I’m an impatient person. I have ALWAYS been impatient. (Ask my mom about the raging tantrums I threw as a baby.) I’m reminded of the time I expressed my impatient disposition to Tom T. during my time at GM. He said, “You can only manage your weaknesses; you can never truly get rid of them.” Throughout my life and experiences, and specifically, motherhood, I have, true to Tom T.’s sentiment, slowly learned to behave more patiently, even though I don’t always feel patient, internally. My children have definitely been my spiritual guides to patience.
Before my initial ascension of the Infinite Learning Curve of Patience, I often resorted to reducing things and people to stupid if they didn’t fit in to my vision of smart, right or whatever. I can’t even estimate how many times I’ve said, “That’s SO stupid.”
It’s pretty embarrassing to think about that, because now days I possess more compassion than I did before motherhood, and I am a recovering the-world-revolves-around-me type of thinker. Now, when someone doesn’t perform to my standards, the question I ask myself is Was my expectation was fair to begin with? rather than What in the hell is wrong with that person? I also consider what a person might be going through and how they have been shaped throughout their lifetime, acknowledging that there’s far more I can’t know rather than do know about any given person (or situation).
Patience and compassion. Two gifts acquired along my mothering journey thus far.
How’s that for a paradigm shift?
**This is a blog transplant. I originally published it to my private blog Positive on March 17, 2014.**
Gently and lovingly, I push back the furry, red curls popping out around his ears, smoothing them down, admiring the light glistening off his sweet head of hair. Admiring every curvature of his face and those gorgeous, enrapturing, blue eyes, I breathe deeply, slowly, recording every aspect of his beautiful existence to memory. He’ll never be this way again, this wobbly-walking, squawking, jump-in-my-lap-shower-me-with-cuddles cutie ever again. Sweet, sweet C.
Admiring the way he studies every movable object, determined to understand its inner workings, my heart swells. Today it was the lower rack of the dishwasher that C hulked away from the door and onto the floor. M put it back, moving it, examining the rollers, iteratively figuring out its proper position. After ensuring it rolled smoothly in and out, he asserted that he’d fixed it; not sure who was prouder, he or I.
At bedtime he approach C as I nursed him; he snuggled him, gently and sweetly, whispering goodnight before climbing into his bed. Brothers.
Sustenance for my soul.
Never again will my boys be exactly who they are at this time. Each day I balance romance against turbulence, love against frustrations, all in the name of appreciating and celebrating each version of my boys as they progress toward adulthood, lest I look back with regret at being too overwhelmed with the work and commitment of motherhood. It’s not easy. Nothing is sweeter than the sweet, nothing is as complicated, infuriating nor exhausting as the challenge. Neither invalidates the other, but romanticizing their cuteness, innocence, and wonderment is the very best part.
Everything: institution, industry, sport, group, genre, etc. has its own history, heroes, villains, popularity, prestige, etc.
To be deeply involved in a given thing provides affiliation, connection, community. It’s important. It feels important. There’s an inclination to overvalue this importance.
To have been part of multiple things defuses this sense of importance. The limit ranges from apathy to an over-inflated sense of self-importance/hero worship/an overarching belief that it ought to be important to everyone.
I think it wise to be somewhere in between: acknowledging that every thing matters to someone and no one thing matters to everyone. That importance is relative, yet valid.
Spend some time on social media, reading or watching the news and you’ll likely find most things reduced to a bullet point, a Top 10 list or otherwise boiled-down nugget of proffered wisdom.
Is it that people no longer care to the think for themselves, or that they’re simply too inundated with the opinions and proof from everyone else that they mistake the consumption of said information for thinking?
We humans created machines to do repetitive, tedious, time-consuming tasks so that we could apply our brains elsewhere. And yet, doesn’t it seem as though we’re becoming more like the machines than liberated, sophisticated refined beings? Machines require a special language, binary in nature, reducing to combinations of zeros and ones. But people can handle romance, where romance is defined as “something that lacks basis in fact” and fact is defined as “a thing that is indisputably the case”. How many facts are there, really? I’m 37 years old (where a year is defined as 365 days except in a leap year of 366). I’m of the female sex. My dog is black (according to the cones and rods in my retinas and related circuitry in my brain). I like to think of romance as complex, something that can’t be measured or proven definitively. Society seems to have a fixation with proof, wanting to know the answer, the truth, as though such things exist. The problem with proof is that it requires simplification and assumptions, all which are value-laden and relative; proof is a proxy for thinking.
Michael Pollen in The Omnivore’s Dilemma wrote about soil fertility and a farmer’s perspective of its complexity compared to Big Agra’s oversimplification of and reliance on fertilizer (nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium) to grow crops. His words (below) are relevant to the theme of complexity versus binary thinking as they portray the importance of the complex and limitations of the binary, which can be applied to just about any topic meriting discussion.
“Complex qualities are reduced to simple quantities; biology gives way to chemistry. As [the farmer] was not the first to point out, that method can only deal with one or two variables at a time. The problem is that once science has reduced a complex phenomenon to a couple of variables, however important they may be, the natural tendency is to overlook everything else, to assume that what you can measure is all there is, or at least all that really matters. When we mistake what we can know for all there is to know, a healthy appreciation of one’s ignorance in the face of a mystery like soil fertility gives way to the hubris that we can treat nature as a machine.”
Science is often bastardized in today’s society in an effort to make a point or serve a political interest, when in fact, science as a course of study is anything but binary. A true scientist is one who devotes their career to exploring a subject and its body of literature, contributing to it, inquiring, collaborating with one’s peers, etc. In today’s society the fruits of science are often used to silence the opposition when the real root of science is inquiry, which leads to research to build on a long history of complex subject matter. A person who throws out a data point as a means of oppressing one’s opponent should always be questioned. Science never shuns the questioner, science has nothing to fear, because there is no end to science, not in any topic or of any subject matter. There is always more to explore, research, clarify, understand, apply, redefine, and so forth.
I invested a lot of time thinking about adults when I was a kid, the way they were responsible and knew what was right and how to do it. I couldn’t comprehend why my parents didn’t seem to fulfill my expectations of other adults.
One evening when I was nineteen and waiting tables at a country club during my freshman year of college, I experienced a pivotal moment, the kind that left me unhinged and reeling. The menu was pricy; the people who dined at Seasons At Hilltop those Friday evenings (the only night it was open to the public as it was otherwise a banquet facility) were successful, they had money. They were responsible and did the right things, according to my then-binary thinking.
A man sat at a four-top with his wife and two children, and upon receiving his meal, berated me for the preparation of his steak. I assured him I would resolve the matter, but that didn’t resolve his anger. He continued going off on me. I remembered wanting to say, “Do you think I cooked the steak? Don’t you know anything about how restaurants work?” Instead I offered him a complimentary dessert. When that didn’t satisfy him, I sort of checked out, lost amidst the thoughts drowning my brain, things like, “Wow, this guy’s an asshole—how can he behave this way in front of his kids? What is he teaching them by acting this way?” and “We’re fucked. The universe is fucked. There are these morons—everywhere—cloaked as adults, and…holy shit…we’re so fucked!”
My little theory (which was really a philosophy premised in security) that real adults behaved as they should had just been blown out of the water.
Ultimately I went to my manager and let her handle the irate (so-called) man, as reason and sensibility were lost on him and that’s all I was armed with (a common theme in my life for years to come). Sure, the epiphany stuck with me, but it took a long time for me to synthesize it and develop skills beyond what I knew (reason and sensibility).
I think back to that scenario from time-to-time. Most recently it was because I just sort of realized I’m almost forty. By almost I mean closer to forty than thirty. That means I’m one of those adults I perceived as a child and young adult. I’m supposed to know All The Things and do them right, all the time, according to my nineteen-year-old self. But I don’t. I can’t even know what’s right most times, and right isn’t really worth aiming for in many cases anyway. Implicit in right is definitive, black-and-white. Yet shades of gray are more prevalent. As I move through life, sometimes gracefully, most times awkwardly, I’m constantly reminded that everything is related, dynamic, iterative, and not at all definitive.
My thirty-seven-year-old self focuses more on being consistent with my values. On being authentic and honest. I’m patient instead of hasty in the face of the unknown. I have more questions than answers. I’m willing to be vulnerable where previously I might have felt embarrassed. I want to be someone who matters. Mostly I want to be a person my children do and can respect as they evolve into their adult selves. I make mistakes all the time. I apologize to my kids. I ask for do-overs when frustration gets the best of me. That’s my I’m-almost-forty definition of being a real adult. It’s far more romantic (and messy) than binary. My nineteen-year-old self would think it irrational and stupid. How naïve would I be to mistaken wisdom and an appreciation of life’s complexity for simplistic idiocy? As for my thirty-seven-year-old self, romance trumps machine language.
I started keeping a journal back in 1998 when I stumbled upon a stray composition book in the desk drawer in a room I rented that summer. I used to write in any variety of ink color available to me. But upon writing the initial entry in Volume IV of my journal in August 1999, I started using black ink only. (Well, with the exception of a few entries in blue ink over the next two years, which conjured obvious disdain, evidenced by the entries that followed. Thankfully blue ink didn’t blemish journals beyond Volume IV.)
My absolute favorite pen to write with is the uni-ball Vision 0.5mm. I buy them by the dozen. Over the past few weeks I’ve had to chuck several as they ran out of ink. Little is more frustrating than straining to maintain consistent weight of letters as a pen nears its death. Then again, having to write with a ballpoint is equally if not more frustrating. (I’m a pen snob and rarely yield to using pens available to me at a doctor’s office or business; chances are I’m packing a uni-ball Vision somewhere on my person, and opt for that.) I bought another dozen today, and I’m not at all embarrassed to say buying a fresh dozen pens is as good a fix as drinking coffee or eating chocolate.
Here are my new pens, in all of their full-of-ink glory, stacked neatly upon Volume X; the five remainders from the previous dozen are off to the left, fearing their last letter.
After several months of latency, I’ve reacquainted myself with Undone. My relationship with the title itself is tenuous; it describes the state of the manuscript and taunts that it shall forever remain as such. That’s why I’m particularly happy to report that the rewriting is officially in progress!
Anna’s undergoing a small makeover. I’m combing through the pages, updating accordingly to solidify her transformation.
My goal? To finish the novel in time to start my second novel this November for NaNoWriMo.
I just love lofty goals, don’t you?