Isolation

Most people have experienced the feeling of being surrounded by others, yet having no connection whatsoever with the people in the room. And this isolation does not stem from a lack of wanting to belong. It just is what it is. Somehow there is a failure to break through the social barrier linking oneself to the individual that one desires to make conversation with. I have sat on the fringe for years, watching various family members interact with each other. I have tried to enter the circle, usually without success. Most of the time I feel invisible, and inevitably regret having attempted to belong in the first place. Much of the ensuing conversation revolves around the rest of my extended family- and it is as if we (my husband, sons, and grandchildren) don't exist. Not surprising. For over 35 years I did not exist in the minds of certain family members. Why should I try to be significant now? I feel like I am intruding on a cozy Rockwellian intimate setting if I try. My husband and I are good for presents at birthday parties, but for the rest of the year we are largely forgotten. Invitations ignored. And why should I expect anything different? I am convinced that I am getting precisely what I deserve. I was and remain an inherently unlovable and unwanted presence, and must move on knowing that I will (outside of my husband) never know the sanctuary of unconditional love. I am not wanted, or needed by anyone outside of Greg. Knowing that is strangely freeing. Were I to be swallowed by death I would not be missed by flesh and blood, but only a handful of strangers. But there is nothing for it. I suppose that status quo will continue, and we shall remain as is, listening to the activities of others, rejoicing in the joys and accomplishments of the rest of the clan. Fading into the oblivion of mediocrity. The aunt whose existence is tolerated. The sister who remains a shadow. Pathetic? Perhaps, but I have reached the point where I really don't care anymore, because it hurts too much to keep trying to be part of a family that was happy enough without me thank you very much. The only ones who keep me tied to this planet are my husband, my sons (one of whom hardly notices), and a handful of close friends. No one knows the darkness and despair I feel.

Some issues never go away.

It started with five simple words "I will be following her". Words spoken by my son, in reference to his ex-wife. Not following to woo, but rather to ensure that he would be guaranteed access to his son. Despite the logic and complete reasonableness of his line of thought, I was plunged into a black and icy pit of visceral despair. I felt myself pulling inward, and fought to maintain a modicum of dispassionate objectivity. After all, my son had enough to deal with- best not to add an hysterical mother to the mix. Once left to myself, I let the tears flow unrestrained. At first I could not understand why I was reacting with such raggedly torrential grief. Then, as if in instant playback, the pain of countless childhood rejections came flooding down upon me like some massive emotional white squall. I realize, now that the storm has passed, that I was filtering those words through a lifetime of abandonment and loss. Abandonment: the silent and brooding stranger that never strays far from the hearth of my soul. At some level, I acknowledge that it would be the best thing for my son to move away, leave the island, start a new life of his own. On a deeper level, I fear for his emotional well being, knowing what he has been through in the past three years. And, I confess, I am afraid that if he moves away, I might never see him again- irrational as that seems. When my younger son moved to Banff, my husband cried and cried. The pain of that separation was excruciating to watch. Now that he has moved back to Victoria, and is raising a family here, the thought of him moving away fills us both with dread- and yet that possibility could very much become a reality in the next five years. That would mean both sons gone. I do not wish to bind our children to this place. I want them to always look forward to "coming home"- something that I could never do. Yet, I have this horrible sense of being a millstone around their necks, this irrepressibly creeping feeling of redundancy. We parent out of our own brokenness. I was abandoned. I was not terribly wanted as a child. I want my own children to feel the comfort and security that I did not feel. I want the child within me to find some sanctuary- to know that she will not be forgotten or forsaken.

The year that the world is to end?

Here it comes. 2012. The year that cataclysmic changes are supposed to come hurtling towards our insignificant little cosmic dust speck of a planet. The feeding frenzy begins, with fear driving the appetites of all those dining at the table of Globalized Media. Pass the bucket- I may vomit before I begin. The eternal cynic taps impatiently at the fringe of my awakening consciousness. Refusing to buy into the lemming-like panic response of the doomsday sayers, I prefer to take a measured look at what has been predicted over the ages, and compare it to what history has in actuality borne out. Retrospective analysis I suppose. I wasn't always this way. I remember how excited I was as a teenager, when in the early 1970's I was convinced of the imminent coming of the messiah. It had been predicted by some modern day 'prophet'. As a newly converted 'born-again' believer, I went around walking on eggshells, expecting to be raptured away at any moment. Books like Tim LaHaye's "Left Behind" had me quaking in my boots, and I shudder to think of how insufferable I must have been as I earnestly tried to make sure that my father (but not his girlfriend) and my sisters were given every opportunity to 'get saved'. I was part of the 'last generation'. It was all rather heady. How 40 odd years of living can change one's perspective. I say this in a gentle self-deprecating way, as I in no means wish to belittle the sincere faith of those who have attempted to shepherd me during the past four decades. I think that in all honesty I can say that I have grown to love and trust even more in a Divine Providence that is omniscient- but refuses to intervene in the affairs of humankind. Not out of indifference, but out of respect for those who have been created in the divine image- which leads me to ask another question. What is it about humanity that is so divine? How do we reflect the image of God? There are books that try to reduce Mystery to an equation, or a gene, or some other collection of inorganic or electrical matter. But how can you have a relationship with an equation? Worship a test tube of nucleic acids? Or lump the superior faith of innocent children together with survival of the fittest? As if faith was an evolutionary add-on. No, we humans are unique in that we have an early awareness of the eventuality of our own death. No other animal sets up a shrine to worship a Supreme Being, with the hope that divine favor will prolong it's days upon this earth. No other animal lives with such self awareness. The longer I live, the less I know, and the less I need to really know about God, save for the certainty that God surrounds me from without and sustains me from within. What I do need to piece together for the next year is how to 'do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with' my God. I know that this directive will inform the way I engage with the environment, my neighbors and loved ones, and the strangers within my community. I pray for the grace to respond with kindness, compassion, and integrity in the days to come.

On the cusp of a new year 5772

Every now and then, I find myself in the position of being asked "how did you manage such and such a situation" (likely because of my very advanced age- she says with tongue firmly planted in cheek). It is assumed that I have wisdom leaking out of my pores. Indeed, such is not the case. I have learned my lessons like many others- through kind hands and bitter experience. In the arena of relationships. I suppose that having survived gives me a modicum of perspective. If there is anything that I would find worthy of passing on in the way of advice, it would be to cleave heartily to your sense of the absurd. Humour does much to soften the harshness of reality, enabling us to bounce back without shattering completely. I would also caution young people to examine their expectations, for there will be times when expectations must of necessity change. How rigid are you? Can you flex without breaking? Will you fall apart after discovering that men are single minded and women multi-task? As Solomon says, "it is the little foxes that spoil the vine". Things that seem so trivial can become like the thorn in the elephant's foot (or lion's foot, depending on where you first heard the story)- small, but constant, nagging, and eventually festered. Such are the slights and ordinary disappointments that we deal with on a daily basis. We start with a dream, and then the weariness of the mundane- like the constant dripping of water- erodes the edges of our perfect picture, leaving us disillusioned and full of questions. Life has a way of catching up with our black and white notions of the world. I vividly recall how desperately I needed the security of doctrinal fences when I was younger. I needed to know that I was on the "right side" of belief. Now, 40 years later, I see that it was my need and not God's that kept me from exploring options that may have led me into a gentler way of examining the world. It is no wonder that in the war of ideas, it is youth that suffers. But enough of that. Tonight I had a conversation with a young person who, like myself at her age, is starting to challenge some of the tenets of the faith system bequeathed to her. Not a bad thing to do. God, after all, is not insecure. He does not tremble when we earnestly start to search for Him beyond the walls of a particular religious system. Faith transcends doctrine. Shana tovah.

When in doubt, volunteer.

I find myself in a bit of a dilemma. Being the sort of person that rarely discloses what is truly on my mind or heart, I find that I do a lot of people watching and assessing of situations from a safe distance before I take the plunge. Perhaps this is because I have had a lifetime of experience with painful encounters, and at this juncture in time, am not willing to run headlong into more of the same. I have been in the same women's choir now for 3 years. I am just starting to feel safe with some of these ladies, but am not confident enough to speak out boldly, especially when my own opinions are being brought to the altar. So what do I do tonight, but volunteer to serve on the board? I confess, I did it with fear and trepidation, not knowing what lies ahead for me. But I must say as well that I was somewhat peeved by the way that volunteers were being recruited. It is disappointing to have spent an entire weekend totally wasted from the experience of recording, only to be told that we still have not delivered enough- that our director is on the verge of quitting, and that she (seems) to be the only one who is bleeding her life out for the sake of her art. This is decidedly untrue. I have volunteered (for this choir) on several occasions, only to be brushed over, or completely ignored. There seems to be an 'inner circle', and outside that circle, life ceases to exist on the same plane. Much easier to whine and martyr oneself rather than delegate and (with a little bit of instruction) give over the controls to someone else. But it is difficult to take oneself out of the equation, and so those who burn out usually do so because they honestly believe that all things will fall apart without them. Curiously, I did raise my hand to volunteer tonight only to be blatantly ignored once again. If not for my fellow chorister, who began to notice that I was not being acknowledged, I might not have been given the opportunity to step up to the plate. I guess I will find out what I am in for in due course.

OK..anytime now.

I thought that I had finished with my bout of seasonal ickyness last month. Apparently not. It is unusual for me to be hit with so many viruses. I wound up in hospital with a Norwalk-like bug, and now I have a flaming sore throat and can't swallow much. Bad timing, as there is a gala concert coming up this Sunday, and I have some solo parts that won't sound too dazzling in the 'basso-profundo' range. I guess this is to teach me that I am far from indispensable (I knew that already). I am looking for the silvery lining in this cloud- I can read I suppose. The only problem is that I keep falling asleep. Oh well. Things could always be worse.

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Surfacing

So I am feeling less flattened by the microscopic beasties that have so recently (and inconveniently) taken up residence in my sinuses. My poor son, daughter-in-love, and granddaughter are all down with influenza, and so after our choir rehearsal(s) tonight, my Viking husband and I went with our offerings of Jewish penicillin (I am a Jewish mother after all..and make a damn good chicken soup). Although I love my children dearly, I thought it prudent to keep my distance and thus refrain from becoming yet another casualty. I don't do vomiting well. We are living in an age where the mighty are fallen by enemies that cannot be seen. In another century, such plagues might have been laid at the feet of kings, heretics, or held to be the result of the victim's own sins. Retribution for crimes committed or as a warning against possible future temptations. Suffering was so endemic even a century ago, when infant mortality rates were significantly higher; when widowers were as common as widows- having lost wives to childbirth or infection. My own mother-in-law lost her mother when she was only 2 years old, and was raised with the help of a maiden aunt. And with the down-to-earth practicality of prairie folk, she 'made do' with the help of family, faith, and the tenacity of a generation accustomed to hardship. We really don't know what true suffering is about. Each generation seems to get softer, more self indulgent, and less tolerant of the inconvenience of illness or any postponement of pleasure. We are told to swallow pills that will help us 'get back to normal..whatever our normal is'. Television ads seduce the creature-comfort loving and entitled North American to gather at the golden calf of eternal youth- an empty headed idol promoted by corporate interests. Looking at a 'Vogue' magazine today, I was struck by how boringly similar the models were- almost transgendered in their appearance with the same eyes (heavily lashed), the same underfed angular faces with their sultry, angst-ridden pouts and their perfectly air-brushed complexions. The clothes that they wore were highly impractical, and like little dust-collectors meant to be shoved into a glass case and looked at (never handled), the models, frozen in time stared up at me with looks that defied me to allow them to age. Cut out of time and space and eternally young. Hermetically sealed. Eternal life? Let me off this train. No, give me back my wrinkles together with the wisdom that accompanies them. I am not ashamed of my frailty, my mortality. For the Avril Levigne's, the Angelina Jolie's, and all of the other Barbie-doll, cookie-cutter celebrities will eventually experience the withering of youth's blossom. But with the end of one journey comes the beginning of another. So I eat my chicken soup, rub "Vicks" on my nose, say many prayers to the Holy Silence on behalf of my beloved family, and hope that this influenza can be fought with a robust immune system. And with gratitude to God for all that is good, I say good night.