Lessons Learned

I've been running up against a common saying this week.  "I must not have learned my lesson last time.  This must be happening again because God wants me to learn something."  And on the one hand, I appreciate the sentiment of:
"Wow.  This is downright crappy.  But maybe, if I keep mining through this pile, I'll find a porthole to a magic land of unicorns and rainbows in the form of a life lesson.  And that's just the motivation I need to keep from throwing my hands in the air and resigning myself to living a life in the pile."  

But then, I've noticed people around me ADDING layers to the pile.  Like, "I didn't learn the lesson the first time so I must be a stupid shmuck who will never get it."  And my heart breaks a little.  Because I've spent enough time in my own pile to know it is NOT prime real estate.  It's a raw, stinky, awkward, unattractive venue.  And so I can't conjure up a God that puts me there on purpose to do hard things like learning.  And even if that were the case, I don't think the lesson we are back there to learn is "we are stupid schmucks."

So, in my pondering-humanity-and-how-strange-humans-are practice that is stalking Facebook, I came across this:

And it resonated with my God vs. Pile dilemma.  I also appreciated that the image is of a huge elephant.  Because I don't know about your pile, but my pile is something like what you'd find on the wrong end of an elephant. 

I digress.  

Going back to my Silver Linings post, God doesn't concoct piles.  Piles are comprised of bad habits, unhealed wounds, interpersonal errors, and shame.  Piles are a byproduct of being human.  And if we're really doing human full on, we're going find ourselves in piles.  The hope I've been holding for myself is that I respond to the situation NOT with doses of shame, but with:

"Ugh.  This pile is very, very familiar.  But I am changed.  I am more ___________ (brave? compassionate? wise?) than the last time I was here."

"Hmmmmmm.  This pile is very, very familiar.  And I feel less _________ (brave? compassionate? wise?) than the last time I was here.  I wonder if there's a fellow pile-wanderer who loves me enough to muck out this pile with me."  

"Bleck.  I'm.So.Tired.  All I can hope is this pile is big enough and raw enough and stinky enough to keep me away from situations/people that cause me to be in charge of things like decisions and thinking and problem solving and cooperating." 

Saying Goodbye

Today I said goodbye to a couple of things.  Probably not things that warrant an entire blog post, but here we are.  

First, my hair.  Well, not ALL of my hair.  But most definitely, mathematically, MOST of my hair.  As seen here:  

A year ago, I found myself crying in the shower.  I have showered since then.  But this particular shower was different because it was 5 am and I was getting ready to go see Partner, who was in the hospital. Partner had emergency surgery the night before for a severely broken ankle.  I was crying because:

(1) It was scary and hard to see Partner so vulnerable 

(2) Partner could not be "weight-bearing" (this is a nice was of saying no driving, no full impact parenting) for 12 weeks 

(3) Ambulance rides and emergency surgeries are expensive

(4) Anything before 8am is inhumanely early for me 

I was washing my hair, crying, and having the thought that hair is really a silly thing to be taking time for at a moment like this.  Then two women I care about crossed my thoughts.  One was on her way to Seattle for a wig because her hair had fallen out due to an autoimmune disorder.  Another was wondering how to explain her breast cancer to her 2 young daughters.  And then I realized that hair is a very-not-silly thing to these women.  And that my heartache was very raw, but very manageable.  And I wasn't sure how to get through the day, but I was sure I could take time for my hair until it was long enough to cut off and donate.  Which brings us to today.  And the situation you witnessed above.  

I scheduled this appointment 2 months ago.  My hair was the longest it has been in 30 years.  So, I was a little bit shocked when the hairdresser was measuring my hair to see if it was even long enough chopping off an 8" ponytail.  Happened that quick.  Too quick for me to take a before picture.  Clearly, cutting hair isn't a sentinel event for her.  But I had to pause to catch my breath.  Then I got sad I didn't have the before photo.  Then I got mad I didn't have the before photo.  Then I got scared.  Then I took some time to reflect and self-actualize went shopping.  And while I was shopping, I realized that loss is so like that.  So.Quick.  And even if it's not quick, it feels quick because it never feels like enough time to orient to the new.  And that helped me be brave and remember that my haircut served a purpose: to maintain perspective about hard stuff.  That I lost 8+ inches of hair, but people I love are losing so much more, but thriving in the process.  

So, I took this little epiphany (and a few new wardrobe items) home.  And it gave me the courage to say goodbye to this: 

Yeah.  My breast pump.  If you saw that coming, I'm not sure if I should be concerned or totally impressed.

I am done being pregnant.  That's a story for a different day, but it leads us to me rifling through the house with a lovely family member who is 9 months pregnant.  And in need of a breast pump.  And as I carried it to her car, I felt sad.  Which is wacky.  Because I.HATED.PUMPING.  It's about the most dehumanizing thing a person can do.  A sweet friend told me once that in her sleep-deprived state, she was convinced the rhythm of the machine was talking to her (bad-mom, milk-machine, bad-mom, milk machine).  For me, it was initially a reminder that I was critically ill and my baby couldn't nurse.  Later, it was a reminder that I was a working mom who "chose her career" over her child.  Disclaimer: That's not how I really feel.  But sleep deprivation and shame takes a person to a really, really dark place.  Bottom line is, being sad about this era being over is a bit strange.  

I confided this to Partner, because I was confused.  And Partner stopped what he was doing and gave me a hug.  And said it's a very-ok-not-weird-thing to be sad about.  And I stepped into the second lesson about loss:  It doesn't have to make sense.  But everyone and every loss deserves a safe space.  And our culture does a lot of running from, covering up, and simply ignoring grief.  But the longer I spend noticing grief in myself and others, the more I am convinced that making space for grief is one of the bravest, kindest things we can do for one another.  

So, to summarize the day:

(1) Loss is disorienting.  

(2) Loss deserves a safe place.  Offering safe space is a great act of courage and compassion.  

(3) I'm going to save a lot of money on shampoo.