The fruits of neglect

I look at my neglected vegetable patch. A perfect lettuce stares back at me.

I stare back at it in wonder. It is so perfect and yet I had almost nothing to do with it. Not with its perfection, and perhaps, nor with its being there. Did I sow lettuce seeds last fall or winter? Threw some in there to over-winterize? Or wait, didn’t a lettuce go to flower last fall (due to neglect, of course) along with a bunch of other greens and herbs? I try to remember the going-ons in my yard from last summer.

I may never know the truth. Yet I marvel at the beauty in front of me. Surely, I had something to do with it, and yet I cannot put a finger on what that might be, and nor can I take credit for it.

I did notice it growing, a teeny tiny baby, translucent green, hopeful in the midst of all weeds. As I furiously yanked the weeds out, I slowed down and yanked around it, leaving it in, along with a few other hopefuls - spinach, kale, lettuce, a tiny tomato plant – surely from seed. Sigh…it does makes me wonder how many I perfectly good ones I destroyed in the process… Hmm… but back to focusing on the good and not on those in the green waste bin, decomposing with other regrets. Sigh...

Coming back to the one that made it. I remember pressing down the earth around it to make it stable despite the yanking of weeds all around. Now that I do remember. After that moment I did exactly what a great gardener would do. Ignore it.

Well, maybe that’s what it needed. For me to notice it, leave it in and then simply let it be. To not disturb it, to not sweat over it, or its future. To simply marvel at its existence, perhaps to keep a little faith in it and to be okay whether or not it made it.

From where I stand right now, I wonder if the lettuce is telling me something about parenting goals. At this point in my life and my child’s.

I look at the lettuce for confirmation. For answers maybe. It gives me none. And yet, it tells me a lot.

To loving till it hurts and letting go like it's the only thing to do...

This Mother’s Day is bittersweet. My heart is so fully aware that my child will leave home in a few months. It stills a little or beats a little faster with every conversation about leaving, every preparation for leaving. It’s all very exciting and wonderful, a new chapter, an unknown path ahead waiting for her to make it her own, a certain taking stock of all the work she’s put in, pride in who she’s become. Why then will that little ache inside persist?

I brush it off, I’m not ready to deal with it, I want to stay in the present. It will hit when it hits and I’ll deal with it then, I tell myself. Good plan. I will try and enjoy my time with her (Sigh… I wish I could tell you that makes all the arguments go away. It doesn’t. Sorry to burst that bubble).

Once we become mothers, our lives are forever intertwined in those little and eventually not-so-little beings. A tiny part of our being is no longer our own. Some mothers navigate the giving that small piece more gracefully than others it seems. They remain themselves first and mothers second. They are the ones who put their oxygen masks first.

Perhaps it hits me harder, because somewhere deep down, I suspect she is the reason I am alive. She is the sense of purpose I needed to get out of hospitals and near-death situations. This small, energetic, wonder child may have saved me. A friend had once told me that children need their mothers till age ten or eleven. She was a few months short of ten when I was in a near-death situation. Stuck in the hospital for over a month and a half, I spent countless minutes and energy I didn’t quite have wondering and mostly driving myself crazy: Is it age ten or is it eleven? If it’s ten, whew… it’s okay, she’s almost there. But what if it’s eleven? Sh** I got to get out of here – alive. Sigh…let’s just blame it on the meds and not the innerworkings of my mind.

Will and sense of purpose are strange things. And the human heart and brain will perhaps never comprehend them. I am growingly aware that she would have been fine even if I had not made it. Not to give this all a morbid twist, but it comes from a place where I’m trying to figure out where she ends, and I begin. And we are separate and there is beauty in that. Even if it hurts to separate.

So, if this child kept me alive, who do I become without her? Who am I without her? I suspect it does not have to be a near-death situation for mothers to relate and feel the way I feel right now.

I draw inspiration from the mother bird who pushes her chickie out of the nest. She’s simply pragmatic and knows when it’s time and goes about it without much fuss, song and dance (or writing a blog). She is in tune with nature and respects its laws and lives her life by it. She kicks the chickie out, makes sure it can fly, and resets. Her life starts anew. Build a new nest, lay some new eggs, new chickies…okaaaay, we’re not going down that path, for sure. Whew! True, we will never know her innerworkings, her heartache, her apprehensions, her worries, or if she’s even capable of feeling any of it. Oh, the miracle that is nature.

As I stand at this cusp, watching my daughter’s excitement (and apprehension), maybe I should draw on her excitement and ask myself what the future holds for me. Is this a time for mothers to reset their lives? To take back the piece of ourselves that we gave away. I wonder if there is any taking back. Okay, we’ll leave those pieces where they want to be - how they want to be, to change organically when they’re ready. For I also hear it never ends. Not when your child is five, not when your child is fifty. I suppose there is no other recourse but to live our lives with our mixed bags of heartache and excitement, of enmeshed and separate lives, of loving till it hurts and letting go like it’s the only thing to do.

Thank you, mamma bird - I’m trying to be just like you. Even if that little ache inside persists.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the wonderful mothers - may we figure ourselves at every stage - not simply for who we are as mothers but who we are as ourselves.

Just gratitude

Today is the one-year-anniversary of one of the worst days of my life. My 16-year-old daughter’s car was T-boned and totaled. She was driving. The car toppled over (270 degrees). Some kind passers-by got there, they banged on the window, they asked her to open the sunroof that was now perpendicular to the ground. She tried. It opened a little and then jammed. The man yanked it, breaking it open and helped her crawl out of the misshapen heap of a car.

She was miraculously unhurt.

It was one of the worst days of my life. And yet all I could feel that day was grateful.

My husband got the call that no parent ever wants to get. And yet all I felt was grateful.

The car was totaled. I was grateful it was only the car.

My daughter had a concussion. I was grateful it was mild.

She was in terrible shock. Her nervous system seemed awry. I was grateful I could find healing resources. 

The next day she could barely walk (whiplash, shock, adrenaline rush gone, bruises, soreness). I was grateful I could help her.

My husband and I were badly shaken up. I was grateful for the force of gratitude that engulfed and held us, feeding us strength and fortitude and even allowing us to crack jokes (bad ones, of course) in the ER.

She was going to miss the fencing Junior Olympics. It would hurt her recruitment chances. I was grateful she would be able to fence again.

Neighbors and friends stopped by with treats and flowers. I was grateful for them. Not a single sugary treat went to waste – we had a constant trickle of teenagers.  

Her friends stopped by with their youthful laughter and cheer. She started to smile again. I was grateful for each one of them.

Yes, I find it strange that all I could feel on one of the worst days was an overwhelming feeling of gratitude. I wanted to believe in every God and every superior force that might be and thank them all for watching over her.

I wanted to thank the kind strangers who came to her rescue. The man who broke the sunroof with his bare hands and helped her crawl out. The lady who sat on the pavement beside her and pulled glass pieces out of her hair. The other lady who consoled her and lent my daughter her phone. They were gone by the time my husband got there. They left when the paramedics arrived.  

I will never know them. I will never meet them. I will never forget these people who I will never have known. I will continue to thank them in my heart. With all my heart. Forever.

Now trust me, I’m no born-optimist or anything sun-shiney like that. I am probably somewhat/at-best hopeful but more in a hesitant, waiting-for-the-other-shoe-to-drop way.

I am almost puzzled that my mind didn’t dwell on how it could have been avoided. How she could have come home straight from school, how she could have left a split-second later, or earlier, how the other car could have been traveling slower (and possibly adhering to the speed limit), how… how… how…

No, my mind would not travel to those places, refixing the broken in my imagination, making it shiny and problem-free with different outcomes, something I grudgingly admit, I am capable of. At times, with gusto.

True, I never want to go to that donut place again, but other than that, my mind would not travel to any such areas of could-have-beens. So engulfed was I in the gratitude of the moment. My child was relatively unhurt and nothing else mattered.

I marvel at the wonder of it all. It must be a strength of our species.

On one of the worst days of my life, if my most prevailing emotion can be gratitude, what a magnificent species we must be… 

Rewriting stories

Last month, I saw my naturopath’s resident for bodywork and visceral manipulation. My body was in constant pain, I had incessant headaches, nausea, I wasn’t sleeping well… I was ill at ease all the time. I get impatient and frustrated in periods such as these. For there is no single solution, no single ailment to fix and address. It feels like an avalanche in the present, with roots in the past – decades of illness, surgeries gone wrong, intestinal perforation, months of hospital stay, truckloads of medication, ensuing complications – liver disease, scar tissues… you get the gist. The medical system worked hard to keep me alive, they did their everything, they succeeded. But despite their “success”, I live with what seems to me, unresolved pain and the outcomes of the illness and medical events.

It has been a journey and countless people have helped me. Family, friends, strangers, the medical community, the alternate medicine community who I rely on greatly… I am lucky to be alive and to live a normal life. Which is why I feel a twinge of guilt each time I am pissed at my lot, the aches and pains, and limitations, and the irritation that I will never be rid of it. Never. Ever. Grrrrr…

This piece is not to reveal my inner inadequacies in maturity, grace, acceptance… even if I may be doing a fine job of it so far. I simply want to share something this wise practitioner said to me, that gives me pause. And a certain hope.

We studied my abdomen as she decided what needed the most work. I started narrating the events of the past – of how the surgeon accidentally nicked my small bowel, of how the sutures came undone, and the ensuing mayhem which explains my pain years later.

A lot had happened. And my practitioner was aware. She listened and quietly said to me that my body was beautiful and amazing. That it could endure so much and be who it is, that my inner organs were wonderful.

It was hard for me to receive her kind words. She was speaking of a certain beauty, while all I could see were problems.

She continued hesitantly, asking for my permission to share an idea. The curious cat that I am, on a constant quest to make sense of the world, I was not passing up on perspectives from this lovely person. I nodded.

She said sometimes it is important for us to rewrite our stories. While there was no denying the bad, sometimes we need to shed light on the good occurring alongside. She spoke of a body-mind connection and of how our bodies are listening to our stories and how the healing process may gain from it. And reduce the stress. Once again, she reminded me of how strong I was, how beautiful my body was, to go through everything it had gone through and be what it is today.

I realized that each time I am in pain, my mind probably goes back to that time of botched surgery. I suppose it gives me an explanation of why I feel crummy. A justification even.

And easy as she made it sound to rewrite our stories, is it truly that simple?

Who would I be without that story? Was I willing to give it up? Did I need to give it up? It was one story. Maybe I could see that story alongside other stories of survival and strength, and kindness from others and sheer love. Those stories exist too. And they have always been there. Waiting. Patiently.  

How then, do I own these stories? Wholeheartedly, compassionately, without undermining any of it? In the wake of the other horrible stories occurring alongside? 

Perhaps I will have to be a braver version of myself. Perhaps I will have to give up certain stories that I am holding on tightly to. That may no longer be serving me.

Happy New Year my friends! May we be able to rewrite our stories to bring back our peace. That it gives us strength and brings the power back to ourselves, rather than to the villains of our past – events, circumstances, people who caused us pain. Let our stories be those of the strength we showed in those times. Of our perseverance, compassion, gentleness and courage.

And maybe it will loosen the grip of the ghosts of our past, giving us a certain freedom to move forward in the direction we would like to. In the direction of our true selves. For our true selves can only be radiant and luminous. Happy 2023!

Love,

Ruta

“But Why??”

My head and heart often seem to be at odds. Not in any clear obvious way, not like the Greek tragedies we studied in college with a tragic hero/heroine (me) at the center, who must choose between love and duty.  However dramatic I may seem, my life is pretty plain.

How are things “supposed” to be?

I wrestle with the thought – wrangle it, watch it, fear it… with uneasiness, with open curiosity, steeped in judgement, in compassion. Yes. Welcome to my headspace – you can do all of that in the same space and in the same timeframe.

I stare some more at the question. I am brave enough to take it out of my head, out of its assimilated state mixed in with the other stuff, stale beliefs, etc. I squint. I gaze. I walk around it in wonder. I stare some more. With curiosity. With puzzlement.

My head acts like the boss. It knows. Facts are facts. That’s the way things are supposed to be. That’s the path of safety and security. It is the policeman who knows its job is to keep me safe.

My heart is not quite convinced. It wanders around it with puzzlement and open curiosity. Once the head is a little removed, it can hear its own beating. And all it feels is puzzlement. It has many questions. Like my child who would flood me with endless “But why??”. Only for my every very logical response to be faced with another never-ending, never-satisfied “But why??”.

I could never tell if it was a game to her or if it was genuine perplexity. In the case of my heart, I know. It is perplexity. A lot of it. From many years ago.

Who made the rules, it wants to know. And why? My heart looks at my head in askance. Why do you give so much importance to so many things that you don’t really care about. Okay correction, that I (heart) really don’t care about. Is it because others value it? Because society values it? Because you were told so? Because you feared you would be nothing without it? Like my child, all my heart wants to say to my head is “But why??”.

Small things, big things, programmed things, acquired things. Tiny little metal boxes of inflexible beliefs and fears, sticking out, poking at us, waiting possibly to simply gather rust. They may be valuable to society or a greater belief system. Do they add luminosity to our life and being? Or do they weigh us down?

Really, I’m not asking us to break all the rules. Please return your library books on time and stop at the traffic light. I’m questioning the expectations and tiny rules we make for ourselves. Those that seem to matter to us when they really may not matter to us very much. The strictness we may introduce into our lives, which may be the result of lives led, past experiences, how we were raised, the list is endless…

The heart knows if something matters to us. And different things matter to different people. All the heart may want is a little more freedom, to breathe, to be. To be itself, and not be dragged about.

Maybe, all it wants is for the rhythm of its beating to be acknowledged. For its “But Why??” to be heard.

Grateful for me

If I write a blog sometime around my birthday, it is often about September, and changing seasons, and transitions, and the end of summer and perhaps, just a little metaphorically, of youth and energy.

I thought about it today as I walked the dog, and was struck by something entirely new, something entirely alien to my being. It was a quiet realization that I was grateful for who I was.

I suddenly appreciated my age and being older. I appreciated who I was and where I came from, the family I came from, the challenges, the wonderful experiences, my spirit as a child, the strength of people around me as a child.

In a talk I once attended by Tara Westover, author of Educated, she said we see ourselves through the lens of our family and how they perceive us and that and that has the power to make or break us (paraphrasing here). The thought stayed with me, and I wondered how it applies to the families we marry into, or if we move away from our families, to the communities that surround us. That seems like a slippery slope, one filled with needs of validation and reinforcement.

And yet, on my walk today, it was just me, appreciating myself – my broken body, my resilience, my quirkiness, my mad adventures, my talents – even if I let them dwindle away, my curiosity, my determination, and so on…   

Now, if there were one negative thing, I would most likely not associate with myself, that would be pomposity. And yet, this thought reeked of it. Yeah yeah, my pompous head is no longer capable of passing through doors. As I started deflecting my thoughts and deflating the swollen head with humor. I stopped myself. Humor was my way out. It’s easy to self-deprecate and diminish oneself, and many of us are good at it. 

Owning the good about oneself is hard. Congratulating oneself is hard. And yet, quietly and simply, I was suddenly able to do so. And I was in awe. I wondered if it was because it was a lovely morning and walk. Deflecting again. And the answer, even if yes, was no. My calves hurt, I was battling constant fatigue from a rough recovery from Covid, my kid had recently got Dengue fever, it had been a rough summer.

Yet, despite the less than perfect situation, I was able to see it all as fleeting. I was able to see myself and my life as not completely consumed by the challenges. Deep down, I knew that I would see through it all and that I had support.   

Dude, this has got to be some kind of growth. And how can I make this feeling last? It all sounds and feels so centered and mature. Almost Zen master-ish. I never want it to end.

Truth is - it probably will end. But the fact that I was able to catch its wispy tails, even if it fleets away like the summer, and the fleeing fall leaves, it is a feeling worth noticing and savoring.

I hope you will too 😊

 

Ring in the new… and for crying out loud… throw away that flipflop!!

Pune. India. It is Ganapati Visarjan (the last day of the Ganesh festival when clay statues of the deity are immersed in water bodies). I am about nine years old and in the midst of a loud and festive procession.

The skies above have opened, and the festivities continue in the downpour. The streets are flooded, and people dance and hustle forward shoulder to shoulder in the rain.

My skinny self is smooshed by the crowds and once the water reaches near my knees, I am placed on my sister’s fiance’s shoulder. Drums continue to roll, people continue to dance, the music continues to blare, the rain continues to fall, the water continues to swirl at our feet. I am probably pleased to no longer have to struggle through the knee-deep water, and the vantage view from above, is far better, and far drier.  We are probably trying to get home and it is all quite exciting.

Up until one of my flipflops slips and falls into the water. I flail my arms and cry out, but by the time my family realizes or even hears my shrieks and screams, it is too late. The flip flop is nowhere to be seen. It is lost in the flooded rainwater and the sea of humanity.

I am distraught and predictably, more bawling ensues. I hold on tight to the other flipflop. Honestly, I can’t remember if I hold it safely close to my heart, or if it is still on my foot, with my toes clenched tightly around it. Either situation is possible. I continue to cry – of that, I am quite certain.

My mother assesses the situation and my tears. “Throw the other one away,” she shouts.

I cannot believe it. Even today, I feel that same disbelief creep up inside me as I type this.

“Oh, just throw it away. It’s of no use and it’s only going to make you cry more.”

As I type this, I marvel at her courage. As a parent, I wonder if I would have said something similar to my girl, or ahem… would I have carried the other flipflop carefully back home and made a little shrine for it. Trust me, I really don’t want to know the answer to that question.  

In my eyes, I suppose my mother never lacks courage. In my eyes, I always seem to lack courage.

But back to the flipflop. Funny how that random memory pops into my mind as I get ready to wrap up 2021 and embark on 2022. What would I like for 2022?

A small voice inside me answers… to throw away that flipflop…  

Let go of that flipflop… and of all the things that weigh me down, of all the things that serve me no more, of all the things I am holding on to… tightly… for absolutely no reason…

Not sure if this is an exercise in courage or in letting go. Perhaps the two are intertwined.

You know what your list is… beliefs, memories, traumas, old habits, perhaps, even some people… our lists are different, if we dare to make such a list.

Easier said than done. Just ask my nine-year-old bawling self. For grief is assured. Even when you know you are never ever going to wear it again, that holding on to it is pointless… The act of throwing it away, of chucking it in the flooded waters swirling beneath takes courage and facing that grief and sense of loss takes much bawling. Again, ask my nine-year-old bawling self.

Happy New Year everyone!! May we ring in the new and bravely throw away all that we’re holding on tightly… for no reason.

But wait, how does the Ganapati Visarjan flipflop story end?

I take a deep breath and against every fiber in my body, I let go of the flipflop…  

Which means there is hope and that many years later, I can probably do so again…

Happy 2022 everyone! I hope you find the flipflop/s you wish to throw away! And I hope you find the courage and compassion it will take to do so.

Much Love,

~ Ruta