Archive | Single On Saturday RSS feed for this section

Tribeless On Saturday

22 Jan

It’s Saturday, and I’ve never felt more single in my life. Not romantically; like a stranger in my own country. I feel tribe-less.

I have friends marching in Washington the day after other friends attended inauguration balls. Still others share red- or blue-tinted outrage on social media, and I feel tribe-less. I’m not outraged by much these days; resentment is a luxury I can’t afford, and I have too much for which to be grateful.

A few days ago a good friend, who would attend Saturday’s rally in D.C., asked those of us staying home if we’d like our names added on the back of her poster so she could carry us with her. I thought it was a lovely sentiment and was moved by the idea, but I didn’t respond. I didn’t think I belonged there, on the back of my friend’s beautifully crafted piece of art (created by another mutual friend who was homebound with the flu).

I could have gone in person. It was my ex’s weekend with the kids. My fella is out of town on business. I know plenty of people going, so I wouldn’t be by myself with 500,000 strangers. But I don’t belong there.

I won’t go into details about why I don’t believe I belong there. For the record, I wouldn’t have belonged there on Inauguration Day, either.

Never have I felt so separated from my fellow countrymen. I hesitate even using that word “countrymen” because a good portion of the people I love would say it’s a misogynistic, non-inclusive word.

I’m a writer, and I’m afraid of using the word I want to use. Let that sink in.

Ok, maybe I get a little resentful sometimes.

In 2010 I attended a march at the Lincoln Memorial on the 47th anniversary of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s speech, on those very same steps. I thought I had found my tribe then, a couple hundred thousand of them, but I was wrong. Many of them have since been distorted by fear and resentment. Winning became more important than principles.

My mom and dad were there with me, and they are still in my tribe. We don’t always see things eye to eye but I trust beyond the shadow of a doubt their unconditional love. I have that trust with my children, and my brother. Do I have that level of trust with anyone else?

I feel like a pariah in my own country. If my conservative friends knew what I believed, I’m afraid they would disown me, or worse, lecture me. If my liberal friends knew what I believed, they, too, would give me labels I know aren’t accurate. This is why I’ve been so solitary my whole life, I remind myself.

It goes beyond politics. I see division in my church, too. Theological differences. Hatred of my Catholic faith communicated in snide comments or outright insults. Some of my favorite people call themselves “recovering Catholics,” and when they use that term to describe themselves, they unknowingly insult a large part of my identity. In those moments, I feel like I don’t belong. I’m not looking to convert or re-convert anyone. I made that mistake before, and I learned better.

In the midst of all the marching and chanting and celebrity ranting on TV, I sit at home doing very real battle with my deepest fear – that the people I love unconditionally are not capable of loving me back unconditionally. That your tolerance extends to some but not all. I am not angry at the hypocrisy so much as saddened by the rejection. You draw battle lines not realizing I’m on the other side.

I’m the independent voter stuck in no man’s land (can I use that term, “no man’s land?”) with thousands of other voiceless, tribe-less people seeking a spiritual solution while the rest of our country lines up on the left and the right demanding political solutions that are doomed to failure.

This Saturday, I found a few in my tribe. A motley crew of people who couldn’t be more different from each other. A long-haired, metal-head biker recovering addict. A mom of a special needs child who leans right, and a recently ordained deacon who leans left. A millionaire real estate broker, and a bank teller who moonlights as a rock music critic. A high school classmate who homeschools her four kids, and friend of a friend whom I’ve met only on Facebook, living as the only liberal in his conservative Texas town. I know who they are because they have the courage to be themselves unapologetically. I have so much to learn from you.

14 years ago when I was awaiting my first child’s birth, I was a member of an online support group of other moms with the same due date. One of them was a Catholic, conservative, vegan yoga instructor in northern Virginia whose online name was “Pixiepunk.” I said at the time, “It must be neat to live inside your head!” I know nothing else about her except that she has a daughter my son’s age. If you’re out there, Pixie, I’m pretty sure you’re in my tribe, too.

When I was a teenager, I got into an argument at Thanksgiving dinner at my aunt and uncle’s house, about caring for the homeless. I had to leave the table in tears, but 25 years later, I still still have a heart for the homeless and I still share thanksgiving with them, and we have learned to talk about other things and respect each other’s differences. Maybe they are in my tribe, too.

My biker friend posted on Facebook, “Some people will only like you if you fit inside their box. Don’t be afraid to shove that box up their ass.”

One of my mom friends said the only answer is prayer.

Still another posted a selfie of he and his wife holding a handmade sign reading, “What happens next is up to us.”

These are the anthems of my disconnected, leaderless tribe of misfits who don’t fit into anyone’s box. Who might not be welcome at a woman’s march because of their pro-life stance. Who might not be welcome at a church because they are ok with monogamous committed relationships between two people of the same gender being acknowledged as a legal marriage. Who dare to disagree with some of their respective political party platforms. Who just want the shouting to stop, and the listening to finally begin.

It’s Saturday and I’m listening. And I’m longing to be heard, and loved anyway.

“If the world hates you, know that it has hated me before it hated you. If you were of the world, the world would love you as its own; but because you are not of the world, but I chose you out of the world, therefore the world hates you.” These words from the Gospel of John remind me that I’m not a tribe-less member of a leaderless tribe. I have a leader who loves me even more unconditionally than even my parents, and his love is all that matters. His power is the only power that is real. Righteous indignation is his alone; it is too toxic for me. Far too toxic. May I practice his unconditional kindness and strive to find unity in Him alone.

Snowed In On Saturday

10 Jan img_4546

It was Saturday, and I was snowed in.

My favorite internet meteorologist had given us a heads up about the weekend’s impending storm a week in advance. By Wednesday night I was confident Richmond would be getting a good snowfall, and my excitement grew. Normally, early January depresses me as I pack up Christmas decorations and fall off my new year’s resolution wagon. But the possibility of a snow day, even a weekend snow day, never fails to brighten my spirits.

My favorite thing about a snow day is how it puts a stop to our normal busyness, sometimes for days at a time. It is a reminder of just how powerless we are in the face of Mother Nature. It is a forced Sabbath. And as long as I’m prepared with all the necessities – bread, milk, toilet paper, hot cocoa – I’m happy to be homebound for a day or two watching the gentle quieting of the world.

This Saturday, I did not eat the bread, drink the milk, or even open the new package of TP. But I did enjoy the cocoa in the company of one of my favorite people – Floyd.

I’ve been writing about Floyd on Holeyheart.com since the very beginning. I may not have used his name, but he is the “fella” to which I’ve referred now and then. In fact, he is one of the main reasons I started this blog in the first place.

I had been separated from my children’s father just a few weeks when Floyd and I became more than just acquaintances at church. The kids were not with me one Sunday morning, and he asked me how they were. I said they were good, they were at their dad’s this weekend (I’ve since learned that’s “code” for “I’m single.”). I guess that’s when our relationship started, because he immediately suggested I read a book that helped him get through his divorce, and the next week, he gave me a copy.

After that, we’d occasionally chat on Facebook, or say hello to each other after Mass. I had a lot of emotional baggage to unpack, and getting into a romantic relationship right away was very specifically on my “NOT To Do” list. It wasn’t even on my radar (although I can’t deny the butterflies I felt whenever he was near me). Dating was not his intention either. One of our first conversations was about how he’d made the decision early in his divorce not to get into a serious relationship again until after his kids were done with high school. He knew his focus needed to be them, and this gave me pause about my own future plans. He still had a high school senior and sophomore, and an eighth grader, making him a “safe” friend for me. Also, he was quite a bit older than me. Neither of us saw it coming.

I turns out the only things necessary for a romantic relationship to take root are time, attention, and a little bit of chemistry. By the end of the summer, it became apparent to me we’d better go on a date, because the flirting and innuendo were making us both a bit silly. I figured we’d go out a few times and it would fade, like most of my pre-marriage dating experiences.

That was five and a half years ago.

My divorce, however, wasn’t even final yet. I was not ready to be in a relationship, no matter how nice the guy seemed. I resolved to break up with him; a solid, “no contact” kind of break, otherwise we’d just end up back together. I talked to him about it, and I’m sure he tried to understand. He promised to honor my request, but he was understandably hurt.

So was I. I may have had good justifications for ending it, but what I really wanted to do was take his hands in mine and pray with him that God would guide our relationship. Praying with a partner is, in my opinion, the highest form of intimacy there is, but I avoided it. I thought I knew better. If we prayed together, I thought, it would make breaking up that much harder, that much more painful. I had been through it before and it was excruciating. I didn’t want that for him, or me.

So, on Christmas Eve 2011, when he whispered “I love you,” into my ear during the sign of peace at Mass, so softly he probably didn’t even think I heard it, I knew he meant it. He wanted what was best for me, even if that wasn’t him. And as a distraction and an outlet for all the feelings I was experiencing as a newly separated mom of three who had just had her first real post-divorce heartbreak, not with a jerk, but a truly wonderful gentleman, I started this blog one week later.

That was five years ago. Needless to say, we got back together. No contact did not work; forcing solutions never does. I’m a little embarrassed to say I don’t know how many times we got back together after needing “space.” He’s had more first kisses from me than I can remember. About two years ago, I decided to do what I had wanted to do in the beginning – turn my relationship over to God. I let go of my fears and gradually opened up emotionally. Ever so slowly, the world’s most patient man started to trust I wouldn’t walk away, and opened up more with me. I let myself fall in love with him again, as he did with me. It has been the most uncomfortable two years of my life, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Yes, uncomfortable. One of the pieces of emotional baggage I’ve uncovered in recovering from my divorce is a deep fear of intimacy. This came as a surprise to me, because when I was married, the lack of emotional intimacy was one of my biggest complaints. Turns out, that wasn’t my ex’s problem . . . it was mine. It has taken five years of being in a relationship with one person for me to learn it’s ok to let the person I love see me weak, anxious, falling apart, angry, tired, sick, on my period, gassy, grumpy, stinky, and downright afraid. I’m still not convinced it’s ok to leave dishes in the sink while he’s here, but I leave them there as practice.

This weekend, we planned to be snowed in together. At my house. (With my dirty dishes). Dating when you have three kids leaves very little opportunity for one-on-one time for more than a few hours at a time. We’ve gone on a few trips together in the last year, but trips usually offer plenty of activities and distractions that can get in the way of emotional intimacy. 24 hours of togetherness with no distractions made my heart beat fast, and not the “good” way. The only people who get to have that much uninterrupted time with me are my children, and they have to love me. He doesn’t have to. What if I had to fart and couldn’t hold it in that long?

Apparently, it doesn’t matter if I can’t hold it in that long. We had a really great 24 hours, during which we lazed around on the couch under blankets, watched TV, ate snacks, and engaged in one of the most intimate acts two people can do together.

That’s right. We cleaned my refrigerator.

Even my mother, who isn’t timid about tackling my dirty dishes or making my kids’ beds when I’m not here, has never broken the boundary protecting that inner sanctum from outsiders.

I had condiments with expiration dates from ten years ago. There’s a certain amount of shame attached to that truth, and I shared it with a man whose opinion matters greatly to me.

I’ve unlocked a new level of intimacy with this man who for some reason still wants to be in my life after the ups and downs I’ve put him through. After letting him see the contents of my fridge, there’s little else I would keep from him. I hope we get a few more snow days together this season.

Still Single On Saturday?

13 Feb

It’s Saturday and I’m single. I think. I dunno. I’m not married. I’m confused. I have a headache.

Last week, an unmarried male acquaintance of mine, in the context of teasing me about how I can actually like cleaning my house, asked me, tongue in cheek, “Are you single?” To which I responded, “Technically, yes. Well, I’m not married. I don’t have a ring and a date or anything. I guess it depends on your definition of single.” At which point I wanted to sink uncomfortably into the floor.

My Facebook status says “In a Relationship.” Not only that, it’s an exclusive long-term relationship, not just some flavor of the month. But when I fill out government forms, I can’t check the box marked “Married.” Sometimes there’s a box marked “Divorced.” When there isn’t, I check “Single.”

Whether or not “In a Relationship” ever turns into “Married,” I will always be “Divorced.”

Or will I?

The Catholic Church is like Yoda: there is no “tried.” There is either “I do” or “I do not.”

There is no “divorce.” There is either “married” or “not married.”

My religious faith doesn’t recognize divorce. In the Catholic Church there is no such thing. Yes, the Church acknowledges the secular reality that about 50% of people who get married will eventually get a divorce decree from the state. But as far as the Church is concerned, I’m still married to my first husband. Even though he has taken a new spouse. Even though they are expecting a new baby. As far as the Church is concerned, he is a public adulterer, and I’m a private one by dating another man. Apparently the Church is less concerned about the “dating” variety of adultery, given that most divorced Catholics do at least date while remaining active members of their church community, as long as they aren’t cohabitating with their partners and aren’t publicly flaunting their presumed sexual behaviors.

Contrary to popular misconception, divorce itself is not necessarily a sin, nor does getting a civil divorce mean I’ll be excommunicated from the Church; remember, the Church says there is no such thing. But if “the fella” wanted to give me a diamond for Valentine’s Day, I wouldn’t be free to say yes. Getting remarried would be the thing that keeps me from being in communion with the Church, and as legalistic as my religion is in this regard, it is an important part of my identity that I have no desire to abandon for, say, Anglicanism.

It’s Saturday and I’m a divorced, married, single mother in a long-term, exclusive relationship. Facebook can’t handle a relationship status like that. (Wait, I forgot about “It’s Complicated.” Insert laughing emoji here.)

My unfulfilled New Years resolution for 2015 was to “simplify.” A year later, I have begun to simplify the relationship status. Last Sunday, the day after my uncomfortable relationship status exchange, I began writing the summary for my annulment request.

There are lots of misconceptions about annulment. When I talk about it with Catholics and non-Catholics alike, one of the first responses is, “What about the children?” There’s a common belief that getting an annulment is akin to publicly stating my children are illegitimate, which is a ludicrous word to describe any human life. Just as there is no such thing as “divorce” in the Church, there is no such thing as an “illegitimate life” in the Church. Nor is it saying that my children are bastards or born out of wedlock.

An annulment acknowledges the reality of a wedding while at the same time nullifying the validity of the marriage. In the Catholic Church, it takes more than mutual love, vows, rings, and a marriage decree for a marriage to be valid. Even consummation is not enough to seal the deal, although not consummating the marriage relationship is definitely grounds for dissolution.

It comes down to the Church’s definition of marriage and the conditions present at the time the ceremony took place. If the marriage is missing just one part of the definition from day one, it was never a valid marriage to start with. For example, marriage by the Church’s definition is biologically procreative, which is one reason why two people of the same gender cannot have a valid marriage in the church. It has nothing to do with discriminating against two people who love each other and everything to do with simple biology.

By definition marriage is a loving, unconditional, permanent, exclusive, procreative covenant entered into by both parties freely and without condition or impediment. The annulment process looks at whether those basic qualities were missing for one or the other of the spouses. If something was missing, like the intention to remain faithful, then the marriage was never valid in the first place, the marriage is annulled, and the spouses are free to marry again.

Any number of factors could render a marriage invalid – intoxication, mental illness, pregnancy and a father-in-law with a shotgun are just a few. When I first spoke to a deacon about annulment, he informed me that he and his wife had at least seven possible grounds for annulment. I suspect most couples do; at the very least, we all go into marriage with expectations of which we probably aren’t even conscious. For half of couples, God’s grace makes up for it and the sacrament is renewed every morning along with their vows to stay faithful for another day, into perpetuity. Having grounds doesn’t mean the marriage is destined to fail, which I suppose is why the Church continues to preside over most marriages, even the ones that start on shaky ground.

Conversely, annulment, at least in the United States, is the Church’s best pastoral, compassionate response to people whose marriages failed and who want a second chance.

I don’t know if I want a second chance. There’s a lot more to marriage than love and companionship; every decision becomes a jointly made one, and I’m used to being independent. Would I really be ready to love someone through “worse” and not just “better?” Is anyone? I have a friend who just lost the love of his life to cancer, and I am certain he wasn’t ready to love through the worst of the worse, but he did. Could I love like him?

Ultimately marriage is a choice. So should being single. Today my relationship status is not so much a choice as it is a default position. Perhaps if and when my annulment is approved and I am free to make that choice, I’ll have a better answer when someone asks, “Are you single?” Maybe I won’t stumble over my words or hide behind church legalities to avoid the joys of true intimacy and building a life together. Maybe I’ll find the grace to put “we” before “me.”

Until then, it’s Saturday, and I have a date with a lovely man I treasure, who is cooking me dinner and going with me to a bluegrass concert at the same place we met and had our first date – our Church. I can’t think of a better place to be regardless of what boxes I check on forms.

Solitude On Saturday

14 Sep

It’s Saturday, and by now you know the drill. Me too. I think I may have finally, after four years, accepted it.

Most weekends without my kids are “me” weekends filled with activity that, truth be told, are just distractions from the reality of single parenthood. I’ve hiked and biked and day tripped. I’ve cleaned with fury, and exerted myself to the point of exhaustion in my yard. I’ve gone on dates like a person who has starved and doesn’t know when she might eat again.

This weekend, I just worked. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t go go go. Later in the evening I decided to take myself to a movie I’d been wanting to see, and the thought of being accompanied by a date, while it crossed my mind, didn’t even feel appealing. For the first time in a long time, I craved solitude.

First I took myself to the new Southern Seasons store that just opened up in Richmond. This place makes Whole Foods look like it’s charging “Walmart prices.” It’s a gourmet foods store. I bought myself a $5 pint of soup and $5 slice of artisan cheese. Browsing the candy section, I felt like Audrey Hepburn’s character window shopping at Tiffany’s. Who pays $2.50 for a candy the size of a quarter? I don’t care how pretty it looks!

Then I took myself to see Boyhood. It’s a “slice of life” movie filmed with the same ensemble of actors over the course of 15 years, following the characters as they grow up (or just get older). It was the perfect movie for this single mom of little kids on the cusp of herb39th birthday. The story is told from the perspective of the boy in the family, but actually it is about each one of the members of the family and how their life choices affect them.

Some of the mom’s life choices echoed my own, and seeing how those choices played out long term was both painful and inspiring. She also was a single mom, and she was distracted from focusing on her kids under the guise of trying to make their lives better: moving near her mother, going back to college, dating men who appeared to be mature, while feeding her resentment and self-righteousness toward her kids’ slow-to-grow-up but good-hearted dad. By the end of the movie she has gone through two alcoholic husbands, several moves, with only one or two friendships with other women as an emotional support system. Near the end when her son is packing for college, she explodes at him with grief and frustration, sobbing, “I just thought there would be more.”

I do not want to end up like her.

After 15 years of being apart from her children’s father, she never did learn to be comfortable in her own skin. She was so focused on making a better life that she missed out on just being present to her kids. She wasn’t a “bad” mom; she cared about her kids, and she protected them from abuse. But never was there a scene where she just had fun with them. At one point early on in the film, the son complained about the jerk she married, to which she responded, “I wanted us to be a family.” He says, with the wisdom only a nine year old boy can have, “We already were a family.”

I haven’t been dating jerks, and I certainly haven’t had my sights set on marriage in order to “complete” my family. I was married long enough to know how much work feeding and nurturing a love relationship is, and there’s not enough of “me” to give to parenting and marriage, at least not right now. I’m sure a lot of married moms feel that way, too; I did. But at least when you are married to your children’s father, the work is like a long-term investment so that when the kids do finally fly from the nest, you have a relationship with someone who has shared the whole gut-wrenching journey with you. Being single, any significant energy I give to romance is robbing it from my kids.

It’s Saturday, and today I’m investing in myself. I’m committed to being present to my kids. I’m grateful for solitude, for the strong, heathy women who are my role models, and for the men whose friendship (with and without “benefits”) has made no demands or promises.

Single On Labor Day

8 Sep

It’s Saturday, I’m single, and I’m calling into question beliefs I didn’t even know I had until they were revealed by the events of my Labor Day weekend.

Perhaps you’ve heard the following words coming out of the mouth of a self-righteous office manager, or your ex. Maybe you’ve said it yourself. “Poor planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part.” It’s a snarky, judgmental thing to say, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ve ever said it, but I’ve certainly thought it, especially in my past professional life working at a stressful magazine advertising job.

I didn’t realize until last weekend that I’ve attributed this very common human attitude to my divine Higher Power.

Last Sunday afternoon I headed to the mountains to join a backpacking Meetup group from Washington, DC. I thought I knew where I was going. I didn’t read the directions, much less print them out. We would be camping and hiking in Shenandoah National Park, and I knew how to get there. I felt totally confident winging it. I even left early.

Unfortunately, what I didn’t realize is the parking lot for our camp site was NOT in the park. It was about a 45 minute drive from any park entrance. And I didn’t discover this critical detail until 6:30 pm, the time I was supposed to be joining them.

I could have tried to find the lot on my own in the setting sun and hike in the dark for a mile to the campsite, but that didn’t seem like a very safe choice. The park ranger who was helping me with the map suggested I just stay there at the campground in the park; after all, there were plenty of open sites, and it would be dark in an hour. I’ve never camped solo, but I didn’t really want to drive all the way home, either; after all, I’d come ready for sleeping outside in a tent. So I decided to stay, do a little writing, go to sleep early, and drive to my group at dawn.

I was pretty humbled by a hard lesson in preparation and thinking I know more than I do. Being solo was my divine punishment, I reasoned. I’ve never truly believed in a “punishing” God in the traditional sense, but rather a God who doesn’t stand in the way of the natural consequences of my mistakes. Clearly, I had made some this time, and I believed I deserved to be alone, “sent to my room” as it were, to think about what I’d done.

I did not believe in a God that blesses someone who makes a mistake in judgement. The God I believed in would have said, “Poor planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part.” The God I believed in would have left me to reap what I’d sown. And this was the God who, until this past weekend, I was attempting to trust? No wonder I had difficulty!

The God I believed in would never “reward” me with a serendipitous invitation to an bluegrass concert in the nearest college town with two interesting strangers who showed me the best night I’ve had in years.

Fortunately, the God I believed in is not the God who showed up at that camp site Sunday night. And because the God who DID show up did indeed bless me with a serendipitous adventure the likes of which I’ve never had, I’ve decided that’s the God I’m going to believe in from now on.

But buried within my distorted belief about God were some even more distorted beliefs unconsciously operating for some time.

1. Being alone is punishment, or at the very least, a natural consequence.

I’m not sure where this belief originated, but it’s an old one, and it has been reinforced by countless experiences where isolation and rejection were the natural consequences of being my awkward, imaginative, open hearted, genuine self. Over time I’ve developed some skills to avoid this consequence – becoming a chameleon, intuiting other people’s desires, giving them what they want, being someone they are comfortable around. These tools have served me well professionally, but at the cost of remembering how to be myself.

2. If I’m alone, obviously it’s my own fault and I’ve done something wrong to deserve it.

I’m an introvert and I do like some solitude now and then. I definitely prefer working independently rather than as part of a group. But I crave regular social connection. Introverts get lonely, too.

Prolonged loneliness has done its share of damage to my sense of self-worth. There’s nothing more human than to ask, “What have I done to deserve this?” when I’m in pain, and loneliness is painful. But that kind of self-pity is just a subtle attempt to control the uncontrollable. The truth is, I may not have done anything wrong. Rejection is not always about me; sometimes, it’s about the other person or group, and sometimes it’s God’s way of protecting me. Obsessively trying to find fault in myself, and then twisting myself into a pretzel to change, is about the most self-centered approach I could take to loneliness, and it has definitely added more pain to my life.

3. I deserve to be alone.

Obsessive fault-finding naturally leads to this ridiculous belief. This is resignation, not acceptance, and it is patently false. What I deserve is healthy relationships and a balanced approach to solitude and sociability.

4. Being alone is unsafe, or at the very least, difficult.

The people who invited me to the bluegrass concert were both Shenandoah National Park employees in their twenties. They were seasonal workers living there in the park. And when I told them I was nervous about camping there by myself, they both brushed it off. Melissa, age 23, said, “I love camping by myself. There’s always lots of other people and families around who will get to know you and include you.” Matt, age 27, said, “You’re never really alone in the park.”

It is true. When I had been there with hiking groups, everyone walked at their own pace, and I ended up walking by myself a lot, which was lovely. I passed other people on the trail, and made brief connections with other hikers who were not part of the group. The trails are well marked, and there are frequent sign posts to direct you. So I decided I didn’t need meet up with my D.C. group on Monday morning. I picked a nearby loop trail, got myself a paper map at the visitor’s center, and set out on my own.

I rediscovered solitude. I didn’t worry about keeping up with people who hike faster than me, and I didn’t feel the need to slow my pace to keep an eye on the stragglers behind. If I wanted to climb down a rocky ledge to get a better view of the waterfall, I did it. If I wanted to take pictures of the valley or return the calls of a crow flying overhead, no one was around making fun of my bird noises.

For three years of being a single parent, I’ve been focused almost entirely on the limitations of flying solo. I can’t just go to the grocery store when I need milk. I can’t keep my house as clean as I could when I had someone else to mow the grass. I run late a lot, and family outings are a lot harder with only two hands instead of four.

One Saturday this summer I took the kids to see fireworks with another single parent who has two kids. Five kids between us, but the extra set of hands to carry drinks and snacks, those shoulders to carry my little one when the walk got too long, the second set of eyes when the girls had strayed from the picnic blanket too far, and mostly having someone else to enjoy watching our kids be kids was like a cold glass of water after being in a desert.

I found myself feeling deeply depressed that it was only a temporary relief from the limitations of being single. Single on Sunday sucked. But two months later I can see it is my long-term aloneness that gives me such deep appreciation and gratitude for a simple moment of togetherness. I never had that gratitude when I was married and had partnership every day. And as difficult as being a single parent can be, being a married parent was even more difficult in some ways.

Life is hard, single or not. It’s my experiences of isolation and fear of rejection that have made me capable of unconditional love and acceptance of the people who do cross my path now. Some of them are quite different from me, but they have become the truest friends I’ve ever had. I may not share my home or my bed with any of them, but I do share my emotional life, by burdens and joys, and my stories of adventure and lessons learned.

Being single, whether as a parent or on the trail, may have its limitations, but nothing is more limiting than operating under old beliefs that do me more harm than good. It’s my attitude that is my greatest limitation. I’m so grateful for my mistake last weekend. It forced me to face some of those old attitudes and try out some new ones.

Serenity On Saturday

23 Aug

It’s Saturday, I’m single, and for the first time in my life, I’ve experienced serenity.

Not this Saturday. This Saturday I’m my usual hot mess. It was last Saturday when I went on my son’s Boy Scout camping trip. The boys went to a “lake” that was actually a 120 foot deep shale quarry filled with crystal clear water. You couldn’t see the bottom, and there was no beach to gradually wade in. All of us had to wear life jackets as we enjoyed a zip line and a multitude of inflatable climbing structures. My son was a bit intimidated by it all, but he enjoyed the canoe and the paddle boat.

They warned us to take off rings, earrings, or anything else valuable. When I went in the water, I left my glasses on dry land. But in the canoe, I never thought to take them off. I really can’t see without them.

We were paddling along the sharp cliff wall of the quarry, where there were blackberry brambles growing out from the cracks in the rocks. As we paddled under those brambles, a branch brushed the side of my glasses and knocked them off my head into the water, where they sunk into the blackness before I could even blink.

In about 5 seconds’ time, I experienced all the stages of grief compressed. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and ultimately acceptance. It was nearly instant. My heart raced for a moment, and then serenity washed over me. Complete acceptance that my glasses were gone. And I laughed. What else could I do? I spend hours every summer pillaging blackberry bushes for the plumpest, sweetest berries, and now they were having their revenge!

My son thought I was losing my mind that I was so calm. He was horrified at what happened and was frantically calling for the lifeguard who was patrolling the area in his kayak. I joined in the effort to get his attention, but not because I thought there was anything that could be done.

In that moment, I had totally surrendered. I let go absolutely. I had prescription sunglasses back at the campsite, and I’d go to LensCrafters when we got home Sunday. Until then, I’d be ok.

I can’t think of a another time in my life that I’ve been so at peace about something I couldn’t control, especially so quickly. Usually the journey to acceptance is a long winding road that involves a lot of crying and backtracking. Of course, letting go of people and situations is not like letting go of a pair of glasses, either. But it was a wonderful concrete example of what serenity is and how it actually works.

Since the incident with the glasses last weekend, I’ve had to do more letting go, and every time I’m tempted to “pick up” again, I take a deep breath and say to myself, “The glasses are under 100 feet of water.” The thing for which I want to grasp is gone, if it was ever there in the first place.

But that’s not the end of the story. One of the park’s employees had diving gear. He got suited up and found the glasses about 20 feet down, stuck on a rock ledge. I truly never thought I’d see them again, but grace came through yet again.

We’ve all heard that cliche, “If you love something, let it go. If it doesn’t return it was never really yours.” Well, I’ve had lots of “boomerangs” in my life, lots of second and third chances with work situations, relationships, friends and family. And I can say from experience that even if it does come back (which is never a guarantee) it’s still not really mine. It was never really mine, ever.

That’s the heart of serenity.

Raising Adults

12 Jul

It’s Saturday, I’m single, and my son came home from camp today. A week ago, I had to carry him down the stairs, and his father had to push him toward the car, and the Scoutmaster had to pry him away from his dad’s arms at the camp entrance. Aside from the day we told the kids we were getting a divorce, camp send off is the hardest thing I’ve had to do as a parent.

I’ve spent the better part of this past week questioning whether I’d done the right thing. Thank goodness for all my guy friends who’ve assured me that, yes, he’s going to be better off having gone to camp, in spite of his resistance. He will thank me one day, they said. And God bless the Scoutmaster who sent email and photo updates of the boys every day. It was my lifeline.

Through his Sunday morning tears, my son told me the reason he was so upset was that he didn’t have any say in the decision; we decided for him. I told him we’ve been making decisions for him for 11 years, because he’s been a little boy. And now that he’s getting older, we will have to let him start making some of his own decisions. After he got back from camp, of course.

I’m looking forward to that about as much as I look forward to the end of summer break.

It’s gotten me thinking about why I sent him to camp in the first place – to foster his independence and help him find the confidence and community he needs to sustain him as he makes the journey toward adulthood. As hard as it has been to deliberately remove my son from his comfort zone, what got me through my self doubt was continually reminding myself that I’m not supposed to be raising a child. I’m raising an adult.

Based on the current outcome, I’m really good at raising children. I have three really well-behaved kids who sit still in restaurants (even without the aid of electronics), listen attentively on guided tours of historical places, are quiet in church, go to bed when I ask, and do their homework without much prompting. They are “free range kids” who have their run of the house and can be trusted (mostly) not to eat all the junk food if I sleep late in the morning. Occasionally they make their own beds and clean their own rooms, although the little one hasn’t caught on to this yet. They work out most of their sibling conflicts without much parental brokering. I’ve followed my mother’s method of childrearing – let kids be kids within boundaries which keep them safe, keep them on a predictable schedule and a regular routine, and use encouragement and scolding in equal parts. It has worked.

However, I know very little about raising adults. I am not convinced that I am one myself, and I’m not so sure I want to be one.

It’s Saturday, and I’m still a child on the inside. I want to go to camp. I want to pick blackberries. I want to play at the river. I want someone else to do the cooking. When I really was a child, I thought being an adult meant being able to do what I wanted, when I wanted. Turns out, that’s not what it is at all. Being an adult means having to wake up when I’d rather sleep, go to work when I’d rather play, cook and clean when I’d rather be out on my bike.

It’s Saturday, and being an adult doesn’t mean I get to make all the decisions for myself. Not really. It’s Saturday, and my kids make my decisions, whether or not they realize it. My clients and employers make my decisions. My mortgage company and utilities companies and banking institutions make my decisions.

My only real choice is my attitude. Will I decide to have an attitude of resignation, or an attitude of rebellion? Neither one suits me. How about an attitude of denial? That one works for a while, until it doesn’t. The bills and the laundry and the dishes pile up, demanding attention. The children whine more, and I wine more. Or crush candies.

It’s Saturday, and I choose an attitude of acceptance. And as my son opened the car door to face his mom again, he had a smile on his face. He was beaming, actually. He apparently chose an attitude of acceptance, too.

It’s Saturday, and he’s not going to be thrilled to learn that adulthood doesn’t mean doing whatever he wants. But, he’s off playing with his friends now. I’ll let that lesson wait until Sunday.

%d bloggers like this: