Of Parenting, part 1

Hello Friend,

I've been thinking about what it was like being raised by parents with mental illness and autism spectrum issues.  I've dwelt on what it meant for me, how I've struggled with feelings of inadequacy, low self-esteem, my own mental illness, and my challenges in being a partner.  I've looked at how the beast that is my mental illness has battled my mother's beast, and perhaps obliquely I have shed light on my father as well.

I've chosen not to spend much time on my relationship with my father because for all intents and purposes I don't have one.  Although I do not believe it is due to my gender, sex, orientation, etc., I'm sure that there is a level to which that does affect our relationship.  The deeper issues however are rooted in my father's own mental health issues, his anxiety, his marital relationship, and his own wounded self that was never parented with the love it needed and deserved.

He, like my mother, knew from an early age that his birth was unplanned, and he was marginalized within his own family.  He started school early, went through puberty very early, and was extraordinarily bright and largely unmotivated to succeed.  He graduated 5th in his class, ironically my mother was valedictorian of the same class, though he could have easily outranked or outscored her if he had wanted to.  He was interested in science, and adult things, and bringing alcohol to the school dances and spiking the punch.  He was brighter than his years, yet more immature than kids several grades below him.  He struggled to fit in on a daily basis.

He was also the first person in his family to ever go to college and even went on to get a Master's Degree.  He followed the path that he was supposed to.  But during my childhood he would spend summers doing what he loved.  My father was a chemistry teacher, and eventually college professor, and he was good at it, highly liked and respected at the junior high school level.  But every summer he would find work in a restaurant, or he would cook and bake at home, or make things with wood, or brew beer.  He was and is extremely creative, yet he chose a path of rigidity, and schedules, and inflexibility.

And like every Aspie, he both loves and hates the confines, the rules, and the discipline.  He is a man of structure and he is man with a free spirit that is trapped by his self imposed restrictions.

I understand.

And so, I've been thinking about how this has translated into my own parenting.  How have I brought my father into my role as a father?

I'd like to tell you that I have been able to only bring that highly creative and randomly nurturing part of my dad into my own parenting style.  And in many ways I have.  But of course, I have brought the rigidity, the structure, the passive-aggressiveness, the anxiety, and the fear of failure too.  It's true, I have parented my sons as both a nurturer and a dictator.

And I believe that in some ways this is how all fathers are with their kids.  We are funny, and goofy, and get admonished by our wives for being "worse than the kids."  We are grown men trying to be comfortable in a world of toys, and baby food, and diapers, and bedtimes, and not being the man in a suit and tie that the world expects us to be.  And sometimes it is just really fun to go running through the yard with the hose, or making fart jokes, or watching cartoons, or whatever.

And then the world pushes back.  Our "serious expressions in the middle of the night" to quote Peter Pan, force us to remember the way our fathers dealt with our silliness when we were little boys.  We remember being too loud, interrupting the game,  getting into things we weren't supposed to, and the consequences that followed.  We pull ourselves back into our paternal personae and teach our kids that men are more stoic, and sometimes frightening, and largely unpredictable.  One minute, laughing and playing around, the next threatening to remove valued possessions for no apparent reason.

Now, for me this unpredictability is what I have amplified in my life, in part due to my own mental illness, and in part due to the parenting I had as a child.  I learned very early on that my father's emotional state was in a constant state of flux, though centered largely around anger and disappointment.  I learned to be a man that was grouchy, and anxious, and wary with occasional forays into lavish gift giving, extraordinary care for baking, and a devotion to someone if they were in any way hurt or ill.  And sure enough, that is how I have been as a father much of the time.

I have tried to be a different dad, and for obvious reasons I am, but my parenting personality is deeply entrenched in my formative understandings of what it means to be a dad from a particular era.  My father seemed to channel much of the 1940's and 1950's of his youth, but also had a higher degree of liberal 1970's when it came to certain matters.  But here's where it gets interesting.  My father's father, my grandfather, didn't have a father in his young life.  The stories are complicated and deserve more time and space, but my grandfather never knew his biological father, knew several stepfathers, and was on his own by his early teens.  He had many strong relationships with male peers, but not a father-son one with a relative.

So, 4 1/2 years after my Aunt was born, this unexpected little boy arrived, and my grandfather had no idea what to do.  And if you remember from earlier in the story, my dad was not the easiest little fellow in the world to begin with.  He was ultimately not like his father, though he tried, but was more comfortable with his mother and probably felt more accepted by her.  He stayed indoors with his mom, cooking, cleaning, etc., while my aunt, a true "daddy's girl" traded chores with him so that she could spend more time with her father outside, like doing yard work, gardening, and purposefully messing up the lawn mower so he would have to come over and fix it.

It was a complicated, and yet very simple arrangement for the 1940's and I suspect that it was one of the many ways that my father's and consequently my own trajectory was set in motion.

My father and I are indeed very similar people, not only intellectually and emotionally, but physically as well.  And therein lays the true crux of the matter for me.  When I look in the mirror, I see my father.  We could be carbon copies of each other, and it's not exactly what I expected when I began my transition into adulthood.  And even if it is entirely subconscious, I live into the look and become that man that I knew as a child.  I become a man who lives within himself, unsure of how to be a father, of how to be a husband, or of how to fulfill the "right" male roles in society.  And the irony is not lost on me in this matter either.

How is it that I, who began life one way, and changed so completely, would have the exact same issues with how to be a father as my own father did?  In some ways the answers seem obvious, that physically I became a man much later in life than most men do.  But I've always known myself to be male, so even though the body didn't always match, my mind was decidedly "all boy" from as far back as I can remember.  I may have lived outwardly as a female, but inwardly I have always been male.

And then there is my father, outwardly male, profoundly so by the age of 9, doing "women's work" from as early as he could remember and wanting a close relationship with his father that was somehow just always out of reach.  Even when my grandfather was in his 80's you could feel the tension between him and my father, how the empty space between them would always be larger than the connections they had.  They were two very similar yet different men, structured, yet creative, anxious, but often grandiose.  And their legacies of fathering have been passed to me and play out on a daily basis.

But what if I wanted to change?  Could I?  Would I?  Have I actually changed and don't recognize it?

There are larger answers that I can and will seek, but there is a shorter, more profound answer that I would prefer to give for now.

Today, my older son who is 9, cried at the ski slope because his friends were "dumping" him to ride the T-bar and he only had a Pony Lift pass.  I initially responded with a lecture, an attitude of my own, promises that he would get the pass next week, and that he should be grateful and supportive of his Mom, because she was on skis for the first time so that they could do something together.  And this really only served to make matters worse.

So, I stopped looking in the mirror, and I looked at my own heart, and what I would have wanted when I was his age, experiencing my own father's inabilities and anxieties.  And I went and got him the upgraded T-Bar pass.  And he rode up, and skied down victoriously multiple times.  And I realized that the measure of a father was not in his ability to make his children's lives safer, or logical, or fair.  I realized that the measure of a father is his true and unconditional love for his children regardless of who they are, where they are, what they are doing, or why they have chosen their paths.

My job as a father is complicated, especially when there will be those in our society who will claim that I can never truly be a father because I am not truly a man, and yes, there are people like that out there.  And I fear for how my sons may be treated because of this.  But not much.  Because I know that my job as their father is to love them, just love them, no matter what.  And they are surrounded by a loving family, a community that is accepting, and a faith community that is affirming.  They are held and lifted up in love every day and this is giving them the strength and resiliency to become incredible men.

And so the answer to my previous questions, is yes, I have changed without realizing it. Why?  Because tonight before I went to the show, my older son, my beautiful boy, came and hugged me, and kissed me, and wished me good luck.

And I knew that the space between us will never be like the canyons that have plagued my father, and his father, and on, and on, and on.  I love my son, I am his father, and I know that I, someone who embodies change on a daily basis, can continue to grow and change into the father I am called to be.  And I know that there is a G-d who is guiding me on that path with the same nurturing and unconditional love that I need.

Thank you for joining me on the journey.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

-Ari

Of Transformations

Hello Friend,

As I was contemplating what I wanted to write about I came across an old draft from when the mania was cresting and I was moving into the elevated high that is a key marker of Bipolar Disorder.  I was unaware of just how "nuts" I was going at that point, although I suspected that something was different.  When I began to notice the colors of the leaves and their immense brilliancy that brought me to tears, well, I knew for sure that I was falling off the cliff of sanity.  I didn't want to tell anyone, because I realized I sounded just like my mother.  I knew what that meant.

As I reread my own words, few that there were, I saw how disastrous my life can be when I don't take the proper medications.  And I also saw the anxiety that lives within me, especially when I do have a manic episode, and how it continues to invade my everyday life and thinking even when the medications are on board and working.

The anxiety is a huge part of my daily struggle, it is the heart and soul of my beast, and I battle it with as many tricks as possible, but I don't often succeed at keeping it in check.  And sadly, the worst offenses I commit are to my wife and children because I have an inherent sense of security that they will accept my bad behavior even if it is unwarranted.  This is an egregious error that I continue to try to prevent and remedy, yet I still fall back into the patterns when I allow the anxiety to take over and run the show.  This afternoon was one of those times, and I'll elaborate after the look over the words from the past.

So, here is the scant paragraph I composed before my complete break and subsequent hospitalization:

I had one of those times this morning when the clarity was blinding and I wondered if I could just close my eyes again.  The answer was no, but I suppose when we transform ourselves, we must be prepared for some illumination on our souls.  We might not like what we see, but you can't clear out the cobwebs in the basement if you never go down there, or you refuse to take the flashlight when you go.

Now, on the surface one could read this as simply a bad motivational speaker at a conference, but when the realities of mental illness are revealed there is an immense sickness that underlies these words.  There is grandiosity and a sense that I am on the verge of great personal revelation, and that I am about to enter some fantastical new part of my life.

And in a way this is true.  I am about to enter a fantastical new part of my life, but not the one that I thought I was at that time.  No, I am about to go sailing off the end of the real world into madness, and fantasy will in fact be the reality.  I will be driving myself to the crisis center, dodging telephone poles, screaming, crying, throwing things, and being observed in the local emergency room.  I will then be voluntarily committing myself to a mental hospital where the illness will fully bloom.  And after a few days in the hospital I will begin the work of resolving the baseline issues of mental illness that I have been avoiding and neglecting for nearly 18 months.

This was not the soul changing experience I had in mind.

There is also truth to the words about transformation, but again, not the ones I had when I was writing.  I saw myself as a phoenix about to rise from the ashes of darkness and depression and ignite the world with my intense luminosity.  I believed that I was about to begin a fabulous and famous new life as a speaker, healer, miracle worker, whatever.  I was flying into the stratosphere.

And I was about to crash land.  I was about to come falling down so fast that a good chunk of my sanity burned off on reentry.  Welcome to hell.  Welcome to reality.  Welcome to that moment when you actually hit bottom, know that it is the bottom because its lower than you've ever been, and there is no longer any way for you to climb out of the hole without help.

I remember that it was several days into my hospitalization and I was rapid-cycling moods from elated to suicidal and I couldn't stop.  I remember that the soaring heights I had been experiencing were now distant memories and frankly, embarrassments to myself and to my family.  I realized that I needed help more than I could express and that I was eternally grateful for the staff that came to my rescue and gave me the help I needed.  I am still eternally grateful for the presence of caring and knowledgable individuals and for a core sense of faith in G-d that grounded me enough to be able to begin making the necessary changes to get my life back.

And of course it certainly was a transformative time.  It was a time when I knew that I could no longer deny my mental illness, I could no longer refuse the help that I needed, and that I could no longer lie to myself or those around me.  I was sick.  I was very, very sick.  And thankfully there is treatment.

I look back at that time nearly 4 months ago and in some ways it seems like it must have happened years prior, and in some ways it feels like it just happened yesterday or last week.  I suppose that this is a good thing, that it does not haunt me daily, but it is still present in my current consciousness and I am able to access the memories for contrast and for change.

And this brings me back to today.  To my inappropriate, rude, disrespectful, degrading, and hurtful outburst at my wife when I let the anxiety part of my beast take control of the wheel.  There are days when I can remember how terrible I felt, and how terribly I acted toward my loved ones.  Then there are moments like today, when I crumble, and the frightened beast within me lashes out and attacks.

And there are never enough words, actions, thoughts, or deeds to undo what harm the beast and I have done.  There comes a point when "I'm sorry." has no meaning.  There comes a point when the only option left is forgiveness.

I must ask for forgiveness for my actions, and I must be willing to forgive myself and my beast for our misdeeds.  I must ask the ones I love to find it within themselves, or through G-d to forgive my hurtful behaviors and try to see the me that doesn't want to act like that or harm them in any way.  And I must have faith that this can happen.

This is the true transformation I seek.  Not a soul illuminating journey through the basement of my errors, but an ability to change what I do when I am faced with something uncomfortable, or frightening, or difficult.  I seek a transformation of self, where I am forgiven and I can forgive, and I can let that old beast keep sleeping.  I can let the beast rest and face my challenges myself, with the help of family, friends, community, and G-d.

That is my transformation.

Thank you for being on the journey with me.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

-Ari

Of Bullies

Hello Friend,

I need to address an issue about bullies.  Particularly on this Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, when we remember a man who faced intolerance, hatred and a level of bullying that would crush the heart and spirit of most any man or woman on this planet.

In school we teach our children that if they are ever bullied or see someone being bullied they can go tell an adult.  Bullying is not ok, and no one should hurt someone else simply because they can.  Bullying is wrong.

But what happens when it is an adult who is bullying another adult?

Who is the adult who is being bullied supposed to turn to?

Their spouse?  Their supervisor?  Their friends?  Their religious leader?

I don't have a good answer.

I know on an intelectual level the answer is that the adult is supposed to stand up to the bully directly and deal with the problem himself or herself.  The adult is supposed to be able to confront injustice and uncalled for behavior with strength and conviction, particularly when that adult is a person of faith.  One is charged with righting a wrong, and believing in their own inherent value and worth, regardless of someone else's attempts to diminish and demoralize you.

But what if you don't have the resiliency to do so?

What if it hurts, and your courage fails you, and you don't want to expose yourself to more hatred?

Today, that is where I find myself, being bullied by an insecure and vengeful individual who has chosen to single me out for their disappointment with how a project has turned out.  I find myself struggling to feel compassion for someone who is so weak that they must put blame on me, rather than be accountable for their own mistakes and lack of planning.

I am saddened, and I am angry.  And I am unsure of how to deal with the situation.  I know this is a part of life.  Life is unfair.  There are people in this world who must put others down in order to feel better about themselves.  And yet, at my core, I want to cry out, "Why ME?"  Why me?

And I know the answer to that question already, because I represent something that this person does not like, or does not understand, or fears.  I represent a time in history when the words I spoke to them were truth, not what they wanted to hear, but truth none-the-less.

More than a decade ago I spoke the words "Tolerance is NOT Acceptance."  And I have paid for my honesty ever since.  I have been treated disrespectfully.  I have been hurt.  And now I have been bullied.  And it is painful and degrading.

I have thought of a million things to say in anger and bile.  I have thought that I could work harder and prove myself worthy.  I have thought that there were others who could have and should have had my back.  And I have talked to friends, and family.

But I know that this individual will not hear anything I ever have to say.  Will not give me a true and fair chance.  Will have a hardened heart, because they cannot see beyond their own self doubt and fear.  It will not matter whether I could be perfect or not because they would find fault with me because that is what they want to see in me.

Tonight I will have an opportunity to express this to someone who could stand up for me, and I do not know if it will make a difference in the practical world, but at least I know I will have pled my case and stood up for myself.

The strength and courage to be true to oneself is the hardest job of all.

For bullies, this must be the greatest test, that they cannot seem to pass.  


And I am a man of G-d, and I will trust in who I am and who G-d is, and know that my dignity is stronger than any bully will ever be.

Thank you, Dr. King, for giving me hope, that one day we will be free.

Be well, love your neighbor as yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

-Ari

  

Of Longing

Hello Dear One,

It has been nearly two weeks since my mother's beast drove her away again.  After nightly phone calls to alert us to her progress, Vermont, New York, Ohio, 2 nights in Wisconsin and at last to her destination of Minnesota, there has been, unsurprisingly little to no contact since.  Until tonight there were no phone calls, no emails, just an odd package with nicely wrapped gifts from a "Dollar" store she found in Madison, WI, which is even more strange given that birthday and holiday gifts are rarely wrapped properly, if at all.
I could make a quip here about caring enough to send the very best, but it would be gratuitous at best.

And how has this played out in my daily life?

Well, after the initial shock and sadness, followed by some relief, I found myself extraordinarily ill.  And, as my therapist will attest to, I became sickest in the part of my body where I keep and feel all of my stress, tension, and worst memories.  I became sick in my chest.

I also developed a raging fever and a tightness in my chest that continues to exist as only a cough, thankfully, over a week later.  It is an irony not lost on me that this is an area of my body that I have obviously struggled with.  Between unwanted tissue growth, two surgeries, nerve damage, scars, and sweater-like hair that now grows there, my chest has been a problem for me since I was a youth.

I must disclose of course that since I work in an elementary school setting I am exposed to more germs than Mother Theresa was exposed to lepers, and everyone in our family of 4 has now had some version of this virus.  I further feigned wellness for three days in an attempt to hide from the reality of being sick and of the psychological component of my dis-ease.

I have also been rehearsing, practicing, and performing in a local theater production (solo trumpet) and it has been challenging at best and recently demoralizing at its worst.  An aside here, as I need to mention that I am dealing with an individual who has expressed opinions about my performances that are less than complimentary and I believe that instead of being given a chance to "improve," my solos will simply be cut.  I could spend several paragraphs about the ridiculousness of this situation, however, the politics of local theater make Congress look like a love fest.  I will therefore do as I'm told, collect my paycheck at the end, and remind myself the next time an "opportunity" like this comes along, to politely decline and save myself.

At any rate, I was run down, vulnerable, exhausted, and feeling anxious.  So, I got sick.
Eventually and gradually I have gotten better, thanks in large part to rest, limited food intake, pain relievers, various and sundry remedies, and an openness to the fact that part of the illness was due to the psychological stresses of recent weeks/months/years/decades.

Instead of letting my true grief out, I held it tighter and tighter until I was forced to expel it with fevers, aches, coughs, mucus, and anxious pain throughout my body.  I was trying so hard to hang onto a make believe world that had never been, that the real one caught up to me with a vengeance.  My pain was literally oozing its way out of me and it was horrible.  I was uncomfortable, unable to breathe, and had lost control of my body.  Ah yes, that self-delusion of being in control of anything.

I know that this is not a pretty picture, trust me, I looked in the mirror and saw the ugliness in my own reflection.  But the truth of the matter is that it couldn't be a pretty picture.  Even though I had let my own beast have a rest I had kept guard, kept watch, and been hypervigilant waiting for my mother's beast to return.  I refused to answer the phone when she made her nightly calls.  And when I finally did talk to her, it felt like every time before. She "apologized" for calling so late, but she and her friend had gone out to eat, and whatever else was important to her, and the call had absolutely nothing to do with me.

I longed to hear her say she missed me, or my wife, or our kids, but no, her beast misses no one.
And right now, her beast is running the show.

For so many years I longed for freedom.  I longed for her to vanish from my life.  I longed to be someone who would not care that his mother had run off again.  I longed to be excited.  And that longing was in actuality one gigantic lie.

As my physical wellness unraveled, my mental knots and twists on the situation began to loosen as well.

I began to see that for better or for worse I missed my mom.  I still didn't miss the real person, and honestly I still don't, but the fantasy mom, that person who never was, well, I missed her.
I was sick and longing for comfort.  I had performances and I longed to hear that I had done a great job.   I was working my hardest to do so much, and I longed for a mom to tell me that no matter how hard it seemed, I could and would get through it.  I was longing for a comforting presence, and unable to see or feel the true ones around me.  My wife, my children, my friends, my G-d.

And that is the heart of my longing.  This unrealistic desire for some sort of fulfillment that comes from somewhere outside of myself, that drives me to seek attention, and praise, and recognition.  A gnawing ache in my chest that I have tried to fill with anything and everything tangible under the sun with absolutely no success.  And I mistakenly believe that I am supposed to be able to do this.  Over and over again I set myself up, that this time, this magic bullet, will fulfill this longing.

Longing, desire, want, dream.

It is a mantra that I know so well.

And until I ask for what I truly need and want, then the emptiness remains, and my ability to give back is empty too.  My mantra is not life giving, it is longing that cannot find peace.

So, tonight, as I put myself to bed, take my pills, brush my teeth, and say my prayers, I will ask for forgiveness again and again and again.  I will ask   G-d to fill me with G-d's strength, love, courage, and most importantly, comfort.  I could use some comfort.  I am longing for it.

Thank you for staying on the journey.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

-Ari

Of Endings and Beginnings, part 2

Hello My Friend,

It is nearly here.  The end of this particular cycle with my mother and the beginning of a new one with her.

She will be driving away, much like always, in the morning, with a few possessions, a dog, a new pillow, and a belief that she is engaging in another grand adventure, following her passions, embarking on a spiritual journey, having made peace with the fact that "she has done nothing wrong," to a place where she will be "needed."

And as much as I have dreamed of this day, this freedom, this release, and relief for myself, I am disheartened, I am saddened, that I am still not a "need."

To be absolutely clear, I do not want her to stay here.  

I do not want the actual person that she is as a part of my life, and I am truly hopeful for a future without her here that continues to trigger my oldest wounds and traumas.

And still, today is a bittersweet day for me.  There is little comfort that I feel as she prepares to abandon the fantasy me that exists in the recesses of my atypically wired mind.  It is a day of mourning, as the woman who was charged with loving me unconditionally and shaping my infant self into a secure and loved individual proves once again her inability and unwillingness to sacrifice the parts of herself that could have done this.  There is a tremendous grief and a grieving in my soul.  

She is running away from this place where she once again did not find fulfillment, and once again, I am a part of that place.

She has been running as long as I can remember.

And I have been chasing for just as long.

This time however, has been and continues to be different.  I have unconditionally offered sound financial advice and options, and she has not listened to a word I have said.  I have chosen not to impose my beliefs on her, straining and struggling to muscle her into doing things my way, because there is no gain in that for either of us.  There is only a diminishment of my own inner strength and resilience.

For my own health and wellbeing I am not pursuing someone who was never there in the first place.  

There is a telling memory that has been with me as I think of how I have chosen to deal with this situation.  It was an oft repeated tale, told by my mother and in fact verified by her mother, more than 25 years ago when my Grama was still alive.  

It was an early, yet apparently frequent event in my mother's childhood, beginning from the age of 4 or 5, that as a little girl my mother would threaten to "run away from home."  
My grandmother's response was always the same.  "Ok," she would reply, "I'll make you a sandwich to take with you.  Have you got everything you need?"  This would most often cause my mother to grumble, feel defeated, and give up her quest within a few minutes time.  Though she was given freedoms no 4 or 5 year old would be given today, her need to run was evidently already in place.

If I were to go into a psychoanalysis of this drama, I could pull multiple levels of power, control, autonomy, etc. and then layer those with mental illness, societal and cultural normatives, and an historical reference.  Likewise, I could do the same with the future events of her life that now constitute the past of my own childhood and create many scenarios that place guilt, blame, and explanations real or imagined onto them.  And perhaps this might explain my perseverance in chasing after her.  Perhaps, this might give insight into the decisions I have made over the years.  Perhaps, it might even cause me to have a compassion that I did not have before.

Yet, for whatever reason, all the answers in the world that I could extricate and extrapolate from this, will never be enough.  The reality of what was, and what is, and what will be have no true bonds with answers, or logic, or analyses that bring understanding or compassion at this time.

When mental illness is the root of someone's core, when it is left unchecked, untreated, and unaccountable, then that beast will consume what it must in order to survive.  I have lived with that beast within myself for decades and it has fought brutally with my mother's beast.  Her beast continues to scream and terrorize and destroy as it tears its way through this world.

Mine, well mine, has been given compassion, therapy, a host of medications, and a family that loves the man who has been asked to bring it along for the ride.

Sadly, that was not then nor has it ever been, truly done for her or her mental illness.

So, tomorrow, my mother's beast will be driving halfway across the country, snarling and snapping its ever hungry jaws, ready to devour and fill the helplessness and hopelessness it cannot satisfy.

And tomorrow, my beast, will be as at peace as it can be.  It will be sleeping.  And it will be forgiven.  

I will be at work, journeying with others whose beasts have yet to be understood or given what they need.  To be acknowledged for their passion, creativity, and genius.  To be cradled and comforted.  To be treated with compassion, medications, and a willingness to let go.

Tonight, I will let G-d take over watch of my beast, my mental illness, my gift and my curse, and forgive it and me for all the damage we have done together.

Tomorrow, with the grace of G-d, I will ask G-d do this for my mother and her beast as well, and have the hope that it could truly happen.


And I will say goodbye to the mother I never had, the mother that I did, and the beast she could not tame.  

It will be a time of mourning.  

It will be a time of release.

And I may sit Shivah, or I may roll the stone away, or I may do nothing at all.

But I will remember my own words.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

-Ari 

Of Resolutions

Hello,

It is New Year's Day.  It is 2013.  It is an arbitrary manipulation of time and space that imposes an order onto the world that has no religious, fiscal, seasonal, lunar, academic, or even social meaning.

The start of the Jewish new year, the Christian liturgical year, and the academic year in the majority of the United States of America all usually begin in September.

Lunar and seasonal changes are marked in separate cycles, none of which fall on January 1st.
January is in fact a word that comes from the root word/name Janus, an Ancient Roman god who possessed two faces looking in opposite directions to symbolize beginnings, endings, or transitions.  And as poetic as that may be, I doubt that it was geo-political world leaders that really had anything to do with it.

The "Fiscal Cliff" of which we have been inundated with rhetoric on both sides, seems out of sync with state governments and for that matter most corporations whose fiscal years end in June, not December.  But this "crisis" that has been so narrowly averted, really had nothing to do with what time of year it was anyway.  But it has acted, indeed right here in my own work, as a diversion from the real local, national, and global crises at hand.

The real crises in our world of poverty, hunger, homelessness, untreated mental illness,  untreated physical illness, access to affordable health care, clean air, clean water, safety, equality, justice, and the repair of so many broken systems that have failed to meet any of our truest needs.

Perhaps this can be more readily understood in less fatalistic sounding terms.

I, YOU, WE need to meet each and every person where they are.

Not where they want to be.

Not where you want them to be.

Not where they were.

And not where the limitations of a broken world might condemn them to.
For just as someone who is penniless, homeless or dying from an incurable disease, it is just as true that someone with billions of dollars could be perceived as limited and condemned to a life of avarice, narcissism, and profound loneliness.

Perspective is everything.  And that is our greatest gift.

It is our greatest gift as human beings to know what it feels like to live and breathe and walk on this planet in our own unique and individual experiences.  And we know that more than 6 billion people are doing the same thing every day.  

If we are to share just that gift, that gift of life experience perspective, I believe that we would transform our own pain, grief, and anxiety into a collective celebration that we are travelling this path together and we have survived challenges that have served to make us better than we were.

In the Northern Hemisphere this is the physically darkest and coldest time of our calendar year.  We need hope that this will change.  We know that it will, we have watched it happen time and again, yet still we need hope for longer, brighter, warmer days.  And even though there is no good "reason" for this time that we celebrate a New Year, I believe that there is this profound human need for hope.

So, we do what humans can do, unable to alter the physical realities of our universe, we commit to changing ourselves.

We make resolutions.  We resolve to do better than last year.  We resolve, meaning we analyze, answer, and determine to begin again and make what seemed difficult somehow easier.

We write down some ideas.  We plan a new diet.  A new exercise plan.  Education.  Religion.  Financial stability.  More and less of all that we found unsuitable about our past year's behaviors.

And I am no different.  I have thought about each one of those things, but I have decided to make a resolution that will require much more of me than self-control around sweets, or shiny objects in store displays, or whatever bandwagon I hear calling my name to come and join their party.

I resolve today, this 1st day of January, 2013 to forgive the people, places, and things that I believe have harmed me.

I resolve to meet each one of them where they are.

I resolve to share my gift of what it is to walk on this earth in the way that I do.

I resolve to listen to my own words and believe in the power and grace of a G-d that has already done so for me.

Happy New Year.

Be well, love your neighbor as yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

-Ari