Lost in Translation

“Love can be expressed and received in all five languages. However, if you don't speak a person's primary love language, that person will not feel loved, even though you may be speaking the other four. Once you are speaking his or her primary love language fluently, then you can sprinkle in the other four and they will be like icing on the cake.”  - Gary Chapman

I have been married for more than fourteen years. About ten of those have been good years. When people say that marriage is work, they are not kidding. Our marriage has been forged in the fire: challenged by addiction, moves across the country, death and tragedy, and the usual ups and downs of parenthood. Married at 22, I usually tell people we have grown up together. I would say that my husband provides my calm (most of the time) and gives me room to spread my wings and be who I am meant to be  -even though it is an ongoing project to figure out exactly who that might be. I really consider there to be no greater gift. He walks beside me always offering truth, sometimes harshly, in whatever form I need to hear it. And because our partnership was earned, not given, I would fight til the death to maintain what we have built. As open communication is the foundation to almost any relationship, it is interesting to note that my whole family is built upon the shoulders of two people who do not even speak the same language. Many moments and golden opportunities have been lost in translation along the way.

Years ago, we were exposed to Gary Chapman’s idea of the different love languages. The concept opened our eyes to the huge discrepancy in the way we communicate as a couple. Somewhere around this time in our early marriage, perhaps during marital counseling, we were introduced to active listening. We were asked to really listen to each other and repeat things back to one another just as we heard them. We began to notice exchanges such as these:

Me: “I do not feel any love from you.”

Husband: “I came home from work and loaded the dishwasher and did all the laundry.”

OR

Husband: “You do not care that this mess is making me lose my mind.”

Me: “How can you say that? I wrote you a note and planned a date night.”

We were experiencing a failure to communicate. There are only five love languages, and it turns out we have all but one of them covered. I am no math person, but I would say it is fairly unlikely we do not overlap in a single area.

My husband says I love you through “acts of service.” He is a doer. He makes our breakfast and coffee every single morning. He does all of our laundry and folds towels into beautiful, perfectly arranged works of art. He handles the finances, bills and taxes - all things that make me want to run for the hills. He gets stuff done. I know you are thinking that I should just shut up and let the man continue cleaning.  I agree, it is wonderful, and I am so thankful for it, but my nature does not always recognize these amazing things as tokens of his undying love for me.

Here is the problem. My love language is “words of affirmation.”  I am an encourager. I can build him up with words of love, support, and praise like it’s my job. I can pick out the most amazing cards for holidays and special occasions. I have a gift for finding just the right words. Words are my tool of trade. We are a doer and a talker trying to set up a life together. He wants me to surprise him by making up the bed, and I want him to tell me that he believes in me and my abilities.

Our healthy dose of dissonance does not end there. As I mentioned, we speak four of the five languages. Brent’s secondary love language is physical touch (the DUMBEST one). Massaging his hands or feet, shoulders, or playing with his hair make him feel loved and appreciated.  My secondary language is much more practical: quality time. Give me your cell phone-free, undivided attention and time (unless I want to be alone, then just leave me alone). These languages compliment each other a little bit better. We can multi-task by spending time together in close contact. Everyone is loved.  

Part of the purpose behind recognizing the different love languages is that it allows us to see that our partners have been conditioned to give love in a way that they most hope to receive it themselves. Chapman writes, “People tend to criticize their spouse most loudly in the area where they themselves have the deepest emotional need.”  I buy great, thoughtful cards because I want to receive those cards. Brent cleans the kitchen because he hopes I will someday learn to load the dishwasher in the correct manner. Understanding these different languages has allowed us to see that we really weren’t listening to each other or acknowledging the other’s needs. There have been countless times he was showing his love; it just was not in the way I expected or needed to see it.

With practice, I must say, I have learned to embrace both of our languages. I no longer spend time or money on cards for his birthday. Last year, I built him a fire pit - action and service. However, he has also come to expect and appreciate words of encouragement from me, sometimes even words of advice or criticism (yikes!). Afterall, I must still be true to myself, so when his birthday rolled around this year, I might for example, have written a mushy blog about him. Happy Birthday, Babe! I have no problem admitting I am far from perfect and still have moments when I think his love language is stupid and requires too much effort. Other times, I look at his interactions with me and wonder if he even knows me at all, but these moments have become few and far between.  

Thankfully, my husband has also gracefully learned to speak my love language. Offering both words of affirmation and quality attention, he is my coach and the first reader for everything that I write. His native language continues to involve action, and I can’t say that I mind. He shows a selflessness in his willingness to help and do things to make my life easier. If he were to ever cease with the acts of service, I am sure I would be the first to point that out...using a lot of strong words of affirmation.

Our differences have enriched my life and pushed me to grow beyond myself. We now have two children who speak their own dialects of the love languages. My son wants verbal affirmation and quality time (just like his mom), while my daughter prefers physical touch - hugs and cuddles (thanks Brent, I’m sure that won’t cause us any problems in the future). We have our very own familial Tower of Babel. There are moments of complete discord when we are each desperately shouting for our language to be heard and acknowledged, but there are other beautiful episodes that reveal the many forms love can take. Time spent just sitting together, a gentle word, a family hike, a thoughtful gift, or an unrequested favor might be just what one of us needed at that moment. Learning to truly listen to each other makes us more human and open to growth so that as Chapman explains, we do not continue to mess up every new day with yesterday.

Photo by Kristie Hamilton

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Acceptance

“Whoever is present are the right people. Whenever it begins is the right time. Whatever happens is the only thing that could have happened. And when it's over, it's over.”

Anne Lamott, Some Assembly Required: A Journal of My Son's First Son

Remember times in life when you were so happy to gain acceptance? I was accepted to Appalachian State University, New York University, and different internships or programs. It was means for celebration. Then, this week my mom got her final letter of acceptance. Hospice welcomed her into their care. Only this acceptance was an unforeseen, debilitating punch in the gut that doubled me over in instant nausea.

Here I sit trying to process this news. Mom will receive home health care. Dad will get the extra help he needs. She will stop taking her medications. They will provide her medical care and work to keep her comfortable. It should be welcome news at this stage, but I am still working on convincing myself.

I just read yet another amazing book by Anne Lamott. Anyone who knows me knows that I want to be her best friend. I have said it for years. She has practically helped raise me. My advisor and mentor during my under grad gave me her first book. I have read all Lamott’s books at every stage of my life. She helped me when I was a stumbling, paranoid mess as a new mother. She got me. She always knew just what to say. When I started asking the difficult questions in life - there she was trying to figure it all out. Her raw, gorgeous and terrifying vulnerability reverberated and echoed through the chambers of my heart. Through the years her words have been a lighthouse guiding me back to my true self, so it would only make sense that she would show up to offer her unique concoction of humor, experience and naked truth when my mom is dying.

Whoever is present are the right people.

Hospice are the right people for this job even though I am annoyed and angry at the moment that they get to be the ones to “accept” my mom into the last six months of her life. They decided she was close enough to death to deserve their help. According to their website, “At the center of hospice and palliative care is the belief that each of us has the right to die pain-free and with dignity, and that our families will receive the necessary support to allow us to do so.” Ugh.

But I know you are right again, Anne Lamott. They are the right people. My boss, who recently lost a parent and a close family friend, has been a steady source of encouragement. She described Hospice from her recent experience: “They are wonderful people. If we could only begin to see it as representing comfort rather than death.” Comfort, yes we could take some of that right now. The family, specifically my dad, will get some much-needed support.

Whenever it begins is the right time.

Is there ever really a good time for your mom to die? We know the answer to that question. Days like Christmas and Mother’s Day will sting regardless. It won't be easier when I am a year older. Winter cold won't help to numb the pain. Summer heat will not burn away the tears. The time is now, and it will be right.

A close friend sent me this shattering and beautifully haunting text the day mom got her acceptance letter:

“You've been learning to dance with a limp for a while now and it's been a beautifully courageous process to witness. This is your experience and only you can fully appreciate it. But you will not go through it alone. You are never alone. So go vomit, scream, cry, laugh, play and live. Be confused, angry, sad and happy. Lean on your tribe and share your experiences.”

See, Anne Lamott, you were more right than you ever knew. This awful, painful, humbling and piercing moment is exactly right. My quirky and passionate tribe will help me catch the shattering pieces and let me step all over their toes as I stumble to put one foot in front of the other.

Whatever happens is the only thing that could have happened.

What in the world did I expect? Mom is in the final stages of Alzheimer's. It's not like she was going to get better. It has to end, and now we have people trained to help us take the final steps of this closing chapter.

If she could understand, I would tell mom that this ending would make her proud. “Dad gave his all loving you for every single minute, Mom.” He welcomed Hospice because it meant he could have the help he needed for mom to end her life at home with him by her side, not in a nursing facility. In that regard, maybe this is not the only thing that could have happened, but it is our story and how we handled the tattered and torn hand we were dealt.

And when it's over, it's over.

Last week, I told a few of my best friends that I had decided everything was going to be okay. Mom was going to die, and I would be okay. She will let go, and it will be over. I would be lying if I didn't admit I will breathe a huge sigh of relief somewhere in between my sobbing bouts of anguish. There will be relief that she no longer has to exist in this hollow shell. She will be free. Her work here will be done - and it was beautiful work.

Yes, it will be over. The battle will be over. The sickness and deterioration will be over. The balled fists and clenched teeth of frustration will be over. But when one thing ends, another must begin. I will start anew in this world without my mom. Don't they say you are never truly grown until you lose a parent? Alas, I will arrive at the gates of true adulthood.

An Examined Life

You know the best way over's through

So if it matters let it matter…

They say you know it ain't easy

I wouldn't want it to be

Cause ease is for the shallow

But we were from the deep

Johnnyswim - “Let It Matter”

I was sitting in my office on Thursday solving the world’s problems with my colleague/soul sister/writing partner. “Maybe things have always been this hard, and we are just becoming more aware as we get older,” I whined. Then I had to look up the Socrates quote about how the unexamined life is not worth living. I couldn’t remember the exact source, but I knew it was important and fitting. Yes, maybe that is the answer. We are just becoming wise - deep thinkers in our old age. (I can hardly type this statement with a straight face).

Then I stumbled upon a quote from Glennon Doyle Melton:

“I understand now that I’m not a mess but a deeply feeling person in a messy world. I explain that now, when someone asks me why I cry so often, I say, ‘For the same reason I laugh so often - because I’m paying attention.’”

I did a double take. Did I write this? I wish I wrote this. Her words say exactly what I have been trying to verbalize for weeks. I have claimed and owned my beautiful mess, but what I am feeling is not my mess alone; it is the whole big mess of this world, and I have just recently started paying attention.

I have been completely seized by the idea of being present, making each moment count, loving my here and now. Too many years have slipped away in my busy, Type A fulfillment of duties and to-do lists, so I am putting on the brakes and changing my approach to living, for my sake and my family’s sake. But along the way, I discovered the real kicker that Melton is mentioning. You can’t be present for all the beauty in life without noticing the bumps and deep canyons along the way. When you are truly training your mind and heart to pay attention, you must learn to see and feel it all. You must learn to drop the filters and fully embrace vulnerability.

As a young adult, it was easy to limit my field of vision. I tended to focus on myself - my goals, my plans and my immediate desires. I had a very narrow, small view of the world and people around me. With age, motherhood, ailing parents, soul searching, and intentional self-improvement, I have learned to open my eyes and heart to much more right here in my present, everyday life. While I feel more whole than I ever have in my 37 years, I am also completely exposed and vulnerable. As Melton mentions, I do laugh a lot, but I also have 2-3 tear-filled meltdowns per week. When a student, co-worker, friend, parent or child is hurting, I am right there with them in that moment. If I am genuinely paying attention, how in the world could I not be affected? I feel it all in a deep way.

Some days, it’s as though I have the crushing weight of the world on my shoulders, and I cave or break. I crack open and all the emotions come flooding out. I cannot even count the number of times I have cried to my friends about all of my worries after finishing a grueling workout. Perhaps I use all my energy moving weight, so then I have to spill out my insides to my box mates. My younger self would perceive these emotional outbursts as weak or lacking self-control. I would tell her to worry about her own self because she is missing the forest for the trees. She is worrying about what other people think, limiting her own ability to participate and be fully present in her life and the lives of her loved ones. She needs to pay attention.

Maybe my friend and I were on to something. We are living an examined life, and it is completely exhausting and all-consuming. We have to talk each other through our kids’ meltdowns and heartbreaks, coach each other through helping students at our job, push each other to read and write for creative expression, and participate in our community and world as informed citizens who are paying attention in the most important ways. We laugh and cry, but we face life and this messy world head on. We watch and read about issues of inequality, injustice, racism, sexism, sickness, heartache, abuse and poverty in the world, occasionally even washing up on the shores of our lives. We stand ready with open hearts and use our positions as mothers, teachers, friends and humans to help if even in the tiniest ways. Mary Oliver writes, “May I be the tiniest nail in the house of the universe, tiny but useful.” There can be no action without acknowledgement and awareness. Examining our lives and surroundings enables us to be present and ready to help whenever possible. Even if we feel broken at times, we can do our best to show up and be useful.

We begin a semester in green...a new
beginning. 

I will humbly thank Melton for giving words to exactly what I have been feeling. It’s possible to be both whole and broken by a messy world all at the same time. I can let my light shine through all the deep cracks and splits ripped through my heart each time I get a call about my dying mother, a student who was abused, a friend who has cancer, or my child struggling to find his/her place in this big, scary world. My soul sister and I can make broken look beautiful as we stand with our heads held high fearlessly embracing life in the moment. We can, indeed, live an examined, messy, authentic life that is totally worth all the tears we might shed along the way.  

She Believed In Me

“Writing with voice is writing into which someone has breathed. It has that fluency, rhythm, and liveliness that exist naturally in the speech of most people when they are enjoying a conversation...Writing with real voice has the power to make you pay attention and understand --the words go deep.”

-Peter Elbow

When I was in graduate school at NYU, my advisor thought some experiential field work with the New York City Writing Project would provide an excellent opportunity to earn credit towards my degree in English Education. He introduced me to Nancy Mintz who was the director of the NYCWP at the time. Little did I know, this connection would become one of the  most influential experiences of my teaching career. My time at the NYCWP helped me to discover my voice as a writer, further allowing me to see writing as a tool for thinking, not just a product. I learned to appreciate the process and enjoyed every moment of the journey with colleagues and fellow writers who continue to influence my teaching fifteen years later.

I still remember the long train ride deep into the Bronx and beyond to Lehman College where I met Nancy in her office for the interview. She was a no-nonsense woman who knew her stuff - just the right dose of New Yorker. She invited me to participate in the Summer Invitational and later offered me a part-time position as a NYCWP Teacher Consultant. I was able to travel to different high schools, forming relationships with instructors across the boroughs, helping them discover new and exciting ways to incorporate writing into their curriculum. It was a dream job.

My stay at the NYCWP was brief, cut short when we started a family and moved across the country. Yet this time left a lasting impression on how I approach writing and instruction. I have Nancy to thank for all of it. She saw something in me, a young, naive graduate student. She decided to give me a chance and welcome me into her community of incredible writing instructors. She believed I was capable and had something worth sharing. Because of her, I was able to spread my wings and find a truly fulfilling place within my profession. I developed my personal philosophy and mission statement as an educator. I came into my own.

During this time period, I learned the joy of watching other people become passionate about learning and igniting this same passion in their students. My role as consultant allowed me to enter classrooms as an ally, not an administrator. I was a teacher/cheerleader/curriculum specialist/visionary all wrapped up in one. There was student interaction, professional collaboration and personal growth without the weight of constant grading. Essentially, it was all the stuff I loved about teaching minus the grunt work. Nancy introduced me to a teaching nirvana.

This week I received the news that Nancy passed away after a three year battle with ALS. I was immediately struck down with sadness. Looking through old emails, I realized that she was my go-to reference for every teaching job I have held since leaving NYC. When I departed the NYCWP, she wrote to thank me for the time and effort I put into my work as a consultant. “You did an amazing job making the work your own. I was so looking forward to your career with the NYCWP.” This was our first goodbye.  

I only stayed in touch with Nancy through holiday cards and occasional emails reconnecting about the work of National Writing Projects in different states. Her voice was a constant source of encouragement, never missing a chance to celebrate my development as an educator. The final email I have from her is dated December 12, 2011. She was congratulating me on my most recent position. “Your students are lucky to have you as a teacher,” she wrote. Still, from a distance, she believed in me.

The time has come for our final goodbye. Thank you, Nancy, for taking a chance on this Southern girl. I hope my life’s work to help others discover and use their voice will honor your memory. As a teacher, I will always strive to make my work my own and maintain “the reflective stance” you acknowledged in our first meeting. As a writer, I will humbly attempt to use the voice you helped me discover to craft “words that go deep.” Thank you for believing in me.

Nancy Mintz

April 30, 1947 - October 2, 2016

Competing for Myself

“I want to get more comfortable being uncomfortable. I want to get more confident being uncertain. I don’t want to shrink back just because something isn’t easy. I want to push back and make more room in the area between I can’t and I can.”

― Kristin Armstrong

When I first moved to Colorado, I was pregnant with my daughter. I left behind a tight-knit mom tribe in NYC where my son was born two years earlier.  Around this time, I remember reading a story about a mother who used a community tennis league to combat the loneliness and isolation of new motherhood. She described how she would line up her little plastic tennis trophies on her mantle and smile. She was embarrassed that these small trinkets brought her such a sense of accomplishment, but she didn’t care. Raising babies and toddlers was a tough job without reviews, evaluations, ribbons or trophies. She was searching for herself and proving that she could still set a goal, work hard and accomplish it. Her struggle resonated with me. I had pretty much accepted settling into motherhood on the sidelines.

Little did I know, it is almost impossible to live in Colorado and not embrace an active lifestyle. Only months after giving birth to my daughter, some of my new neighbors convinced me to sign up for my first 5k. I was terrified. I had never run that far in my life. I was a sprinter in high school, but that was 15 years and two kids ago. Would I completely embarrass myself and fail miserably? Thankfully, these fears were not realized. As I finished that first race with my neighbor and husband running alongside me, I was exhilarated. I had stepped outside my comfort zone, tried something new and felt completely proud of myself for doing it.

I signed up for my next race and then eventually moved up to 10k races, marathons and a 24 hour team relay race. I had caught the bug. Soon, I was reading books like Mother Runner and Kristin Armstrong’s Mile Markers. There was an entire community of mothers who found great satisfaction in doing something for themselves, and they were welcoming me with open arms. Although I was not collecting tennis trophies, I beamed with pride each time I added a race shirt or finisher’s medal to my budding collection. I was not competing with anyone other than myself, and I held the tangible evidence to show I was improving every time.

When we moved to North Carolina, my husband convinced me to try this crazy new CrossFit thing. It was so intimidating. I thought I was a fit runner, but my first WOD (workout of the day) left me humbled. Surprisingly, I decided to go back again, and again, and again. Eventually, we invested in some equipment and started doing the workouts at home. Neighbors showed interest and wanted to get involved, which leads us to where we are now - owning our own CrossFit affiliate. Again, I was in a position where I experienced how rewarding it can be to step outside my comfort zone and try new things.

In the beginning, I was not competing with anyone else in CrossFit. I was working against my own PRs (personal records) and trying to pick up new skills: pull-ups, push-ups, deadlifts, cleans, snatches, etc. There was so much to learn. But as I developed my skills, I began to lose a bit of perspective. I am going to be a coach! I need to beat people to prove myself. When you take away the context, it seems pretty silly that in my mid-thirties I became consumed with exercising better than other people. It sounds quite ridiculous. Yet, there I was with knots in my stomach before every workout, worried that I would embarrass myself.

I completely lost sight of my goal of staying healthy and active while cultivating friendships and enjoying myself. Once exercise became a source of stress, I was undoing the good I did for myself by working out. I was no longer competing with myself to prove what I could do. I fell into the dangerous trap of comparing myself to other people in real life and on social media. In these comparisons, I always fell short and lost in my mind. The self-induced pressure became too much, and I was no longer having fun. I needed an extreme shift in perspective.

Kristin Armstrong writes, “Pause today and notice something you have worked hard on and recognize yourself for it. Acknowledge your effort.” I decided to take her advice. I was proud of how far I had come as an athlete. I was also proud that I managed to find some balance between career, marriage, parenthood and fitness. My first instinct was to drop any competitive approach to CrossFit and focus solely on exercising to maintain my health, but I soon recognized a golden opportunity for personal growth. What if I could compete against myself and show up but without the pressure of holding myself to unrealistic standards? Perhaps it was possible to have fun competing along with friends and family as a means of celebrating personal achievement. This sense of accomplishment, the same feeling I craved as a new mother, had been lost to me, but I could find my way back to competing for myself.

A close friend convinced me to step outside my comfort zone and sign up for my first actual CrossFit competition. I decided to prove to myself that showing up is more important than the place I finish. In time, I signed up for local competitions at our box, partner competitions with my closest friends, and some team competitions where my kids got to watch me compete alongside their dad. It has become much less important that I have only had one podium finish, and to be honest, there were only four teams and one team got injured. Oftentimes, I have been at least 15 years older than the strong, fit girls I am competing against, which is actually pretty cool. “Take a look, ladies. This is where you will be in 20 years and two kids from now.”

I wish I could say that I have completely conquered feeling like I need to prove myself to others. Beyond the expected pre-competition jitters, I still battle the excessive Crazy Jaime factor and try to avoid becoming engulfed in a state of utter panic. As with any transformation, the process is often more circular than linear. It’s also true that I always had to be convinced by someone else to participate and get off the sidelines. I needed that push to sign up for my first race. My husband dragged me to try CrossFit. Just this past weekend, a friend made me get on the competition floor with sixteen other women from my box at a local all-female competition. It is possible that without these people in my life, I would have stayed safely in my comfort zone and never known my true potential. Instead, my children see me getting in the game and standing up to my fears on a regular basis. And, as painfully happened this weekend, the younger competitors can look at me and say, “I hope I can be out here doing this when I’m your age.”

Don’t count me out quite yet, girls. I might still be here competing in twenty years.