After Pains: Some Initial Thoughts on Pilgrimage

After Pains: Some Initial Thoughts on Pilgrimage

Our second child was born with the help of an induced labor. I won’t go into the specifics of why I made the choice to use a Pitocin drip to get my labor started but at the time it seemed the most sensible thing to do. I arrived at the hospital on the scheduled day and went through the steps to get my contractions going. Although I was told induced labors were more painful than naturally occurring ones, I still chose to opt out of any pain relief offered. I made the decision to place myself in a situation I knew would be painful and a lot of work with the hope that I would come out the other side with a healthy baby and a sense of accomplishment.

As predicted based on my previous birth, the labor was fast and hard and when our son emerged and was placed on my belly, my only words were, “I wanna do that again!” I was euphoric and the sight of his strawberry red head only made my heart swell more. Then, the after pains started; a hurt I had never experienced before. I could barely breathe through the rhythmic clenching of my uterus. I was unable to sit up or talk. My whispered voice begged for something, anything to take away the ungodly pain. Relief came in the form a pill. I finally settled in with my baby.

In these days after returning from Ireland, I wonder when my relief from the after pains of immersing myself on a pilgrimage will come. I am drained physically and I feel my soul has been put through a grater. Rawness, exhaustion and euphoria mixed. What a strange combination!

Twelve years ago I chose to be placed in a painful yet transformative situation. Pilgrimage seems to be that too. Sorting out the transformation will take time but I think the pain is part of it just as it is when any new life emerges. No pill can take away these after pains but I pray I will soon find myself uttering, “I wanna do that again.”

Backpacks and Losing Control

                                                  Backpacks and Losing Control

I had every intention of keeping my backpack with me as I boarded the plane. I made it through the pre-screen with only a minor snide remark about the size of my pack made by the TSA agent. I was sure I was in good shape. For sure I would be able to easily board the plane and secure the pack in the overhead compartment.

As I sat at the gate, the announcement came. The flight was full and they were asking for volunteers to check their carry-ons. "Not me," I thought, "I will not relinquish my bag to the guts of claimed baggage only to get potentially lost between Phoenix and Dublin. No. Way!" I reasoned that all of these other people could surely check their bags to afford this pilgrim peace of mind.

When the flight attendant finally insisted that I check my pack, I had already dragged it to the back of the plane in a futile effort to find space. I gave in. Returning to the front of the plane where my pack was tagged and taken away. I watched as it disappeared from my sight.  I felt that all of the planning and packing and preparation for my journey was slipping from me. What if they lose the bag? I can't walk that trail without boots! This is going to ruin my trip! All of these thoughts ran through my mind and I realized I had no control over what happened.

They didn't lose the bag. But not because I did something right or acted or made a wise choice. I realized my pilgrimage had officially started when I grabbed my pack off the carousel in Dublin. And I already learned one of the first lessons: That this pilgrimage will progress like the rest of life and it is probably best to let go of any perceived notion of control.

Spring Air

Spring Air

In the early mornings late in the spring, I roll my car windows down to enjoy the last of the cool air Phoenix will offer for a seemingly insufferable time. As I drive to the gym or to work the air blows through my car. My radio blares and I breathe. I imagine that God is providing this last sweetness as a measure of contentment, a promise of sorts that the summer heat will not have the final word. I love this time of year even though I know the end is coming. The looming of summer only makes my appreciation riper.   

There is certain alchemy of the spirit that occurs when an individual accepts that and ending has come. The initial turmoil that the finality of a situation brings is often a mix of numbness and denial that eventually leads to a tentative and at times fleeting acceptance. Perhaps my enjoyment of the final days of spring is a form of denial or perhaps it is an acceptance that all things end. Spring dies and our harsh desert summer enters, a purgatory of sorts. This is a time to retreat from the openness of God’s creation and roll up the windows. Silent incubation.

The Spirit takes her time and works.

The end mysteriously leading to rebirth and renewal. With the windows down. Just as God had promised.

14 Year Olds, Groups, and Ireland

14 Year Olds, Groups, and Ireland

As I write this, my oldest child is celebrating her 14^th birthday with thirteen of her closest friends. Hip Hop party music is streaming, soda’s are being sipped and abandoned with half their contents left while screams and giggles of excitement fill the house. My daughter appears sure of herself as do her friends who easily navigate amongst each other. I sense no drama. No tension. No problems. But I am sure beneath the surface there are insecurities and resentments that might even go unnoticed to those who are feeling it. Or perhaps this is just my own projection of my experiences with groups: delightful, loving and necessary with a shadow of intolerance of others’ peculiarities especially in large or drawn out doses.

Next month I will be placing myself in a group to travel 100 miles by foot on a pilgrimage through Ireland. Pilgrimages are meant to be experienced alone. One can travel together while pilgrimaging solo. I am aware that I need intention and focus to stay in my, “own” space yet the aspect of group travel is still there. And with this comes dread. Interestingly, I like everyone who is going and from an outsiders perspective there would appear to be no problems. Just like my eldest and her gaggle of buddies. Yet, I know the shadow side of groups. It is like they say about fish and houseguests: After 3-days they both stink.

My trepidation arises out of a combination of experience, self-awareness and the unknown. I know pretty well how I work in groups and the results can vary wildly. The best results have always been when I’ve displayed my professional persona. Knowledgeable, gregarious and in control tend to net favorable results in the work arena. My second best showing is with my mother/wife persona. Personable, stable, fun and can keep the kids alive? Great! When these identities are stripped from me I am often times left floundering and wondering how I should act. It’s not pretty. Grasping for something. Should I be a clown? A know-it-all? An introspective intellectual? A party girl? Somebody help! I can drown in my own existence while the group I am with looks around and wonders if anyone will throw me a life-preserver; humiliation at its peak.

So, the question is, “How do I navigate a personally meaningful solo pilgrimage while living into the tension and paradox of a group of travelers?” Or perhaps the real question is, “How do I live into my own tension and paradox?”

God, I wish I were 14 again…not really.

Abundance #7 or God is not Homogenous

God is not Homogenous. 

Years ago I sat in my priest’s office and cried. I wept so intensely that I thought I might not stop or that my body might give out before my sorrow. When I was finally able to look up from my lap I glanced at him and uttered, “I’m a mess.” My hot, swollen face begged him for a balm to ease my miserable state. His expression was one of painful knowing and he simply said, “We are all a mess.”

At the time I wondered if these words were any help at all. I truly wanted to believe that life could be smooth, faultless, and easy. I wanted to feel assured in the presumption that somewhere out there existed people who were not a, “mess.” I never wanted to fully embrace the brokenness that is.  Yet, as the years have progressed I have learned to lean into that raw reality of life.

During work meetings, I have made a practice of attempting to feel others’ souls. This could be an attempt to avoid the monotony of paperwork or some other avoidant measure but I would like to think that I am working on my relationship with God through deepening my understanding of people’s spiritual presence. One thing I have noticed is once I am able to get past a person’s psychic baggage, personality quirks and pent-up emotional issues what I generally experience is extreme variations. Spiritual energy it seems is as diverse as thumbprints. Through this I have come to understand that God is not homogenous.

I am at a loss when I hear talk of, “We are all the same in God’s eyes.” Are we really? Perhaps those who thoughtlessly mumble these kinds of clichés are offering a simplistic ideal of spirituality intended to quell their own anxiety about their worthiness. In this construct, God is being seen as the great equalizer, a type of soul blender emulsifying all of creation into a putrid, colorless puree.

To be clear, this is not an argument for the maltreatment of those different from us but rather a call to respect diversity fully. Giving lip service to respecting diversity because, “deep down we are all the same,” seems like an ideological error because in my experience we are not the same. Yes, we are all broken and yes we are all blessed with gifts but these things do not make us the same. True acceptance of diversity is honoring the patchwork of souls God has presented in this world.

Thinking back to that visit to my priest I wonder why I was dismayed by the stark realization of the messiness of humanity. Perhaps there was fear that broken people could not truly be loved. It has taken me awhile to love my own broken self as well as the diverse broken souls who have been placed in my life. Ultimately, I believe this is the root of true abundance, to practice healthy self-compassion while honoring the true soulful diversity that is.

Abundance #6

Abundance #6

There was a young mother at Trader Joe’s today with her whining, intermittently screaming toddler next to her. On her front, she wore a new baby who was, at least temporarily, sleeping. She sheepishly glanced at me and I smiled broadly. Her eyes shot to the ground and I was transported to a time very recently when I was very much like that mother. I remember the seemingly ceaseless corrections of behavior, the mid-shopping trip dart to the bathroom, and the explosive diapers from the infant who was tethered to my chest.

It was over a decade I was either attached to a baby through a breast or an umbilical cord. The ensuing preschool years were wonderful yet left me with a rattled interior that I think most moms might agree is a paradoxical mix of post-traumatic stress and Disneyland-like euphoria. In retrospect I wonder why I was so stressed out. I wonder why I felt I would never get through each of my children’s toddlerhood. It was really just a blur.

There I stood in Trader Joe’s and stared at that mom and thought, “Her babies are so cute, and that time goes so fast.” My heart sank and I realized I was one of those moms. A woman I swore I would never be, an older woman cautioning a young, exhausted, borderline deranged mom that, “It goes so fast, enjoy it now.” And the crazy part is, I really thought I was enjoying the time. Yet, it was swept away.

So, there in Trader Joe’s, I thought of the difficulty I had this morning with one of my older kiddos and I wondered if this pattern of fretful thinking and motherly exhaustion will ever cease. The unending concern for raising children seems to make life slow down but then you wake up one day and realize that those babies who you checked for breathing in the middle of the night are actually getting pretty close to driving or going to college or having children of their own!

That is when I stopped and realized that as time passes it is even more important for me to try to be present and appreciate the abundance of each of my children’s existences even if time seems to slip by without any notice of my motherly emotional state. Perhaps more importantly, I need to mother myself and absolve my guilt for not scrapbooking ever moment or in all honesty wishing that certain developmental stages would come to an end.

My deep hope is that the love that I have for my children and for myself will be enough. That I won’t have many regrets and that I will be able to cherish the memories I have of my kids’ childhood.

Time is not abundant but I believe love can be.