On Forgiveness

Lets talk, for a moment, about forgiveness. I posted (as my status today) the following few sentences:

Forgiveness, strange as it may sound, is not something we do for other people - it is not the forgetting or condoning of a past action. It is something we do for ourselves - it is the freedom of the spirit that results from refusing to continue to hurt over a past injury.

Forgiveness, for me, is an evolving concept; I am sometimes better and sometimes worse, I sometimes remember and I sometimes forget. Usually, it takes coming to a place where I am incredibly uncomfortable before I am truly able to let go.

As I understand it today, forgiveness must start with self. We must accept our humanity - accept our hurt - before we can even begin to forgive the other person.

An example then.

For the past few days, I have been in quite a considerable amount of upset about a business contact failing to get back to me regarding an issue that directly affects my housing situation. First, I have to accept that I am upset - this is different than the realization of upset (clearly, I am aware that I am unhappy) in that it requires the willingness to be upset, rather than change anything. For the most part, being upset is uncomfortable, and I would rather escape the emotion than truly experience it. When I am able to accept being upset, I can sit with it for a moment and see what it is that has me be this way in a way that is different from blame. Blame is counter productive - it is a defense mechanism rather than a path to emotional healing. When I am blaming, my mental conversations sound something like, "Okay, why are you upset?" "Because she didn't get back to me!" When I am looking at what truly has me bothered, things sound more like this: "Why are you upset?" "Not having this information threatens my sense of security. I'm scared."

It's okay to be scared. Knowing what I'm afraid of is the first place that I can begin with forgiveness of myself. Can I be okay with being afraid? Can I accept that I am not perfect? That I don't have all of the answers? That, every once in a while, I am going to feel like a three year old, without the luxury of a temper tantrum? This is the first place I can start. Yes - I can, moment by moment, forgive myself for being a human.

In my ability to forgive myself, I find that the upset and the hurt that I was accepting and forgiving (paradoxically) seem to melt away. I also (almost counter-intuitively) find the ability to (moment by moment) forgive the previously 'offending' party.

This forgiveness, as I mentioned early on, is distinctly different than forgetting or condoning the actions taken by the party. It is nothing more, and nothing less, than freeing yourself from the pain of your own humanity.

A Gentle Reminder

Those of you that know me, know that it is part of my daily routine to actively work to 'better' myself as a human being. Some days it is reading, some days mediation, some days writing, some days a mix of all of the above; being that it was Father's Day yesterday, I fell out of my usual routine, and skipped my usual Sunday evening self-work, telling myself that I would make it up tonight. I did my usual Monday writing and reading this morning, and as the day progressed, I found myself debating about whether or not I would take the time this evening to 'make up' yesterday.

About this time, I stopped in at a little mom and pop hardware store, and (while using their facilities and noticing the amount of trust they must have in me as a human being [they used much of their bathroom as a stockroom for small supplies which would easily have fit into someone's pockets or purse]) I spied this sign over the mirror behind their sink.


I went and did that 'extra' work tonight.

And, because it's somewhat relevant, I'll share with you the letter that I wrote to my dad. The past 23 months or so have been actively devoted to my growth as a human being - mentally, spiritually, and emotionally. The results have been pretty... dramatic. I think back to the person that I was when I met W nearly three years ago, and I'm almost embarrassed; that, however, is beside the point. The letter I was able to present to my dad yesterday is a direct result of the work I've been doing, and that work has been fueled in part by reminders like the one I saw today. So, without further ado, I will:

"Dad,

Almost two years ago, in November of 2008, I was absolutely terrified that I was going to get my heart broken, again. Even more than that, I was petrified to tell you why I was so upset - it wold mean being more vulnerable in more ways than I already was; the thought was like pouring salt on an open wound, only the open wound was still beating behind my ribs.
Unfortunately (or fortunately, because it gives me this story to tell) I am a girl, and as such I have the tendency to cry a lot, which somehow made my statements of, "I'm fine," a little less believable. When I told you why I was upset, you didn't do the things I had expected. You didn't try to fix it; you didn't try to tell me what to do, or what I should have done, like most dads would. You simply said, "It's going to be alright."
You are not most dads.
All I ever wanted as I was growing up was for you to be happy with, and proud of, me. (They tried to teach me something about this in the Young People's Forum - it's taken me an additional decade and a half to understand what they were saying...) While I am finally realizing that I can't 'make' anyone happy, I am also reaching the point where I have achieved something greater.
I have become, with your guidance, a person that can be happy with, and proud of, themselves.
I am a teacher. Sometimes in a dojo, sometimes in a classroom, and sometimes in something no more official than a conversation....and I am always a teacher. I am a mother, a father, a nurse, an educator, an instructor, a hard-ass, a comforting hug, and a maid. I've held kids as they cried, with a 102 degree fever and a wracking cough; changed their diapers, changed their clothes, changed their lives. My second graduating class will be moving up at the end of July. My first class of [the group I'm teaching now] are pre-k now; they will be heading out into the world to face all of its joys and sorrows, and all I can do is hope that I've given them something worthwhile, and that they'll find something meaningful for themselves.
I am an animal lover. I have forgotten more about the natural world than most people will ever know; words like 'rhacodactylus' and 'vitticeps' catch my attention. I have been bitten, clawed, scratched, tail-whipped, peed on, pooped on, burrowed into (ow!), hissed at, run from, constricted, nipped, licked, and nuzzled. I have performed emergency surgery and had thousands of crickets spilled on my feet; I have nursed animals back from the brink of death, and comforted them as they died, hatched geckos out in a tupperware container, and held wild butterflies in the palm of my hand. I am in love with the magic of nature, and with every creepy crawly I am immediately presenced to the beauty and mystery of life.
I am a writer.
I am an artist.
I have an "excellent" credit score.
I have a relationship with my family. I am open and honest with the people whose approval means the most to me. I can trust my parents to accept me as I am, and the things that bring me joy, even when they would not choose them for themselves.
I have a brother who is more of a best friend. We talk, we share, and even on days when we'd rather give the other person noogies than hugs, we share the bond of being related not just by blood, but by choice.
I am marrying an incredible man, who is my perfect partner. I have become a person who - in times when money is still tight - has people flying in from multiple countries and numerous states to be at her wedding.
I am a person who tries her best to be courageous, generous, of-service, honest, accepting, independent, self respecting, respectful, right-sized, patient, considerate, secure, loving, trusting, and kind. I am never perfect, and I am always learning.
I am a person who dedicates her life to people being amazing, in the best ways I know how.
This is the person you've raised.
I am not most people, because I have had the love, guidance, and support of someone who is not most dads.
Thank you,
and happy Father's Day."

A Word About My Father

My father is an incredible man. It has taken me a lot longer to realize this than I wish it had, and I am glad that I know this now rather than later.

I don't always understand, or appreciate adequately, the way my dad pronounces, "I love you."

As I was growing up, it has sounded like, "Where are you going?" "Who are you with?" and "When are you going to be home?" It has often looked like criticism, sometimes like tough love, occasionally disguised itself as anger, and regularly rubbed me the wrong way because for almost 24 years, I have been listening with my ears instead of my heart.

My dad loves me so much.

He has put a roof over my head, clothes on my back, food in my mouth, band-aids on my knees, and displayed the kind of faith in me that most people only dream about.

When I was in college, my senior year, I had my thesis professor present me with a writing assignment of such a magnitude, to be completed in such a time constraint as I had never seen. I was utterly aghast. My dad said something to express his belief that I could get it done, and it came across like, "Quit bitching and do it." (I am sure that what he actually said was nothing close to that; I was so stressed out that he could have said, "What would you like for dinner?" and I would have heard, "Your life is fucked and you're going to die.") I screamed, "I HATE YOU!", got out of the car, slammed the door, and stalked off. It is the only time that I can remember ever saying those words to him, and I sincerely wish that I could travel back in time, shove them back into my mouth, chew them up, and spit them back into the depths of all things disgusting from which they came.

While the words that came out of my mouth said one thing, my heart said another. It said, "I am so worried that I am not the person you think I am that the only thing I can do right now is shove you away."

I don't know why it has to be so hard to be a parent. I don't know why being a kid means having to care so much about what your parents think. I just know that it is, and the best thing we can do on either side is try to be gentle with each other, and with ourselves.

He didn't yell at me, he didn't say, "I hate you too"; he didn't mope around in pain or sulk or give me the silent treatment (which I really couldn't blame him if he had). He let me know in his own way how much those words hurt, and I apologized, even though at the time I was still angry at him for believing in me at a time when I didn't believe in myself.

My dad was listening with his heart. He seems to have known something innately that all parents should know; children will forgive you almost anything, if you are there for them.

I think that bears repeating.

Children will forgive you almost anything, if you are there for them.

My dad has always been there for me, even when I had no idea that that's what he was doing, in the best ways he knows how.

There are a lot of things about my dad that I don't know, or don't understand - we can be going the same direction in a conversation and still inexplicably butt heads. A lot of it has to do with how similar we are; I find him to be lacking in tact, and myself to be lacking in oh-so-many-innumerable-things.

It simultaneously irks and amazes me.

The truth is, I am incredibly lucky to be like my dad.

I'll be more than blessed if I turn out to be only half of the person that he has shown himself to be.

P.S. I may type up the letter I gave him today, I may not. Either way, it made him cry. It was an awesome letter.

Learning Humility

I am not a religious person; there are a lot of reasons for that, none of which do I particularly care to discuss.

I am, at the same time, a deeply spiritual person.

I believe that there is a greater order to the universe, and that I am not the highest power in it.

Days like today... I remember that.

My fiance's mom has Alzheimers, and she is currently undergoing treatment for that. Every two weeks, he takes her to the doctor's office, they give her a mild sedative to help with the anxiety, she receives an infusion , and he brings her back home.

The entire process (from leaving the house to returning) takes about four and a half hours. Then it is another several hours before the disorienting effects of the sedative wear off enough that she can safely be left alone to go to bed.

Separated from her 'familiar' surroundings, she oscillates between being relatively cognizant and aware, and alternatively, being combative, anxious, frustrated, and confused.

This is the nature of her disease.

She doesn't always know where she is going. She doesn't always know that she's been.

She becomes irritable and scared and I absolutely cannot fault her; it's got to be a terrifying thing to flux in and out of a world you barely know.

I watch my fiance, with seemingly endless patience, help his mother in and out of the car, in and out of the office, in and out of that state of paranoia. He answers her questions, he makes sure she is cared for, he makes her life as simple and easy and livable as anyone possibly could.

I answer a question, I answer it twice. I answer it, and I answer it, and I answer it, and then, for a few relieving moments it is quiet. And then she asks it again.

And, at the end of the day, I am human.

I get mad because this wasn't what I thought I signed up for.
I get mad because my patience wears thin.
I get mad because when I get angry, I feel as though I'm not good enough.
I get mad because I have no idea what the future is going to hold.

I get mad because I get scared that the entire situation is so completely beyond my control.

There is nothing I can do to change the effects of her Alzheimers.
I cannot make the pain, the sorrow, the frustration any easier for W - nor would it be of service to either of us for me to do so, though I so much wish that I could.

I can be there.
I can help W remember to breathe.
I can help him watch his mom, so that we can work in shifts.
I can support and encourage, and try to remember that there is something to be learned, to be gained from all of this.

It is hard to practice patience.

It is hard to see love in such a form.

It is hard to watch someone I love go through something like this.

It is hard to go through it myself, whatever separation I may have.

It is not easy; that I know. I also know that inside every pain, there is a beauty to be found, if only I can find it and focus.

I am not the highest power in this Universe, and on days like today, I remember that.