A Pilgrimage from Pouting to Presence

We have this possibility of doing a pilgrimage every single day. Because a pilgrimage implies in meeting different people, in talking to strangers, in paying attention to the omens, and basically being open to life. And, we leave our home to go to work, to go to school, and we have every single day this possibility, this chance of discovering something new. So, the pilgrimage is [for]... people who are open to life.

Paulo Coelho (in an interview with Krista Tippett for Onbeing.org)

In his heartbreakingly beautiful memoir, When Breath Becomes Air, Paul Kalanithi writes, “Human knowledge is never contained in one person. It grows from the relationships we create between each other and the world, and still it is never complete.” I took numerous trinkets of wisdom from his writing, but this phrase struck a major chord. I know I am such a hodge podge mash up of all the people who have passed through or are still present in my life. It would not be fair to say I’m a melting pot because I can still identify who and where I gathered some of the transformational nuggets of knowledge that shape me. To make Kalanithi’s words ring even more true, he emphasizes that the process of patching ourselves together is “never complete.” We are a work in progress.

Each new person I take time to come in contact with has the potential to leave a lasting brick in the wall of me. Likewise, each place I visit and see can take up residence and shape my perspective. Creating myself involves synthesizing everything I see, hear, touch, taste and feel in this big, beautiful world. How do I continue to construct knowledge and build new understanding? By embracing what a wise Instagram hashtag once taught me - #keeplearning. Keep reading. Keep writing. Keep traveling. Keep talking. Keep listening. Keep watching. Keep moving. Keep living.

But there has to be more. Life is not measured in hashtags (I hope). Kalanithi uses the phrase “relationships we create.” It will not suffice to just keep doing stuff. We must commit to actively create. We need to cultivate relationships with people and places in order to gain and appreciate human knowledge. This concept sends me drifting through the pages and pages of my life; all the people I have known and all the places I have been that left me “schooled” for better or for worse. What if I never embraced my life in NYC? What if I never took the time to find and cling to my “mama tribe” when I first became a mother? What if we never answered the call for open space and adventure and moved to Colorado? What if we never started a CrossFit community in our garage? What if I had not taken the time to cultivate deep friendships within my profession of teaching? I shudder to think of the tremendous void and all the human knowledge that would be missing from my life.

When we left Colorado, I was devastated. I left a piece of my heart there and spent the first couple of years here in Charlotte pouting. I thought that life out West had changed me, which it did. It awakened me to adventure and a passion to explore all that this world has to offer. By failing to practice flexible thinking, a term we use to pry my Type A child from his rigid world view, I blatantly dismiss the fact that my life out West was a new beginning and perspective, not one self-contained experience. Living in Colorado left a lasting impression on me, but I have to leave that behind and become fully present in my new life to reap the rewards of a world of opportunity in a different, slightly more humid home on the East Coast.

In a little less than six years, I have grown more as a person since moving back to North Carolina than I ever have in my entire life. I have found friends who show me genuine honesty and encourage me on an inward journey to discovery of my truest self. Neighbors invite me to step outside my comfort zone and push my physical capabilities. Co-workers introduce me to knowledge and ideas that help challenge and shape my world view. Teachers remind me to listen more and talk less.  Colleagues engage me in difficult, soul-searching conversation that rattles me at my core. Each relationship has a vital and unique role in my “chance of discovering something new.” I have to halt the lamenting for what I once had and decide to show up and cultivate human knowledge in a new place and with new people. This shift has literally been life-changing but remains fluid, occasionally slipping from my grasp on days I still mourn for the life we left behind.

Kalanithi was 37 when he lost his battle with cancer. So very young. He was my age with a wife and brand new baby girl. Yet his voice whispers through the pages for us to wake up and take action. Our pilgrimage is never complete. We can’t hold all this life has to offer in one person or one place. We must take the time to cultivate relationships. We can get to know people and have real, life-enriching conversations. Yes, #keeplearning, but that and so much more. Ask questions and really listen to the answers, all the many answers. Then take pause and start building that human knowledge one relationship at a time.

A note about this post…

I wrote this reflection on Kalanithi’s book a couple of months ago. I was saving it for a rainy day because other topics kept popping up. Originally, I had written a blog about my daughter for this week; then, election day happened. I wanted to write about the hurt, sadness and fear engulfing me at the moment, but I am yet to formulate my thoughts and feelings in a communicable way. I am sitting with all of it on my heart and mind, hugging people (weird, I know), and trying to have as many conversations as possible. This reflection on Kalanithi’s book does not reveal my post-election heart; however, it does address one of my goals moving forward. The human knowledge I have built is the very reason I have been so deeply affected emotionally by the events of this week. Presence, awareness and relationships have opened my heart to the painful truths we all face as a nation. As Toni Morrison quite simply states, “Can’t nothing heal without pain, you know.” Thanks for reading.

When You Don't Mother Like Your Mother

Parents rarely let go of their children, so children let go of them.
They move on. They move away.
The moments that used to define them are covered by
moments of their own accomplishments.

It is not until much later, that
children understand;
their stories and all their accomplishments, sit atop the stories
of their mothers and fathers, stones upon stones,
beneath the water of their lives. 

-Paulo Coelho

The other day I walked in on my kids watching a home movie taken when my first born was about five months old. I was mesmerized by the sights and sounds. I wasn’t struck so much by my chubby baby boy’s first Christmas. It showed my mom as she used to be. Hearing her voice opened a whole floodgate of emotions. I had forgotten what she sounded like. I had forgotten our interactions: me a young, nervous mother and her a new, doting Nana. Since December 2005, Mom’s mind has been lost to Alzheimer's, and I have had time for some serious soul searching.

I have spent a lot of time pondering how different I am from my mother. It is a strange cocktail of guilt, rebellion and self exploration. My mom, a tall, thin, blonde, blue-eyed woman, was passive, soft-spoken, fragile, and completely self-sacrificing. She gave us whatever she had. If she had one cookie and I wanted it, she would gladly let me take it. Her world and identity were built around her family and her faith. Mom’s answer to all of life’s worries, no matter the size, was “Pray about it.” She was the quintessential Southern Baptist preacher’s wife, taking her place on the front row each and every Sunday.

Contrarily, I am a short, solid, brunette, brown-eyed woman who usually has more questions than answers. If I ask my children to describe me, I am pretty sure they would not use any of the same adjectives that I use to describe my mom. I can almost hear them now: Passive? No. Soft-spoken? Ha! Fragile? Not in the least. Self-sacrificing? Maybe, but she would never share her food. My kids would really have to dig deep to find the resemblance between me and their Nana.

Despite our opposing personalities and approach to motherhood, Mom and I do have tremendous similarities that I almost overlooked by opting to look only at our differences. She was an English teacher, my first teacher. She taught me to write and encouraged me to fall in love with written language. Her childhood dream was to become a missionary to Africa. She never made it to Africa, but she did get to serve for many years in South America. When her parents fell ill to Alzheimer’s disease, she moved her family back to the United States to care for them in their final months. Suddenly, I can see our resemblance begin to come into focus.

Here I am an English teacher, my children’s first teacher. I have hauled them to libraries and book stores since infancy cultivating avid readers who share my passion for books. I did not dream of Africa, but I did dream of open spaces. We moved our family, sight unseen, across the country to Colorado. When tragedy struck and we needed to care for sick and grieving parents, we packed up and moved our crew back to the East Coast. Evidence of Mom’s footprints are present in these choices, my life’s actions, even if not evident in my personality or physical appearance.

I continue to grow and come into my own as a mom. My children see me as a confident woman who loves her career and cares deeply about helping people. They know that I will speak up and use my voice whenever necessary. I am not on the front pew watching and supporting their dad but rather standing beside him working as his partner and equal. My daughter jokingly refers to me as “muscle mama,” recognizing both my physical and emotional strength. Both kids watch as I strive each and every day to build a better version of myself, in no way sacrificing my own identity and personhood to be a mother. Ultimately, I hope they see that as a good thing. Why should she be self-sacrificing? Her self has as much worth as ours.

 

I once read a meme that stated, “Sometimes when I open my mouth, my mother comes out.” I smiled at the inapplicability of this message. I don’t hear my mother in my life anymore. I miss that voice, so gentle and different from my own, but I can find her in the backdrop, in the large, life-shaping decisions that made me who I am today. Mom and I have traveled such different paths. Where she said right, I most likely said left, but when we needed to fulfill our dreams, raise our children and help our loved ones, we showed up in the best way we knew how.

I will never be my mother, and that's okay. I wish I could have one last conversation with her to see what she thinks about that. I know certain decisions I have made would disappoint her. Other decisions would make her very proud. I would like to think that she would be happy to see she raised an independent, progressive-thinking daughter who is carving an uncharted path for her family. But the truth is, she would probably prefer I take a more traditional route with less risk and questions.

I do not mother as my mother did. She delivered me into this world and taught me so much about life and love. I can accept and celebrate our diversity. We share so much more in common with our love and shared desires than we hold in our differences. I will honor her by showing up not as her, but as myself, to this role of motherhood every single day.