times tried to tell myself that I must make sure he believes certain things, ascribes to certain values, and is far beyond being “normal.” Normal twelve-year-old boys, however, are intrigued by guns. Normal twelve-year-old boys are easily influenced by an object-obsessed culture. My son is intrigued by guns. My son wants new things. My son is normal! 

While this realization should have been a relief, it hit me as a disappointment. Since his birth I had been happy to discover the many ways in which Connor was not normal. His strong relational bent set him apart from his same-age male counterparts. His early and advanced language skills supported his drive to connect. He loved to entertain and took pains to do so. He was aware of spiritual things and also of the temperament and preferences of others. He was smart and capable and, if I had anything to say about it, not normal.

I didn’t want to be normal either. I wanted to be the informed mom. The “oh-it’s-no-sweat-setting-boundaries-plus-giving-all-the-grace-and-love-possible” mom. The mom who raised a nontraditional boy. I was convinced that, if I was such a mom, the outcome would be a boy who was confident and strong and not macho or violent. The result, in my imagination, would be a boy who does not play with guns. Ever.

The problem, however, was that in my attempts to buck gender and evaluative stereotypes, I unconsciously told myself that if Connor showed any traditional “boy” traits, I had failed at the job of parenting. I had convinced myself that I could control Connor’s interests, passions, and behaviors; that I knew what was best and most healthy for him; and that the ultimate goal of his life should be extreme excellence and maturity by my standards at all times. Each time this proved not true, I felt increasingly out of control, like a failure, and convinced all was not well in the world of our mother-son connectedness. As a therapist I piled on the self-doubt, fear, and condemnation, telling myself that if things were amiss within this connectedness, Connor would certainly fail to thrive outside of it. But somehow, armed with my psychological knowledge and teeth-gritting determination, I have been able to partner with my husband and God to parent Connor in such a way that Conner is emerging from the nest free from much of the unhealthy striving and concern about the opinion and approval of others that has plagued me. 

In fact, my son has shown himself to be thoughtful about his actions, teachable, and appropriately confident in ways that I am not. He can stomach my disapproval of the games he plays with toy guns, he is willing to listen to my curiosity about how he can square his self-asserted pacifistic ideals with these games, and he’s confident that he can live as a dedicated-to-peace man and still airsoft in the backyard with friends for an hour every few months. He takes stands about things he thinks are important. He is active in pursuits that expose and attempt to eradicate human trafficking. He quit playing video games that involve any violent content because he believes they are created by an industry that too powerfully affects young people. While I don’t understand how he can take these strong stances while still shooting his friends with an airsoft gun, it’s not up to me to make these decisions for him. That reality makes me crazy.

Letting go of my deeply dredged desire to control my children is difficult on good days and impossible on hard ones. It involves me coming to terms with my own lack of power and acknowledging the reality that it is neither fair nor realistic for me to measure my parenting success or personal prowess by my children’s behaviors, beliefs, or moral standing. Neither can I force them to take on the values and standards I believe to be in their best interests. My striving to teach, to expose, to mirror, and to empathize is just that: mine. Their desire to take what I offer, to shape their own behavior, intelligence, and values are just that: theirs. I can structure and shape their experiences to a point. I can educate and share resources and personal knowledge. I can build a community of support for them to reference when I am not who they want. I can put child locks on the knife drawers and “play with me” signs on the Fisher Price doctor kit, but I cannot control the inner workings of my children’s motivational selves or temperaments.

As I write this, the increasingly outspoken pacifist, seventeen-year-old Connor and his all-sides-of-the-table friends are out back, playing with their airsoft guns. These young men, confident, deep in faith, and rich in intelligence, are the exploring, work-in-progress young men they are supposed to be. Their laughter is infectious and this game is but a game—not my game but theirs, only one tiny activity in their arsenal of many. I don’t endorse it, but I deeply endorse them. I don’t like I, but I deeply love them. This love is risky and engaging and requires me to give up control at appropriate times and in measured increments. Doing so hurts and heals, challenges, and fulfills. What more could I ask of this crazy, complicated, conflict-inherent process called mothering? 

Nothing.

what NOT to say to someone who is grieving

in my life time i’ve faced a fair amount of grief. i’ve also spent a significant amount of time with others who have experienced losses of all kinds: large ones, expected ones, shocking ones, seemingly small ones. one thing remains universally similar across losses. they are all significant (read “VERY SIGNIFICANT”) to the person who has suffered them.

given the personal significance of experienced loss, those in the grieving individuals’ support systems often have little idea of how to best respond. so, without thinking, all manner of comments from benign to glorious fall off the tongues of people with the best of intentions. all too often, however, these comments create further pain, coming off as insensitive at best and hurtful at worst. for example, someone is not necessarily malicious when they say to a grieving person, “i know EXACTLY how you feel” but these particular words are rarely accurate or comforting. so...by way of helping you identify what NOT to say to a friend who is grieving, i offer the following suggestions (all based upon actual comments made to myself or people i know).

do NOT say the following things (or variations of them):

when a person has died:

at least they had a life insurance policy.

God just needed another angel.

it was their time.

it was for the best.

now you can move on.

were they saved?

this all serves some greater purpose.

you must be so relieved that they are in heaven.

i was just sooooooooo sad and shocked when i heard. i cried and cried. i have been telling everyone about “such and such’s” passing. i can’t believe how sad i am. i, i, i...

my mom/dad/grandma/neighbor/friend/dog/gold fish died and....

when a relationship or job ends:

you’re better off without that loser/stupid job.

it’s about time.

i was waiting for you to recognize what a hot mess your relationship/career was in.

you’ll find someone/something better. 

i just knew this wasn’t the right one for you. i could tell. i feel so glad for you but i also know it’s stressful. i, i, i...

when an object(s) is lost or taken (or perhaps when a home burns down):

God must have some lesson for you to learn.

now you will get to know what it means to “rely” in a new way.

you didn’t need those things anyway. all you need is God.

you’re being given the gift of simplicity.

with ANY form of loss:

i know EXACTLY how you feel (usually followed by long, rambling memorials to all of the loved ones, relationships, jobs, or things that they themself have lost).

instead, consider:

while some of the statements above (or variants of them) could well be delivered with love after some time has passed, most of these sentiments do nothing but hurt at the time of a loss (or shortly thereafter).

people who are grieving need space. they need to be heard. and loved. and fed. they are likely shocked and frightened and surprised by their own strong emotions so they rarely need you to bring any extra drama. they need someone to come and pick up their dirty laundry to return it washed and folded. they need to be sat with while they blabber on and on or cry in silence or stare into space. they need to be asked what is comforting to them. some will want to hold your hand while others will hold out hope that you won’t want to hug them. basically, they need you. not your words. maybe not even your actions. certainly not your platitudes.

next time you hear of a loss and you feel called to the individual suffering it, don’t try so hard. embrace the awkwardness of silence and not knowing what to do or say. ask a good question such as, “what do you need?” and then be quiet and listen. in waiting, being still and available, and “being with” there is comfort. there is deep speaking to deep and in our times of loss this is where we can be found.

soul-empty

a few days ago i had coffee with a friend. in our time together i shared some sadnesses i had recently faced. among his empathic responses was a suggestion that i might be encouraged by a reading of the minor prophets. i was taken aback. this is a colleague-friend. a psychologist. a person who never gives platitudes or easy answers or passes off engagement by recommending a book/song/movie. a person who lives authentically, who sweats and swears, and is one of the few therapists i refer my own family, friends, and clients to. one of the last things i would have expected to hear from him was a suggestion to read the bible, and the old testament at that. because he knows me well and i trust him deeply, however, i sat down with habakkuk later in the day. half way into the second chapter i came across the following words and couldn’t move past them. they had nothing to do with why my friend had encouraged me to spend some time with this small book and yet they spoke deeply to me. this is what i read:

“look at that man, bloated by self-importance - full of himself but soul-empty.”

let me re-phrase:

“look at that person, bloated by self-importance - full of them-self but soul-empty.”

soul-empty. i know what that condition feels like. i fear that most of us do in this self-promoting, social-media-presence-maintaining, 24-hour-availability-driven reality in which we live.

i often feel as though we’ve traded in self awareness for self promotion; presenting ourselves for loving ourselves. we have resorted to giving the world outside of us the power to determine the condition of our internal world and can do so in more immersive ways than we ever thought possible. i am every bit as guilty of this as every other person who relates to these words.

often i find that my soul has been neglected for days while i’ve been busily attending to all kinds of other “entities.” like filling my stomach with water rather than food, i feel full but have no real nourishment to sustain me. i’ve gone to work and returned home, i’ve cooked dinner and done the dishes, i’ve updated my status’ and posted instagram photos, i’ve kept track of my twitter feed and responded to emails. i’ve watched entire seasons of shows, been distracted by mindless youtube searches, and pinned inspirational quotes to pinterest boards. i’ve spoken to large audiences and volunteered at church. i’ve texted “i love you’s” and “you are amazings” and “don’t forgets...” but i’ve forgotten my self along the way. not the self i project out into the world, not the self that bumps into others or posts things online or dresses to go out but, rather, the self that resides deeply in my core. the self/soul that needs quiet to be known, stillness to be understood, and intentional care to be healthy and strong. funny, how i never fail to charge my electronics but i frequently force my self to run on empty. rarely do i ignore a message indicator on my phone while i routinely ignore those coming from the deepest part of my self.

so i re-read the words i found this evening and wonder in what ways my soul emptiness is related to my need to feel/look/be important out and about in the world. let me re-phrase: when i buy into being “important” in the world, what impact does that have on my sense of sturdiness/groundedness/health? what does it mean if i only feel important in relation to my actions and interactions? why do i notice when i loose “followers” here and there? why do i feel a tinge of discomfort when an unflattering photo is tagged or a published opinion is challenged caustically? why does it matter that my instagram photos never seem to draw more than 20 likes? do any of these things really have anything to do with who i am at the core and with who i invite you to be with me?

it matters because, whether i like it or not, i’ve bought in. i have filled my life to over flowing once again and have failed to maintain the norms that i know i need to be truly available to either myself or others. when i do this, i am reminded of what it feels like to be soul-empty and yet to feel “bloated.” to inflate my importance in the world and to it and yet to feel completely un-attended to by my own self. to fear making space for soul care because i know i will find it empty and uncomfortable and awkward at first. and those things should be avoided at all costs...right?

i am vulnerable to soul-emptiness when i do not create space to stay in touch with my self and with Love. i am likely to fall prey to petty comparisons and revert to the use of social media “measuring sticks” when i forget to attend to the message indicators of my body, mind, and heart. when i know what i need to be grounded, to be able to handle a truthful assessment of my strengths and weaknesses yet don’t make sure those needs are met i put myself at risk for soul-emptiness. when i lose touch with an ability to handle the consequences of my actions/assertions or don’t make time to fully feel my feelings or know my thoughts i passively feed the emptiness. i know these things, yet even still, they are hard to attend to.

a soul-full existence for me includes a deep recognition of being gazed at and loved by True Love. an ability to wait. to be still. to be content as-is. it requires discipline and diligence and solitude. it also opens the door to a deeper way of relating. rather than needing to be simply important, the soul-full person is simply able to be with others, open, available, and groundedly present.

it is inconvenient to make space for this kind of living. it is counter cultural and may mean that we loose followers and “friends” along the way. it is beautiful and uncomfortable. painfully difficult and amazingly simple. steady. soulful. soul-full. and important. and far from emptiness of any kind.

rising to the occasion

when our children were very young my husband and i began taking them to a monthly ecumenical prayer service at a local college that happened at 7:30 on the first friday of every month, year round. in the winter we’d drive, through storms, up the hill, past the law school, and navigate the dark, wet walk from the parking lot trying to shake the feeling that staying home would have been so much cozier. in the spring we’d notice the laughing students headed out for much rowdier evening fare and have to remind ourselves that making our way to the sanctuary would feel rewarding once we were in it. every time we made our way through the front door,  we’d see the hundreds of candles up front, smell the musty realness of the building, feel the slippery cold marble against soles of our shoes, and be greeted by the hosts with whispered welcomes and hearty hugs and know, in our guts, that we were in exactly the right place.

the first time we entered those doors the few assembled guests looked at us like we were crazy. this was a prayer service. a long one. with many songs sung in latin. over. and over. and over again. between the songs there was silence. a lot of it. in a room with not a single element to absorb extraneous sounds. this was not a place for children. what were we thinking? and yet, the four of us sat through that first service in complete awe. we each noticed different aspects of the hour. the flickering candles reflected in the gleaming marble. the scent of the incense. the sound of voices repeating phrases until they melted into a harmonic almost trance inducing soundtrack. silence. 

for much of our kids’ growing up lives that monthly together time was a significant part of our individual and corporate routines. while there were certainly times we weren’t in attendance as a foursome, more often than not, we all gravitated to this space which fed us in unique and deep ways. because connor and kaija knew what to expect this had become a part of their rhythm. they knew that they could get something out of the time if they simply gave themselves to it rather than waiting for it to end. sometimes they would bring colored pencils and sketch books, other times they’d lean against us or each other and close their eyes to day dream or nap. typically, on the way home, we’d feel closer, more connected, and they would mention feeling akin to grounded lightness. regularly, the songs we’d sung that night would come up throughout the month as sources of encouragement or comfort. 

a few weeks ago i found a bulletin from one of those evenings several years back. according to the date on the sheet, our kids were in 6th and 8th grade and we had brought friends whose kids were in 4th and 1st grades. while we had prepped our friends’ kids for the evening, it’s hard for people to understand just how silent and sacred a huge marble former abbey can feel when it’s lit with so many candles and filled with so many people. the bulletin belied the experience of our friends’ kids. every inch of the paper not printed with text was filled with penciled notes between these girls and kaija. “this is sooooooooooo boring” wrote the 4th grader. “when will we be out of here?” she penciled near by. “soon” wrote kaija. “draw a picture during this song.” in another corner she wrote, “it only seems long now. later you’ll feel like it wasn’t that long.” tic tac toe games peppered other free spaces and goofy drawings others still. at the bottom of the back page kaija wrote, “almost there. way to go!”

when i was growing up my parents presented me with options to do what i think of as “rising to the occasion.” i recall lectures that they took my brother and me to where we were the only people under 30 in the room. we sat through church with them. they took us to restaurants where kids didn’t normally dine. they expected us to be able to handle being bored, sitting still, and to learn to be comfortable in a variety of settings. they also respected us and our real selves. they brought things for us to do quietly when appropriate. they didn’t ask more of us than they knew we could handle (the lecture was 45 minutes long, church an hour once a week, and there were plenty of opportunities for us to be embodied and otherwise engaged elsewhere in our lives). they engaged us in smart conversation and also let us chose the subject matter. 

there was a certain sense of capability that i developed from these experiences. i felt as though i was able to get through times that were less than stimulating. i grew to love getting to be among interesting grown ups and given that i’d had experience with such i knew how to be in those settings. i developed an appreciation for silence and stillness and the commensurate skill to navigate times filled with both not because i was so great at it or naturally inclined in these ways. rather, i was offered opportunities to practice. to tolerate. to learn.

i am noticing more and more that we have fewer and fewer natural opportunities to learn  the skills of sitting still, being mindful/thoughtful, tolerating boredom, and, even, doing one thing at a time. why attend a continuing education workshop in person when you can do so online and mulit task through it? why have our children sit through a service with us when “children’s church” is so much more fun? why make a phone call when a text can get me an answer without all the need for “hellos” and “how are yous?” and other “extraneous-ness?” why sit still, be bored, on uni-task when we don’t have to?

for me, i find it important to ask myself to rise to the challenge of doing so. the more i ask myself to focus, to do one thing at a time, to sit in a restaurant not looking at my phone, waiting for my meal or to attend a continuing education workshop sans my computer i develop new abilities. i enter into the material (or the meal or the relationships with those around me) more deeply. my senses become more highly attuned. i settle down and synthesize more. my experiences take on a richness i might otherwise miss. most basically, i find out i am capable. i can think and taste and tolerate.  i can wrestle (with information or tastes or conversations or people that are new). i don’t need to be entertained or distracted by devices at all times. i am able to regulate my emotions and ask myself to tolerate discomfort and fidgety-ness and awkwardness. to get through these feelings in order to get to the profoundly rewarding place of feeling able to be present. no matter what.

and so i challenge those of you who would like to feel like more capable, competent humans to ask yourself to rise to the occasion. to learn to be quiet. bored. still. to practice these skills and master them. once you’ve developed some stillness/boredom/self soothing muscle, i beg you to look for the spaces in your life and routine where you might invite children, adolescents, or young adults to practice the ability to rise to the occasion. to handle silence. to tolerate boredom. to learn to sit (reasonably) still. and to learn to feel that you, and they, are enough.

the way in which we watch

the way in which we watch says a lot about us. do we moan and complain? criticize and judge? attend with half of our vision directed elsewhere? overpraise and compare? notice that which is status worthy or tweetable in order to inform our friends and followers far and wide just how on top of things we are? or to join in the global conversation?

as the red carpet coverage broadcasts from southern california, i am reminded of the way in which i watch so much of what is before me. in our home, the academy awards are the super bowl and, in a few hours we will sit, ballots in hand, to see who takes what home and who says what memorable thing. as a young adult i watched every minute of pre show coverage and followed the after parties as well. every part of the show fed my interest in pop culture and anthropology. now i watch with a sadness of sorts, realizing my own tendency to hope too much about that which really isn’t “fair” and/or doesn’t matter in the eternal scheme of things. 

why is so much of our western living organized around competition?

why are we so free with our expressions of criticism and praise (opposite ends of a strikingly similar continuum) and so sparing with our commentaries on grace and peace?

why do we love to comment on that which we would “never go see” or “not be caught dead in?” why do we love to hate?

tonight (or at whatever event is your own personal super bowl), as we gather around the television to see who fate favors with a few glorious moments in the spotlight, what if we watched with a lightness and kindness that spread throughout the room? what if we chose to comment on that which we appreciated, looking for those things with new focus and care? what if we looked empathically toward half-starved, double “spank-ed” (the undergarments, not the actions), heavily made-up super stars whom we love to hate or hate to love (because they make us seem oh-so-ordinary-and-plain) and wished them inner peace in a world of outer criticism?

in a world where only certain few ever walk a red carpet it is completely within our power and control to treat everyone as if they are worthy of it. why not start tonight? at home? with those on the screen and those you watch with? especially yourself.