Free Tell A Friend
…and a time to keep silence…
Those of you who grew up where I did, will remember only too well the phrase “Children should be seen and not heard”. When there were family or neighbourhood gatherings, the adults socialized (or whatever it was that they did – we never knew really, since we weren’t invited to join them), and we, the children, went somewhere else, to do what children did. Play? Torture one another? Pick berries? Regardless, we were only allowed to disturb the adults in an emergency. And an emergency existed only in the event of blood – and lots of it.
Times have changed, but there is indeed wisdom in being seen and not heard. And I’m not referring to children here. The past eighteen months has been an ongoing exercise in making myself heard. Through it all, I have met up with old friends, made new ones, and learnt the most incredible things about human nature and myself. It has been a wonderful adventure in self-absorption (yes, I am smiling… just a little). But just recently I was reminded that it is impossible to hear anything while we are speaking. Why I had forgotten this, I’m not sure. I use that line frequently while teaching. Perhaps it has something to do with vanity, or ego – and conceivably they are one and the same thing anyway.
I have been blessed with countless people who have touched my life – in so many indescribable ways. I must have done something ridiculously spectacular in a previous lifetime. Something on the scale of Joan of Arc I’d imagine. (I did always fancy myself a bit of a martyr.)
As you know, I have made much of my midlife crisis. And my friends have been terribly accommodating and supportive (to my face anyway). My family has suffered in silence (with just the occasional eye-rolling and desperate sighing). Vegas readers have been unfailingly encouraging – largely I’m sure because they’re pleased that I’ve been so angstfully outspoken in bemoaning middle-aged woman’s fate that there is no need for them to embarrass themselves by doing it too. Now the problem with taking on a cause such as this, is that one tends to get a little carried away. OK, OK, not one. Let me take responsibility. Me. I got a little carried away.
Perhaps it’s human nature to try to convince ourselves that we have perfectly legitimate reasons for what we’re doing. Being hell-bent on finding an elusive ‘something’ gives us permission to stop paying attention. So focused on what we think is the task at hand, we ignore the miracles waiting to guide us to a different place, that place where what we are seeking no longer matters. And sometimes, we forget that being kind is more important than being right. Even worse, we think that seeking the truth (whatever that may be) gives us a license to be cruel. It doesn’t. But I only understand that because I was temporarily silenced, by a human being who is both of this world, and not.
I careened into him in a most unorthodox manner, and he stopped me dead in my haughty tracks. It feels as though I have known him for many lifetimes. I suspect he was the one who set me alight when I was Joan. I don’t harbour any ill feelings though. I’m sure he had as good a reason then to bring me down to earth, as now.
At any rate, what he made me realise is this: the time to speak is over. I need to listen again. So I’ll be shutting down this blog for the foreseeable future. But first I want to thank you all for your unwavering love for Lucy, your remarkable patience with my Magnificent Midlife Crisis, your uncanny ability to know what to say when those midnight doubts flooded in, but mostly for your unconditional friendship, and those blows to the head when I needed them.
I have been wondering why the next book has been such a struggle. But now I know. It’s my time to keep silence. I have no doubt that this too shall pass…but let’s all make the most of the peace while it lasts shall we?
xoxo
it takes a village…
My daughter recently asked me why I chose to be a mother. This came shortly after my idiotic confession to her that when she and her brother were little I used to make up excuses to avoid going to toddler birthday parties. What can I say? I don’t like screaming, or runny noses, or squabbling children, or food fights.
The truth is, I didn’t consciously make the decision to be a mother. It was never on any to-do list. Like marriage, it just sort of snuck up on me. And, like everything else that has befallen me in this lifetime, despite being completely unprepared and ill-equipped for the task, I managed to make my way through the motherhood maze through sheer dumb luck.
I have never been a “collector”, and I feel a strange un-ownership to most things in my life (except my fleecy crocs – never touch my fleecy crocs). This is perhaps why Kahlil Gibran’s words about children resonate so strongly within me: ” Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself. They came through you but not from you and though they are with you yet they belong not to you” (from The Prophet). I only recently discovered that Mr Gibran never actually sired or raised any darlings of his own. I wonder whether that experience would have changed his outlook at all.
I confess, quietly, that much of the past eighteen years of motherhood remains a blur. But I do remember the many moments when I was stopped dead in my tracks by something one of my offspring said or did, and the realisation that as long as I could keep them safe (please God), they would become who they were meant to be, despite my parenting inadequacies.
My son now resides in small-town Canada, where he is living the dream he (and most little Canadian boys) had as a five-year old…to be a hockey player. This despite his parents’ absolute lack of guidance, and complete hockey cluelessness. I drove up to visit him this weekend, since I haven’t seen him in a while. After the game, waiting for my ‘little boy’ amidst the crowds of people, the town kids lining up for autographs, the pretty girls wearing their favourite players’ jerseys, these “strangers” who all know my son, it struck me that it really does take a village to raise a child. And I suddenly realised, with overwhelming humility, that my children are who they are, in large part because of the incredible communities through which my family and I have passed over the years. Their schools and teachers. Their neighbourhoods. Their friends. Their sports teams and coaches. And in my son’s case, the incredibly generous billet families who have opened their homes, their hearts, and their lives to him. They have not only fed him, and provided him with a roof over his head; they have encouraged him during his disappointments, cheered him on in his triumphs, and most importantly, shown him how the generosity of strangers can help you achieve your dreams . They all are responsible for his growth, his character, his success as a player, and as a human being.
Kahlil is right. My children do not belong to me. If there is any belonging at all, it is to these fantastic villagers who have nurtured, inspired, and loved them, expecting nothing in return. The road ahead, if he is lucky, is still a long and hard one. And there will in all likelihood be many twists and turns along the way. He is, after all, only eighteen. But what he has already accomplished is quite astounding, and the pride I feel as I watch all these boys on the ice, standing tall as ‘Oh Canada’ fills the arena, or pumping their fists in unbridled joy when a teammate scores a goal, is surpassed only by my gratitude for the many superb human beings who have collaborated to make this possible. I thank and salute you from the bottom of my immigrant heart.
xoxo
