Bittersweet

Nightmares. Bitter.

Early morning liturgy. Sweet.

Going to the doctor and realizing that I only hate the pregnant women there for a fraction of the time that I used to. Bittersweet.

Telling my friend of my soul's repair and success and having her worry that maybe I will hate her when she is pregnant again. Bitter. I didn't mean it that way. I told her because her eldest son is the first baby that I didn't hate when I realized I would never be a mom. That family has been so redemptive and healing for me. And they don't know it, and they can't understand. Some walk this soil and never know the blessing they are to others.

Getting the sweetest cuddle from her second son. If my soul hadn't healed, I would have missed that!! Sweet.

Meeting with a wonderful woman who is also an "adult of divorce." She reached out to me, took the time. Sweet.

Recounting all of the shocks and sadnesses the divorce has brought me. The confusion, the ironies. Bitter.

Knowing that the thing that she says is the worst part of it is the first thing I had encountered in "processing." Knowing I am not alone, that I can see myself in her eyes. Bittersweet.

Feeling I have gained a friend, knowing that she will pray for me. Sweet.

It's been a bittersweet day.

The Opposite of Dancing

Context, for those who might not know: My parents are divorcing.

Because of the unseasonably warm weather this winter, I had hoped that I would escape my usual February doldrums. Not so. 

I invited Mom down for her birthday, primarily because I thought I needed to be fair since I had invited Dad for his. My sister said I was crazy, and I know she’s right. I just hate the idea of being estranged from my family; primarily because I don’t think it is “nice.” “Nice” is such a stupid, insipid idea. I guess I think that maintaining a tie with my family is more than nice… it is stability, loyalty, sense of place. Yet the visit with my mom left me bereft.

I guess that I have always been trying to make Mom and Dad what I need them to be; a real picture of a mom and dad; whatever that means. But they aren’t what I need. Unless what I need is something to rise above. 

When she left, I felt such a sense of emptiness, an infinite sadness. Futility. My great fear is that I have spent my entire life trying to be a peacemaker and healer of my parents’ relationship, costing myself my own ideas for adulthood, my own plan for a life. (Not that I had any great plans of my own...) My sister, who feels less beholden to them, has built a “real” life for herself; married, kids in the house. Sometimes I feel that my life was like that of a second child born to donate organs to a chronically or terminally ill older sibling, except the illness in this case is an illness of soul on the part of my parents. Sick and dysfunctional, I know.

So, now it feels that not only have I not succeeded in healing my parents, I have no life that is my own.

When she left town, I did not call anyone to talk. There is nothing left to say. There is nothing left but the sense of futility and emptiness. The only thing would suit is a long cry and a cuddle.

 

“I wish that I could just lay my head in your lap and cry for awhile.” But even that is denied me. As I knew it would be. And this right before Valentine’s Day. Of course.

To extend to myself a greater bit of grace, I could say that my adult life has been not a seeking of healing and peace for my parents, but a seeking of healing and peace for myself. It feels to me as if I spent my 20s trying to get my life quiet; that I have always been seeking peace. But my more honest friends have told me that I spent quite a bit of my 20s seeking fun. (Yet I find peace in fun and communion with friends.) 

It is said that Jean Vanier (a spiritual mentor to Henri Nouwen) once gave this blessing:

“May all your expectations be frustrated.
May all your plans be thwarted.
May all your desires be withered into nothingness
That you may experience the powerlessness and poverty of a child and sing and dance in the love of God the Father, the Son and the Spirit.”

But I am not singing, and I am not dancing. I am heartsick.

Maybe Lent will bring the cure.