Month: November 2019

They were just two short sentences, but each was a wise reminder of how I aspire to be a parent. Last evening after my book group gathering, one of the members said two things that shocked me in my tracks and reminded me of two aspects of parenting I want to possess, each of which has been out of focus lately.

I was reminded that what I give of value to my young-adult children is not advice, information or guidance. What I want to give primarily is loving support and the confidence that they will figure things out on their own. My days of advice-giving have passed. I am no longer a parent-teacher. What my young-adult children value more, and require more, is my steadfast support and encouragement.

My children, in fact, don’t want advice or even subtle suggestions. They are annoyed by most of what I tell them to do. What they want is my full-bodied confidence that they have the power and potential to sort things out and be a full human being. They each are well on their way on that path.

I was also reminded that I do not want to project my issues onto my children. My issues are for me to resolve. My anxieties are mine and not those of my two children. If I require my issues to be dealt with by how my children run their lives, we are both going to suffer.

How my children live their lives are now their affair, not mine. How I live my life also belongs to me alone, and not at all to them. Decisions they each make are likely to be different from mine. I want to habitually step to the side and not attempt to walk in their footsteps or expect them to walk in mine.

I will address things they do to the degree that they directly affect me, but I do not want to be invested in how they choose to live their lives.

I was reminded of my resolve not to give advice to my friends, family or children. I was reminded that I am determined not to make my sense of stability dependent on how my friends, family or children act.

I suspect that I always will be a parent to my children, but the way in which I am a parent has changed. I am grateful that I was reminded of that.

I’ve always been a little uneasy about the idea of “giving thanks.” There seems to be something contrived about it, something thought up. It seems as though giving thanks is something I do, and perhaps is not a genuine expression of who I am.

I prefer to rely on the idea of gratitude. To me, it seems to be more a way of being than a way of acting. It seems to involve a deeper level of engagement. It is an expression of who I am.

I think it is wholesome and socially beneficial to express thanks to someone, to act thankful, to thank individuals. But I also want to be someone who lives in a state of gratitude. I want to have a disposition of gratitude. I want to have an attitude and openness that is grateful for whatever I experience, grateful for whatever exists.

Gratitude is not about something that I do but is something that I am. It is an expression of being mindful, attentive, perhaps even absorbed. Gratitude is a recognition of what “is” and does not attend to what “is not”. It notices what is present without paying attention to what is absent. Gratitude evolves from the old notion of a glass being half full, not half empty.

I was talking with someone yesterday about how much fun it was to have a huge breakfast with Lily upon her return from Oregon. The comment I heard was “That must have cost a lot.” I was clearly taken up with gratitude for Lily’s return and the fun of going out for a big breakfast, not with noticing the cost of it all.

I think that gratitude is an aspect of the 4 Noble Truths. The 4 Noble Truths point out the unease that emerges when I attempt to avoid what I dislike and grasp for what I like. It is part of the balance of simply seeing things as they really are, and perhaps getting a little absorbed with that reality. Gratitude emerges from a heart that is open to things as they are, not from the notion of how I want them to be.

For me, gratitude comes naturally from being able to recognize and embrace the deep value of whatever occurs. It is a simple expression of insight into the marvelous nature of things, of people, of happenings.

I just noticed that another turning of the earth has brought me back to facing the sun. It is morning. It is, for me, another time of facing the sun, another day by common reckoning.

Morning has arrived yet again, the earth still spins on its axis, the sun burns with vigor and amazing gusto, and I am once again finding myself in the midst of this wonder-filled dance of sun and planet. I have to experience another day.

As I get older, I am beginning to think more about the finite number of mornings I get to experience. My mornings have some kind of apparent limit. I can calculate exactly how many mornings have come and gone for me, and are no longer part of my short life. I have no way of reckoning how many more mornings are yet to come for me. Their number, however, could be counted,

Would it make a difference if the earth spun a little bit faster or a bit more slowly? Would that affect the number of mornings in my life? Or is my body and all of its mysterious rhythms so connected to the turning of the earth toward the sun that any change in the earth’s speed would have no effect on my number of days. Perhaps there would be no change in the number of times that the sun would appear above me, my body functions are so tuned to the rhythm of the spinning earth.

Even my sense of time and the passing of time is so tied to my experience of the appearance of the sun. Time is so subjective and speed so relative that I might not even notice a change if the speed of the earth’s spin would change. Perhaps my reckoning of my weight would change, and also my counting of my mornings.

But I might not really notice a difference because my whole world would have shifted its references. Morning is such a benchmark for my life and my experience of living. The benchmark, however, is flexible and likely illusory.

It is exciting to be part of this wonderful rhythm, the turning of the earth and the reappearance of the sun. I am aware that it might be daily marking off the days that I live, and that is a somber task of the sun. But the morning greeting I give and receive with the sun is still a thrilling experience..

It is an experience I want to be immersed in and absorbed into. I want to be aware what it is like to be an intimate part of this celestial exchange between the earth and the sun. I also want to be aware of its illusory nature.

I want more to be fully aware of each new morning as a gift that is infinite in measure. I want the morning to remind me of the illusion I have of time. I want the experience of my morning to erase, or at least blur, the significance of the illusory limit of my number of mornings.

I look forward to each morning being the messenger of wonder and joy.

I never asked for or chose my lineage. It just happened that I come from a line of racists. My parents and the parents before them are part of my lineage. Like me, they too sprung from racist stock, rooted deeply in a highly racist culture.

It appears to be my fate to have grown up with a racist flavor in how I respond to others, how I feel in their presence, how I interpret their actions. My expectations of others, whether white, black or otherwise, have been set by the culture and the family from which I come. It is my lineage to be racist.

I still have choices I can make. I can decide how to act, what to say, what to conclude. But all my thoughts and the movements of my heart are shaped and influenced by my racist lineage.

My family lineage is, perhaps, more evident in my brother. He seems less critical or reflective of his natural, spontaneous reactions to his world. To me, he seems often guided by the racist lineage we share. A few days ago, he easily spoke of his frustration with the killings and lawlessness. His solution is to annually take five jail inmates out to a local bridge and hang them from that bridge as a deterrent to lawlessness.

I was actually surprised how much his “solution” is saturated and shaped by the history of lynchings. His lineage is filled with the experience of white people who took comfort, sometimes delight in a practice of lynching. It is something they absorbed from their infancy. It is part of his lineage, mine, and many white people to think of lynching as a normal response and solution to fear and lack of control.

The influence of my racial lineage is usually more subtle and doesn’t include aspirations of lynching. My racist lineage gets exposed when I watch how my heart responds to people of color. My racist lineage was evident to me in the emotional tone in my response to trick-or-treaters on Halloween.

My lineage showed itself in how I felt when black children came to the door, and I noticed how different it was from when white children showed up. My caution, my benevolence, my expectations shifted depending on whether the children were black or white. My lineage influenced how I regarded Asian or Latino children, all of whom seemed close to being white.

My lineage was not surprised when a young black boy ran through my garden, tearing up lights and decorations in his path. It was what my lineage expects, fears, and then judges.

I do not reject or deny my lineage. If I embrace it at all, it is an embrace of recognition and acceptance. I do not let it guide me when I become aware of its influence . I try to be mindful of its presence, its rooted and familiar place in my life. I attempt to be attentive to its subtle coloring of my thoughts and my heart.

I am not about to bring a great change in my racist lineage or culture, but can limit how I am influenced. I can become more intimate with my racist lineage, observe it, be aware of it in all its features.

For me, it is finding the middle way, and I am not about to deny or purge what is so much a part of me. Instead I choose an open, benevolent heart and let my awareness guide me.