The only antidotes for the fallout that comes from disappointment, feelings of betrayal or downright emotional devastation are love, work, faith and music. It is the collective effect of each of these things that make a person resilient. A bit of resourcefulness doesn't hurt, either. Of all those experiences, love is the greatest. It does not need to be romantic love, but genuine support and affection of those who mean the most to you. A cute phone call from a niece, a baby's smile, a best friend cracking you up or a parent's genuine acceptance, a surprise flower delivery from a sister--that is the stuff of love, and it shores up a person long enough to stand up after crawling out of hole or falling face-flat.
Work is an important way to immerse oneself into something other than the self-deprecation, shame and embarrassment of feeling like a fool for not having done better. Maya Angelou said wisely that "when you know better, you do better". But work is the thing that gets a person out of self-rumination and taking over the downward spiral engendered by the person or things that caused a hardship in the first place; sometimes it IS somebody else's neglect, cruelty or messed up motives that create a bad situation. However, once recognized, it takes work, disconnection and then "real" work that can distract the focus on self or other enough to create the necessary distance and relief found in everyday routines and good work.
At a very low point in my life, I volunteered at a community center that tutored teenage mothers to pass their GED so that they would be more employable. The site had a day care, but often the learners couldn't get to a tutoring session because they didn't have train fare or transportation to make an appointment. Doing this kind of work was fulfilling and put my own difficulties into much greater perspective. Strangely enough, I did it more for myself than for the few learners I helped, and I didn't walk away with any great success stories except that I felt better. Satisfying work, whether cleaning a closet or delivering a grand presentation are equally valuable in healing a wounded spirit.
Faith encompasses love and work. Faith is trusting that you are a beloved child of an almighty power who will set the universe right in time and in a way that is unexpected. Human wisdom is no match for the wisdom and strength of God. When I can't get myself to do anything productive and feel alone and unloved, my faith that there is a loving, forgiving, strong and caring God sustains me. When I go to bed at night, that is when I feel the powerful presence of my faith calling out for peace, joy and comfort. Sometimes it takes every ounce of strength to believe I will not be forsaken and that I am not "in this" alone.
I pray that my daughters will not not forget that we are a family and that we share a history, for all its bumps and joys--and that someday the joys will outshine the bumps in their memories of the three of us. It is my most fervent prayer because it means more to me than any possession, job, or achievment. My mother instinctively knew that love and work went together, and my father showed me that trust is something that is earned through loyalty, acceptance and faith in your children with open, welcoming arms at every turn. They were not preachy or the Bible quoting kind, but they LIVED with love, work and faith in all they did to help us become thriving adults. Sometimes I am afraid that I have failed them because I have not found love in the tradition of their 54 year marriage.
It may seem strange to find music in this antidote to sadness, but musical lyrics are about the only place where I find honesty in words. Singer-songwriters lay their hearts out not for "one" other, but for a world of people to hear what is in their soul. If I think of only a few song titles from U-2, who are known for meaningful lyrics (in addition to excellent stage shows), they say a lot about understanding what it means to be human--"Stuck in a Moment You Can't Get Out Of" (Been there, done that), "Sometimes You Can't Make it On Your Own," (never wanting to ask for help is a big mistake if you need it), "Numb" (speaks for itself), and "Dreaming with Tears in My Eyes" (spent more time than I'd like to admit in this state of affairs).
I guess the point here is to write what creates a life of resilience, getting back on the horse, picking yourself up when you fall down, looking back and saying "what did that person or experience teach me about who I am and/or want to be?" I may be wrong, but I don't want to be one of those middle aged people who has strong frown lines cemented into their bitter, aging face. I don't want to feel hopeless, though at times it is important to surrender to the condition of things. I don't want to be so self-absorped that I cannot consider the things I do and say affect others. I don't want to be the "Debbie Downer" at the party. And I think it's a waste of a life to walk through it in bitterness, carelessness, droopiness or without contributing SOMETHING to the world in which I live. Of all the things I believe I have contributed, the most important gestures have been time and dedication to people I have loved. Of all the things I am proud of, Amanda and Stephanie are not "mine" per-se, but some product of my values and trials that make them good people that others want to know and love. There is no greater joy than that knowledge.
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Ventures into virtual land
I admit I am a techno dinosaur. My laptop is slow and low on memory space. Maybe these first two lines parallel mid-life. Both of my daughters have recently married in the last two years. I am at odds with myself and contented at the same time. Is that possible? I began this blog in a technology boot camp that was our faculty retreat just days before the halls of our new building were filled with cute boots that college girls wear and the sounds of cellular equipment dinging, vibrating and rapping. Within the span of two years, I turned fifty, traveled to Africa, accepted a position as Associate Dean of a brand new School of Communication that had long roots in a small department I have been part of for eighteen years at an institution I love. I became a grandmother of a little girl, deployed thirty five students to mentor young girls, women and migrants from faraway places out of one of my classes, and traveled to two different states to stand in my role as proud mother of the bride. Alone. Their weddings were as perfect as my daughters are different. I cried unbridled tears at the ceremony where I felt like I was revisiting my former life with their father's family and loving them all, healing from an ancient divorce and regretting the unfinished business I have with the bride. The second ceremony signaled a "coming out" of shyness I had never seen in my younger daughter. I have not been successful in love, though I have loved and been loved; yet both of these beautiful young women, my daughters appear to have found their life's mates. I wish I could take credit for that, but I have no idea if any is mine and am grateful for their good judgement. My insides moved at the second wedding from fatigue, joy, a sense of completion, and overwhelming sentimentality at the simultaneous sight of watching my eldest nurse her baby, worry about a baby girl's fusses while cutting new teeth, and my youngest's embracing of her big, beautiful day that she had worked months to deploy with a budget spreadsheet, delegation of roles to aunts, uncles, parents, grandparents and her truest friends. I spent that day in two places very far away from each other--ecstasy and longing. I celebrated a beautiful couple's joy, likeness, practicality and sense of humor, watched my parents who are in their seventies dance for perhaps the first time in fifteen years. They came alive as if they had not suffered the loss of many dear friends over the past few years; they looked young and as I remember them loving each other in sweet and funny ways throughout my growing years.I felt the loss of my importance in each daughter's life as I watched my eldest fulfill her role as wife and mother, nursing her baby girl, feeling those early pangs of watching your daughter suffer, even if only from cutting new teeth. I felt like a woman cutting new teeth in suffrage and liberation at once. I was far away from my home in Chicago and close to the home of all that I knew as a child and young mother stranded between the whole of what I thought I might do with my life's future over five decades. I have failed miserably in some things and reached heights I never knew I was capable of. I finished a book manuscript over the summer that took me eleven years to write through the trials of tenure, raising teenage daughters and managing parts of my life that always seemed like bikes and ropes and water and steam that I tried to hold onto, but could never fully grasp.
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