July 2020 – Inhale Grace

July 28, 2020July 28, 2020

I’m bored

I’m bored.

When I used to say that as a kid, I was told to find something to do. And I did. I could always bury myself in a book or find a friend to talk to or cook something or play music or go for a walk….

I’m bored.

When my kids say it, I find myself getting irritated. All these toys? This pool you’ve got? These books and pets and this great neighborhood next to the stream and the woods? Stop complaining. Go find something to do.

I’m bored.

My students say it when they’re tired of being in school; when they don’t want to do their work or when they’ve got a case of spring fever and are itching to be outside. I try to engage them and encourage them in spite of it.

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My whole life, I’ve been taught to view boredom as a weakness; a negative, lazy state of being, associated with a lack of creativity and motivation. Only boring people get bored. Right?

I’m trying to spend more time getting in touch with my own emotions. More and more often, I have this nagging unrest. Unease. Some of it is the regular repetitiveness of a summer spent not working. Much of it is COVID related. And when I really sit with the feeling and try to give it a name, I keep coming back to… boredom.

And I rail against it.

I’ve painted and redecorated. Cleaned. Sorted. We’ve done fire pits and puzzles. Swimming and reading. Writing. Cooking. Hiking. Socially distanced visits. Takeout. Zoom cooking class. Spa day. Gardening. Repeat.

This particular kind of boredom isn’t a lack of something to do. I have plenty to DO. The cooking and cleaning are endless. We’re blessed to have space and a fire pit and a pool and a few close friends to gather with. There are always more books and new recipes and stories to tell.

This particular brand of boredom results from a lack of novelty. I know myself well enough to understand that I need new ideas, new experiences, and thoughtful conversations in order to feel like I’m learning and growing. And I always want to feel like I’m learning and growing.

Through this pandemic, I’ve been trying. I’ve learned to use my old sewing machine, and I’m getting better at mask-making. I’m reading a bunch of anti-racism books and exposing myself to new ideas. I’m listening to podcasts and watching documentaries…

But all of it feels a bit weak without robust conversation and connection and experiences to look forward to.

I miss my friends.

I miss my book club.

I miss church.

I miss concerts.

I miss conversations that flow naturally, unimpeded by the limitations of Zoom.

I miss camping.

Restaurants.

Carnivals.

Festivals.

Movie theaters.

Arcades.

Museums.

And so I order new books from the library and complete endless puzzles and go for long walks. I sign up for online classes. I take the kids on outdoor excursions. I set up zoom happy hours with friends and family.

I write. And as I write this, something is dawning on me. Perhaps it isn’t boredom I’m feeling. Maybe it’s something else entirely. Maybe it’s grief.

Not the soul-wrenching kind. Not the life-shattering kind. Simply a vague sense of loss. Unmet expectations. Disappointment.

I look at that list and I understand that my disappointment is of the middle-class, entitled variety. I know we’ve got it good. So I douse that feeling in gratitude and sprinkle it with a flurry of activity. I ignore it and push it aside until it finds another way to bubble up.

I’m bored.

I say ‘bored’ because it’s fixable. Boredom can be cured with activity and movement and thought.

But the disappointment? That’s a feeling I’m going to have to learn to live with.

I’ve recently learned that feelings are for feeling. All of them, not just the pleasant ones. Thanks to Glennon Doyle for that nugget. I’ve also learned from Marc Brackett that identifying and labeling a feeling is the first step toward emotional health.

So I’m going to feel the disappointment. I’m going to stop calling it boredom.

I’m going to double down on the gratitude thing, but not as a disguise for my grief; as a solution, instead.

I’m going to pay my bills and clean my dresser and paint my daughter’s nails. I’m going to throw some burgers on the grill and splash my son in the pool and build a fire and roast another freaking marshmallow. Because the busy-ness will start again. When it does, I’ll look back on these lazy summer days and wish for this blessed kind of boredom.

July 20, 2020July 20, 2020

Comments

I am a child abuser. I am a sociopath. I should be sterilized. I should have my children taken away. I hate women. I hate lesbians. I embrace 1950s gender norms. I am delusional.

According to the commenters.

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At first, I was excited to have my article published. I was proud of what I had written. I wanted to share something beautiful. I was hoping it had touched people; maybe shared a different perspective.

And I admit now that I’m spoiled. Those of you who read my blog generally know our family. You’ve been incredibly supportive and understanding. Even when you were unsure, you came to me with curiosity and concern instead of judgment. Our family has been so protected by a your support and love.

So, while I anticipated some controversy in the comments section, I wasn’t prepared for the hatred.

On Thursday night, there were about 20 comments. Many were supportive. One or two were not, but others were speaking up, and I felt pretty good about the whole thing.

On Friday morning, there were 75. Someone had posted a link to an article about de-transitioning that I had read and debunked three years ago. People were getting a little more fired up. I had a long talk with my husband. I was still feeling good about the post. We are confident in our decisions. We’ve done a ton of research and consulted medical professionals. We were not going to get upset about the opinions of random strangers on the internet.

Friday morning was full of distractions, so I couldn’t obsess. When I checked again on Friday afternoon, we were up to 200 comments. My sister weighed in and her support and love brought me to tears. An old friend also piped in with beautiful, supportive words. But the supportive comments were becoming the minority. Maybe that’s not true. I didn’t actually count. But that’s certainly how it felt.

Saturday morning, there were 350 comments. 361. 372. The count was ticking even as I tried to read them. I needed to stop.

We went out to breakfast. We went to the store. All the while, I was trying to enjoy my husband and my children, but I was distracted. Was there anything I could have said differently? How could I explain more clearly? My writing obviously didn’t convey enough of our story.

By Saturday afternoon, I had stopped reading the comments, but my husband hadn’t. He was becoming angrier and more defensive. At one point, he tried to comment in our defense. As you might imagine, everything he said was met with a new criticism. A few comment lines on an online article could never contain the depth of our love and concern for our child. And all words can be manipulated and misconstrued.

During the hours of my Facebook hiatus, I received an email from the magazine.

Hi Amy, we aren’t sure if you have been following the comments on your post, but just to let you know we have been banning the aggressive and hateful ones (so those people will not be able to keep writing in) and have updated the text with our support at the top. We are fine to take down the whole thing, if you want, it’s entirely up to you. If not, we will keep monitoring the comments. We are so sorry for any hurt this might have caused you and/or your family.

I was grateful that they were at least monitoring the situation. They did, in fact, remove the most hateful comments. But there were plenty of rude, dismissive, and critical comments that didn’t quite reach the level of ‘hateful’ or ‘aggressive.’

I reminded myself that I had put something good into the world. That is my responsibility… to share the truth and beauty in our story. I stand by that. I shared something true and beautiful. I cannot control how people respond. That is not my responsibility. I gave them permission to keep the piece posted.

I began repeating the mantra that was the namesake for this blog. Inhale grace. Exhale your gift. Inhale grace. Exhale your gift.

I believe that God has given me gifts. The gift of compassion. The gift of storytelling. The gift of parenting. The gift of teaching.

But I am only able to use those gifts with the help of God’s grace. When I inhale grace, I am breathing in the strength and the power to share my gifts with the world. And on the exhale? I will write. I will love and I will teach and I will parent and I will share our story. I will live this life and tell the truth and when I get too tired to keep going, I will inhale again.

Breathe in grace. Breathe in strength.

500. 542. 605. 650.

I’m ashamed of how I let it upset me that evening. I really thought I was stronger than this. I thought I would be immune to the ignorant opinions of strangers. I was wrong. I hadn’t shared with Lee all of what was happening online; I wanted to protect him. But I found myself reaching to him for reassurance. I filled him in a little. I made light of it. “They’re calling me a child abuser.” He rolled his eyes and laughed. “Yeah. I’m SO abused,” he retorted as he bumped me with his shoulder and held up his bag of Cheetos.

Deep down, I know I don’t owe anyone an explanation, especially not a bunch of opinionated strangers on the internet. And there’s still a part of me that hopes, if they knew the WHOLE story, maybe they would change their minds. Maybe they would try harder to understand. Maybe they would be less judgmental and dismissive and hateful.

That’s probably delusional optimism.

But is it?

Is it really?

Because when people we actually DO know in real life have questions or concerns or disagree with our choices, they don’t attack.

In real life, I’ve never felt the same vitriol and hatred that emanates from an anonymous online source.

In real life, I’ve had people question our choices and engage in thoughtful conversations.

In real life, I’ve had family and friends express concern and listen in love.

In real life, I’ve had people ask inappropriate questions and then apologize when I gently refuse to answer.

In real life, I’ve had people present me with research studies and I’ve shared with them my own research and we’ve had hard conversations.

In real life, we’ve known families who left the church when they disagreed with our choices and our church’s supportive stance.

In real life, we’ve had therapists push us and we’ve had doctors question us and we’ve had a slew of professionals working with us to explore the options.

In real life, I’ve never been viciously attacked for my choice to support my son.

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So, delusional or not, I choose to maintain my optimism. Our stories are powerful. But our lives are even more so. I will keep telling our story. And I will keep living a life full of integrity and truth and love, in hopes that the anonymous online hatred will be replaced with real life curiosity, concern, compassion, and grace. Inhale. Exhale.

July 8, 2020July 8, 2020

Handling It

When I was in middle school, I was obsessed with Billy Joel and determined to learn all the words to We Didn’t Start the Fire. I sat down on my bedroom floor with the CD insert in my hand. I’d read a line over and over again. Close my eyes. Repeat it. Sing it with the CD. Repeat ad infinitum. I managed it. I learned all the words. But it was like learning a foreign language. I didn’t know these names. I didn’t understand these references. As a pre-teen, I didn’t realize how much meaning I was missing. I just liked the way the words felt rolling off my tongue.

Now I’m in my 40s, observing world events and personal tragedies that press into my chest and leave me searching for, well… something. Answers? Peace? Breath? My friends and I sometimes ask each other, Has it always been this awful? Were we just unaware in our youth? Maybe this is just middle age. Maybe the torch is finally being passed and we weren’t anticipating the weight of it.

I remember being excited to drive. To vote. To teach. To worship. To become a parent. Now each of these privileges has become a responsibility with substantial heft and urgency. I feel burdened in a way that is new to me. I am heavy with the weight of adulthood.

We’re all still steeped in this pandemic. We’re trying to find some joy and normalcy and negotiate new rules and norms and expectations. If that were all of it, it would be stressful. But lately, it seems like there’s so much more.

There are personal tragedies. Too many of them … and they just keep coming. A friend was in crisis recently. I called her mother. Even though I knew it was unreasonable, I wanted this mom to give me the answers. I wanted to be a child again, leaning on an adult who would just tell me what to do.

But that’s a silly dream. Because nobody really knows how to do any of it.

I don’t know how to comfort a friend who has lost a child.

I don’t know how to counsel a friend through her mania.

I don’t know how to parent during a pandemic.

I don’t know how to teach remotely.

I don’t know how to fight systemic racism.

I don’t know how to protect LGBTQ kids.

I don’t know how to fix the foster care system.

Or the government.

Or the church.

Or the schools.

I don’t know.

Don’t.

Know.

I don’t know how to do any of this.

I’m looking around for the adults. There is only my reflection. There is no one to tell me the answers. There is no one to carry this burden for me.

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I wrote all of that yesterday. Shortly thereafter, my foster daughter told me that she’s moving out when she turns 18 next week. There’s so much trauma there. A lot of mistrust. Some ‘shopping’ for the perfect family that doesn’t exist. I asked her some pointed questions about her plans. Where would she live? How would she pay her bills? How would she handle all of that change during her Senior year? When she first told me, it felt like one more thing I didn’t know how to handle. But I didn’t overreact. I didn’t panic. We talked. For hours. And ultimately, she decided to stay. I handled it.

This morning, as I walked the dog, I noticed she was stopping a lot. I took a closer look and realized that she wasn’t peeing. She was bleeding. Not a little blood in her urine. Like, pure blood. I called the vet. We’re heading there today. I don’t know what will happen. She could need antibiotics or she could need chemo. It will be expensive. It might be scary. It might be sad. But I know I will handle it.

And then I think about my friend who lost her child. I mailed a card. I prayed. I sent money. And I will be there for her as she slowly climbs up out of this hellish grief. She will handle it, too. She will get through, moment by moment. She will love her daughter and cry for her loss and she will handle it.

And maybe being an adult isn’t about knowing the solutions. Maybe it’s not about fixing everything. Maybe it’s about understanding that we can’t fix it all.

But we can handle it. We can handle our shit. One challenge at a time. One child. One lesson. One moment. One tragedy. One reform. One foot in front of the other. Together. Holding each other through the celebrations and the grief.