Meaningful Ritual and the Alchemical Heat of Marriage

Yesterday was my wedding anniversary, 16 years married to a great man. Strange thing is we don't really even acknowledge our wedding anniversary preferring instead to honor our first date as the special day of relationship celebration. So it wasn't strange really when Brent's annual men's backpacking trip found itself scheduled in such a way as to make it that Brent and I would not even be together for our anniversary. We celebrated our 20th anniversary of being together last February and we did that in a big way, so missing this date together was fine by both of us.

When yesterday I received a collect call from Brent first thing in the morning, I thought, "wow, he wants to say happy anniversary after all and as he's in the middle of nowhere about to start his trail for the day, a payphone will have to do." Turns out, he forgot something and needed to have me arrange for it to make its way to San Fransisco for when he is there following backpacking. After I let him know I thought he was calling to wish me a happy anniversary, we both laughed and loved in a long distance, lots of men waiting to go, kind of way. It was enough and sweet.

 What's strange is that even though we don't really celebrate our wedding anniversary the event of our wedding was highly impactful to our couple-hood. I believe in ceremony. I have felt first hand the transformational significance of ritual. The ceremony that took place in the center of a medicine wheel, on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, in the glaring heat of July, and surrounded by our most beloved people, that ritual of union made a difference in our lives together and how we have held our relationship ever since.

Like most couples, we took special care in planning our ceremony to have as much meaning as possible.We wanted the ritual to be aspects that added to the power of the day rather than empty tradition. And, we wanted everyone there to feel they were part of the ceremony, infused with love and witness to our commitment.

There were lots of aspects to our wedding that were meaningful to us; the prayer flags written by our friends and family, feeling the grass beneath my feet grounding me, walking in guided by the lovely voice of Julie, opening the ceremony with our beloved yoga teacher, Chuck, leading us all in chanting OM, flower leis bringing in my link to Hawaii, breaking the glass (and being barefoot added additional challenges there!) and standing under the chuppa connecting us to Brent's Jewish heritage (and as I had hand made the supports and my aunt sewn the cloth it connected us to my heritage as well), and the powerful sharing offered by loved ones in the council circle. I'm sure there were others, but these are the ones that stick in my mind when I reflect back on that day, those bits and the heat.

Perhaps the heat was a needed part as well, for all alchemical processes require heat! Heat we got! I remember sweat trickling down the backs of my legs while I stood there in the center of the circle facing my beloved. I had a spot of poison oak just behind my knees and the sweat tickled it as it found its course down the river of my legs. I don't mind these memories as it was in part that sweat trickle that helped keep me present. I remember being in our ceremony, there, with Brent, connected to the profundity of what we were doing, and awake. The heat, the sweat, the mild discomforts were welcome then as they are now. Our wedding, like our marriage, did not aim for perfection and elimination of the Shadow. Instead we have used difficulty to deepen, grow, and continually use our marriage as an alchemical vessel for ever evolving transformation. It certainly hasn't always been pretty!

And... the aspect of our wedding ceremony that has had the biggest and most obvious contribution to our marriage has to be our vows. We spent a long time working on our vows, crafting them to be ever lasting in their significance and power. They are not particularly pretty nor dressed up in white light, rather they are raw, true, and aspirational in their difficulty to live! We hold our vows as intentions for our marriage, the container for our relationship and our commitments to one another. We fail at them often, we measure our contributions against each other, forget to hold open the possibility of another truth, and get pissed when our spiritual journey gets in the way of practical living. When we remember to, we use our vows to redirect us back to what we hold to be most important.

Marriage is not an easy path. I'm immensely grateful Brent and I decided to take the step that involved ritualizing the relationship we already had. Meaningful ritual has held our relationship through the high points and been the glue during the difficult ones. It has sometimes felt far worse than sweat tickling poison oak, challenge that has helped me stay present even if I want to run. Staying with and exploring the shadowy parts of our relationship even when we don't want to...that practice has roots in our vows.

We may celebrate the day of our first date, but our wedding day marked the moment the alchemical process of transformation was truly placed over the fire of change. Anyone there on that mountain top can attest to the heat.

The Labor of Dissertation Writing

It seems fitting to be writing my dissertation on birth. Yes, I’ve been working in the field of childbirth in one way or another since 1999, but that’s not to what I’m referring. No, this is far more metaphorical in nature. In fact, there is no single metaphor more fitting for the journey of dissertation writing than labor and hopefully, although I am far from that part of the experience, birth as well.

For the last several years I have been in sweet anticipation of this part of my graduate school process. You might say the three years of course work were a bit like the early years of marriage, some hard work, but a lot of growth and pleasure in the journey too. Those years were in preparation for this, the dissertation.

Like all good mothers, I took the prep course and learned all about the process, learned that it may not go exactly as I expected, that it might have difficult moments and how exciting it would be to have the end result, a new baby, I mean, new book-like-dissertation-thingy to ooh and ahh over and feel an overwhelming amount of pride…that and a whole new identity too. When a woman has a baby for the first time she gets the new moniker of Mother. With the birth of a dissertation the student becomes Doctor.

I guess all journeys that transform from one state of being to another; those intense enough to earn one a new title, are earned through trials. Like birth, dissertation writing seems to allow no short cuts. Yes, I have a woman from my cohort who seemed to have had the shortest labor on Earth and birthed a dissertation in only a few short months. She made it look easy, not unlike some of those birth stories heard when pregnant, the stories of a woman who birthed a ten pound baby in less than three hours with little to no pain. That, I think, is the dissertation labor I wanted!

And like birth, I didn’t get to decide what my dissertation process would be. I could pray, hope, pull tarot cards, wish, and dream and still, I would only get the journey that would be mine and only mine.

In labor (when it goes by the books that is), the early part is often the slowest. We’ve been taught that labor progress is measured in cervical dilation. Women go into labor and can feel contractions for hours, even days, before her cervix dilates at all. She can become fixated on the numbers. So too in dissertation writing have I become fixated on numbers, not dilation, but pages written. Like a laboring woman knows she needs to get to ten centimeters to be “complete” so too do I know that when I’m “complete” it will be in the 200 page range. Looking from here to there can cause a strong case of “labor math!”

My dissertation clock started last September. That means I’ve been “writing” for almost six of my 24-month prescribed period of labor. If it has taken me six months to only become 1 centimeter dilated, then how on earth will I ever make it to complete? This is the dilemma of labor math. One plus one does not equal two in labor nor in dissertation writing. I am hoping the early part of dissertation writing, the part from beginning of the clock starting to strong active writing where the flow comes and comes with little stalling and pages flow in creative zest, that that part, is a lot like early labor, the part of labor from the very beginning to active labor where things are moving along and difficult to stop or stall. For many women, it is a practice of patience to maneuver through early labor. It can feel incredibly difficult, challenging, painful, and imaging how it could possibly get more intense or last longer than it already has, is daunting. That’s where I am in my labor, this birth of a dissertation. Currently, I’m thinking some augmentation may be in order!

I am reminded of the “Four Pillars of Birth” as taught to me by one of my teachers. These are the four characteristics required for birth: Love, Doubt, Determination and Faith…together they hold up the structure of labor, each is a necessary part of the process. It is love that got me going along this path in the first place, love of the field of study (mythology and psychology), love of the topic unique to my dissertation, and love of the process of discovery both in the writing and in myself.

It is now doubt’s turn to show itself and it has come fully dressed to the party! If it were like labor, then it is time to rouse the sleeping forms of determination and faith. Which comes first is a mystery and unique to each labor. For some, determination is birthed simply by the arrival of doubt. Usually this would be me. My nickname as a baby was “Britta the Bulldozer” and one I earned, I hear, for my determination of spirit. But this time around determination is getting me to the desk and seated at the computer with few results.

It may be time to enlist faith. What does faith look like on this journey, today, now, on the labor road of dissertation writing? Maybe it’s faith in myself, faith in the process, faith in the rightness of the time it is taking thus far, faith in my doing this at all, and most significantly, faith that I can do this and ultimately will succeed.

I wrote on Facebook several weeks or even months ago that I felt better equipped to write a dissertation on how writing a dissertation is just like labor than I was to actually write the dissertation for which I have set out to write. This still feels true.

The work I have done thus far has been difficult to measure. I have few pages written to show my dilation and yet, I have been in labor for days already! Perhaps what I need to remember is that some of the work of labor is difficult to measure. Dilation (i.e. pages) is not the only quantifier. What about effacement? What about the baby engaging in the pelvis and dropping? What about the entirely amorphous psychological work that allows the whole process to ignite?

Yes, dissertation writing is a lot like giving birth. And, like those often-difficult moments of early labor there is not much to do, but keep on. You can augment labor with a bit of walking, nipple stimulation, herbs, sex or drugs, but until it is really necessary to do so, the best thing is to stay in the moment, “breathe, feel the earth and do nothing extra” (a favorite quote from my childbirth mentor, Pam England).

That’s where I’m am today, muddled with doubt, looking for faith and determination to show up and help get this labor started in earnest and most importantly, remembering all that I know about how labor works. I think I need a doula!

I’ve supported lots of women in labor and taught hundreds, if not thousands, more. If I remember to enact this metaphor, then this too is familiar territory. I’ve seen it. I’ve experienced it. I’ve known it. I’ve lived it.

One breath, one moment, be here, right here, now.

That is enough.

He's Grown New Feathers Enabling Farther Flight

Our boy is off for the ISEE (the standardized test used by private schools the way the SAT is used by colleges and universities).

We chose to have him attend a small alternative public school in part because he gets stressed out by tests and frankly the word "test" means something completely different when you have diabetes. On the threshold of high school and in the midst of the application process he's embarking on a rite of passage this morning. He's done lots of preparation and is completely ready for the "ordeal," but that does not really change the fact that it is a test, but not of what he knows intellectually like those administering the ISEE or the ones who will receive his results, might think. No, this is a test that in part marks his growing up.

He would not have to take this test, nor do test prep every week since August if not for HIS desire to be able to choose his next step. For the last 13 years, we've been making those choices for him. We've decided where he's going to school and what's important and right for our boy. Now, he's stepped up and wants to participate in those choices. He's not a little boy any longer, one for whom we make the best decisions we can for him. He wants to do it for himself.

I can't help but think of the rite of passage ritual and ceremony that occurs in this time of life for teen boys who identify themselves as Jewish. My boy does not. His father is Jewish and I'm an equal opportunity ritualist who welcomes each Jewish holiday with the zest that is hard to match when you've been raised with such traditions and they may have lost some of their excitement. So our boy is half Jewish, but does not think of himself as Jewish, nor any religious identification really although I have heard him refer to himself as more Buddhist than anything (could it be that taking him on a pilgrimage to the sacred sites of Buddha's life along with a Tibetan Rinpoche made an impression?).

But I diverge. My point here is to comment on the journey of the Bar Mitzvah. According to the website Judaism 101's page on Bar Mitzvah (http://www.jewfaq.org/barmitz.htm), a boy automatically becomes a "bar mitzvah" at age 13 when he is now seen as old enough to be responsible for his own actions. The ceremony is a relatively new creation to mark this automatic relationship with God and the community. For that ceremony, it is common for the teen to study long hours for many months if not years so that on the day of his (or her in the case of a bat mitzvah) ritual, he is able to prove his knowledge of Judaism through a recitation of, at minimum, a blessing in Hebrew to as much as performing most of the religious service. All this is to demonstrate to the community the young person has taken on the religious obligations of an adult.

Our boy did not go through the rigorous study I've seen others do as they prepare for their ceremonial Bar Mitzvah. He did however, prove (to us at least) his assumption of responsibility. He made a heartfelt commitment to studying for the ISEE, even when it wasn't convenient or worse, interfered with better options. It wasn't easy and was, for the most part, self directed. Once he set his sights on the power he wanted to have over his options for schools, all we had to do was get out of his way and provide the logistical support to make tutoring happen. He struggled. He often hated it. And, he never stopped.

While the ISEE doesn't exactly mirror religious rites as there is very little that could pass for sacred, it mirrors rites of transition quite closely. In our mostly profane culture many things, including test taking, have become a form of sacred...something separate from the normal everyday life, that holds in it a certain magic and mystery. (But I certainly know many who would argue that point with me.)

Regardless, the journey our boy has taken with this process has mirrored the stages of Van Gennep's rites of passage as defined in his book aptly named, The Rites of Passage. The first of these stages include the "rites of separation" which in this case involved the hours spent removed from other activities to prepare for the test (Van Gennep, 11). He was separated from his friends, his brother, his parents, fun in general, all for the purpose of preparation.

Today, he embarks on one of the major steps in the center rites of the journey, "liminal rites (rites of transition)" (Van Gennep, 11). These rites will last for a time and in some ways are themselves preparatory. Yes, today he takes the test for which he has been preparing for months, but the test in itself is in preparation for the eventual transition to high school, which in turn is in preparation for adulthood. But this sort of thinking is part of what clouds the steps in themselves and muckies up the water so as not to see clearly the rites in themselves along the way. This test, today, is the liminal rite he's been building up to, working for and separating himself from others to ready himself for the ordeal that is this test. What he is doing right now while he fills in bubbles on the scantron is the test, is the time when he shows the community what he has learned and that in doing the preparation and the test, he has proven he is ready to take on more responsibility for his own journey. I have witnessed this fully and I have been both moved and impressed, while simultaneously knocked off kilter by the awareness that my little boy is transformed.

As he left today, I hugged him good-bye and wished him good luck. His head was next to mine, ear to ear. I felt his body within my embrace and he was different. It was one of those moments when you get surprised by something you already know. 

The final stage in Van Gennep's theory is incorporation. That part is yet to be seen. Who will return from this ritual trial of the intellect? How will our family, his friends and society embrace him? As changed? Altered? Different? With so little cultural understanding of passages and the value of preparation for and facing directly, challenges of the body, mind and soul, what can I expect? I know for me, these are often the rites for which my acknowledgement is weakest. Perhaps it is enough to let him know that I see him. I witnessed his journey with joy, awe and honesty. I have watched his struggle and seen his courage.

What more could I want for my child/man, than to witness him choose his own rite of passage, his own place of growth into strength and to see him step into the place that shows he has taken the obligations of an adult, at least in terms of the religion of education (in a culture that reveres science above all Gods, I think it is perfect to refer to it that way).

My job now is simply to get out of his way. That and to always let him know that I see him, truly see him, as he is today, not for the boy he once was, but for the young man he is.

That is no easy task. But, that is also where my journey as mother is, in some ways, a parallel journey, a parallel rite of passage. Mine is of ever greater trust and progressively letting out longer and longer thread, ever expanding my children's flight range so that one day, they are each totally free to fly off in the direction of their dreams guided not by me, but by their own deeply internalized True North.

Gestating Our Journey

I guess it should be no surprise that I didn't do a single post in October. Yes, it was a busy month, but I think it had more to do with how I was holding the trip last month. In many ways, I wasn't.

We've been home now just over three months. And while I jokingly answered the question, "so do you feel like you've settled in?" with the somewhat crass and somewhat realistic answer, "no, I'm giving myself a year," in practice, October was when I settled "back" in. It took two months. In the first two months back, the texture and flavor of the trip stayed close by in memory, thought and action. Unfortunately, in October, I lost much of that. We had a birthday, a death, a wedding and the Walk. I re-entered graduate school, fully. The boys rejoined activities, school and tutoring. I added a part-time job called "exploring high school options for next year" (it feels like a huge task!). And, I jumped back into my work taking on a doula client, adding classes and building my website (www.embodica.com). Yes, the trip faded further and further into the backdrop as "something we did last year."

But, November is bringing aspects of the trip back to the surface and I welcome the visitor. Yesterday, we had brunch with another family we met on the road, also from Los Angeles and also traveling the world for a year. Our trips overlapped one day in Paris even though our overall itineraries were quite similar. Before they arrived for brunch, I asked Brent what was sticking with him from the trip, anticipating the kinds of questions I would want to ask of our fellow travelers. Asking the question to ourselves as well as connecting again with our "kindred spirits of the road," brought our journey back to life.

It's not that I want to always be living in the shadow of "our trip." It's more that I want to consciously integrate and grow from the experience. I do not want to simply "settle back in" as if nothing has happened and I/we haven't changed. If that were true, what would the point BE of doing a year away? For me, integration and growth are primary. There was a way that October was both settled, but also somewhat asleep. There is, actually, no way that our journey can go completely underground as it lives in my flesh now, but like a practice done every morning for a year that is then skipped, the ritual of it was missed. The effects of it were there, but the practice of noticing them had gone silent.

November already feels different. We touched our trip yesterday with our friends. We felt it last night as we all cuddled on the couch watching John Adams until it was well past bedtime. It was alive in our house this morning as Brent and I practiced Ashatanga while the boys puttered around making food, being silly and totally together. And then we went out to breakfast, ordered coffees and played cards.

It is not these particular activities that bring the experience to life, but the emotional quality of family and lack of routine that infuses our spirit with something...different.

Maybe for other people, those moments would be commonplace. For us, they require a certain amount of conscious effort. Not because we don't desire them, but because life in LA has other plans for us. Take this past weekend for example. One of my boys was gone all weekend due to a birthday sleepover party and a long desired night with his grandma. We had no such conflicting plans for a year. No one needed anything of us. This fact alone was a huge difference to life here.  Saying no is a practice and one that does not come easily for us nor receiving it easy for those around us. Every weekend could be like this past one. I don't think it is any coincidence that today, a holiday, we felt so free to be in trip mode. Today was not a weekend. Today, like our trip, fit nicely into liminal space, space that is neither normal nor sacred. Totally ours.

In fact, as I reflect today on what was different about our time on the trip it can be summed up as that, liminal...it was neither this nor that, but other. Pregnancy is like that too. It is neither the time of being without children nor is it like full parenthood. You could say that we were pregnant for the year we were away. We are still birthing ourselves as new beings every day. And like it often is with newborns, the first three months were altered and other.

Perhaps now, as we enter our forth month home, I will actually begin to feel how my new skin is shaped and shaded rather than only feeling its newness. Perhaps now, I will be able to step into the liminal space that feeds me so deeply when I desire it and with consciousness. Perhaps now, I can move forward knowing that the changes gestating during the trip have been born and I am transformed with or without awareness of these shifted parts of Self.

I am back. But I am not back to normal. I no longer know what that is. I am settled in. But I am not settling.

I am altered forever and I am grateful.

~Britta

P.S. It is my guess that this blog will become less and less about our trip, re-entry and family travel in general. I plan to still blog, but more of the content will be about my journey with dissertation writing, birth work, and of course family living. Feel free to change your subscription status if you no longer wish to receive blogs of that sort.

Sharing with you all in this way has been a huge privilege and joy. Thank you for following along.

When the Tentacles are Gone and I am Left with Myself

It hit me while we were in Tuscany this summer, that now with my graduate course work done, I would no longer have three day school trips to mark my month and give me two nights a month in a hotel room, ALONE. That obligatory time away was over even if the amount of work will still be high all the way through the dissertation labyrinth. Could it be possible that part of my joy and certainly part of the stamina that got me through all three years of grad school was the image on my Google Calendar of a band of color stretching across three days? The image yes, but more likely what it represented. For me, as a mother of two school age boys who highly values her alone time, getting away for two nights every month was not only self-satisfying, it was necessary.

It was also in Tuscany where it became strikingly clear to me that the Upperworld was calling me to re-enter and deepen my focus on career. Enough time spent frolicking in the Underworld of child rearing...time to come up and share what I have learned! Brent got it too. Together we would inch my career up on the priorities list of our lives. It would require both of us.

Unlike some couples, we rarely are able to go out of town at the same time. If Brent goes away for business or pleasure, I'm home with the kids and he does the same for me. One of the two of us has to be home to tend to nighttime diabetes management for our eldest. Planning our travel calendars is a complicated business. Last year was easy! With the exception of Brent's one trip to Africa (while the boys and I roughed it on a beach in Thailand) we were always together. We've been home almost 2 months now, and that has already changed.  We knew it would and planned for it as best we could.

One change we made was to make this year no different than my years doing course work. I would go away every month for three days, even stretching it to three nights. We put two such "writing retreats" on the calendar a few weeks ago and I crossed my fingers that they would actually happen.

Yesterday, I was due to leave at noon. Brent was having a rough day, the boys were cranky, the house was overwhelmingly in need of more focus and I was due to leave at noon. It would be my first of what would hopefully become monthly excursions. I'd like to say that at 2pm when I was debating the sanity of leaving, it was because of the external forces nagging at me to stay, but mostly, it was my own resistance. I would have thought I would dive headlong into the car and send a wave out the window as I sped off down the driveway into "my time." That's not what happened. Instead, I deliberated. I asked if I should go. I looked at all the reasons to stay including the fact that I'm not even ready to start typing words and writing my dissertation! What would I even DO on this "writing retreat?"

Brent and I had a great talk that afternoon, connecting and sharing as we haven't had the opportunity to in some time. During our talk, it became clear to me that I had to go on my "writing retreat" just to communicate to my system that I am worth it! This particular few days away have little to nothing to do with tangible results in research or writing. This retreat, was about carving out the time for myself and making that a priority even when it is not a good time (doesn't every mother know there is no such thing anyway?!). I had to pick my butt up, pack some stuff (yes, I did load a bunch of books for good measure), and get myself on the road for no reason other than it was scheduled time for me to devote to ME.

I drove to Mammoth, a far longer drive than the ones I use to take to Carpinteria for school. I listened to a wonderful travel memoir as I drove and hung out with myself. My co-pilot, Nanna and I made good time as she never wanted to get out of the car and I was able to just drive. It was maybe three or so hours into the drive when I suddenly felt truly alone. I was grateful for Nanna's company as I was surprised by the sensations rising within me as the distance between me and my family grew.

It's been well over a year, closer likely to 18 months since I have truly been alone. Being alone was once like a vitamin that needed to be taken regularly, but since traveling, I must have recalibrated my system. I found as I drove and the night fell more vast in front of me that I was off kilter, anxious almost. The sky was dark, not Los Angeles dark, but dark like the inky shadow that falls to the east of the Sierra on a moonless night...kind of dark.

The road was familiar enough, but I was not. Who is this woman that lives in my body now? What is she like when the tentacles that move outward from her body and masquerade around as her family have come dissociated from her? What is she doing all the way out on the 395 in the middle of the darkness with only her dog and a suitcase full of books?

The condo was cold and comforting, welcoming me as a place that truly is my other home now. Nanna bounded up the stairs, happy to be here. As I pulled out heaters and lit a fire attempting to warm the space, I had to watch my thoughts. Every strong wind set me on edge, I was careful to lock the doors, and decided that heavy set of books could wait 'til morning to make the journey from the car.

This nervous woman was unfamiliar to me. I love being alone, remember! In the still energy of the night, I was vibrating like electricity... not the good kind! My entire system was reacting to being alone and so far from family. I remember a similar feeling after KK was born and I left him for the first time. This was not very different.

Part of it was being away from my loved ones, but a bigger part was being alone with myself. What would I do? How do I make the most of this time? Could I just open a bottle of wine and watch period pieces? Do I need to have something to show in order to justify this time away?

I've now been here almost a full 24 hours. The darkness has fallen again and I'm far more settled. I did watch a period piece last night and the wine is waiting for me on the counter now. I've spent much of the day on this computer doing what I could for my dissertation, the sort of stuff that has to do with emails and formalities rather than writing and research. I worked on my website,  while not related to my dissertation, is part of focusing on my career. Inanna and I took a walk to the Village for happy hour, only to learn that my favorite place for sangria outside of Spain was closed (note to self, Sidedoor is closed Mondays through Wednesdays whether that means future "writing retreats" should or should not happen on those days is yet to be determined).

Tomorrow is set for a full day devoted to re-entering my dissertation: book exploration, quote extraction and re-reading my concept paper. I don't know if I'll get it all done or even if it really matters. For this trip was mostly about re-entering what it means to be by myself.  In that area, it has been wildly successful already.

The Gift of Seventh Grade

There are many gifts we've received from our journey away, some were expected, others less so and some were complete surprises. Currently, I'm very aware of one...or better said, two such gifts; my children.

Yes, this is going to be one of those type of posts so if you're not in the mood, just don't read.

First off, I hated seventh grade. I mean hated it. It was a rough year for me on so many levels; my sister left for boarding school and left me alone at home with just my mom, I didn't have the nicest of friends even though I was the second best friend of the most popular girl in school (at least for part of the year), and that was the year I experimented with rule breaking way more than any other year of my life. Yeah, it wasn't a great year, but likely even worse for my mom. I figured that part out pretty quickly when I saw how hard she was working with herself after I broke into her tiny stash of booze without asking (her main rule) along with said "popular girl" best friend. Yes, this was seventh grade. And while it's hard for me to imagine my now 8th grader doing the same sorts of things, I remember it vividly and have dreaded his 7th grade year for most of his young life.

I guess that's why I decided to spend every s i n g l e moment of his 7th grade year with him. Clearly...WHAT was I thinking?! Seventh grade had to be the worst year ever to spend with no release from togetherness! How would we make it through?

Perhaps the biggest shock of the year for me had to do with the reality of our time in close togetherness. Yes, we witnessed our 12 year old become 13 in all the ways that manifests and some days it was beyond rough! Even still, the majority of time was pretty good verging on great.

But the biggest shock is how our time together has sent ripples into our lives at home. I truly enjoy spending time with my 13 year old! The same is true of my ten year old although far less shocking as he's still cute, tender, and likes to be read to at night. But to be close, connected and enjoy the company of a teenager, my teenager? That's, well...magical! That's the word that sums it up best, the trip had a magical effect on the relationship I share with my older boy.

It was the time we spent together yes, but it was more than that too. Being together for so many uninterrupted days also allowed me to see him more clearly. I got that he's no longer the super cute little blonde-headed boy with the sweet way of talking, but rather a good human being growing into a wonderful young man.

When he turned 13 he asked for privileges, specific privileges and laid them out for us to discuss. He gave us time to consider them and get back to him. Even in the way he approached his birthday and his own aging process showed me his deepening maturity. How could we NOT grant him his requested privileges? I wanted him to know that I could see how he's grown. Giving him more responsibilities as well as privileges was a tangible way to say to him, "I see you are growing and I trust who you are now." I want him to feel that from me.

What changed? I'm not sure exactly. I'm not sure when it changed or exactly how. We started by letting up a bit on what we thought was right and wrong based on what's comfortable outside of our family unit. What mattered to us was only what mattered to us as no one else was ever really around. Clarity of our personal family values was deeply aided by only being around one another.

For example, we really don't care much about swearing and my boys will be the first to tell you that "Granny has the biggest potty-mouth around." We talked about swearing and when and with whom you are allowed to swear (Granny was OK, but older generations in general are not). We found that letting a few F-bombs and so forth go at times of stress or frustration actually cut the intensity of the situation for all of us. The kids kind of enjoyed hearing us catch ourselves tongue in check in the midst of a good old fashioned curse session. For the kind of potty mouth I have, I'm really impressed how clean my language has been around my kids for the past 13 years. And as a result, when the reins loosened a bit, it was enjoyable for all of us.

We watched things together that families (particularly in our Waldorf-inspired school community) would find beyond inappropriate and loved it. We laughed, discussed and allowed boundaries to expand. Same was true with our audiobook selections which did create opportunities to explain, express and swallow our own best intentions.

More than how we broke our own rules was how we showed up for our boys. We weren't their friends, but we were their parents and we were always there. They watched us and we shared nearly every moment. We taught them our favorite complicated, highly-strategic, card game and they learned to beat us. We struggled to get along. We fought. We argued. Doors were slammed. But after every fight, we were still there and so were they as there was no where else to go. We were forced to figure our how to make up after a fight better than ever before. Upset could not hang around long... there just wasn't room in our suitcases!

Now as a result of these struggles through the moments where we wanted to run away, I have found that I really like being with my kids. We still argue and my 13 year old still drives me crazy, but it feels different. Mostly now, when he's driving me crazy, I can still somewhere find a smile on my face to go with my irritation and frustration.  I see him beneath his upset and often it makes sense.

One of the exercises we did at Thich Nhat Hanh's community in France called Plum Village was what they called "Beginning Anew" ceremony with the teens.  During that ritual teens got to speak to their parent in a particular way and express what they may not have expressed previously. I had always thought I knew what my son thought of me and our relationship. I thought I had a pretty good sense of what he liked and didn't like. I knew we triggered each other pretty easily and that neither of us liked that much. But what I didn't know was that one of my favorite parts of our relationship is also one of his and that he values it possibly as much as I do. Now, when I find myself with time to just chat, like I did tonight, I let myself fall into his space, his speed, his rhythm and his story. I ask, but mostly I listen. We laugh, I get laughed at, and we connect.

It's been helpful to me to remember being in eighth grade. That was the year I left home for boarding school. It's an easy year to remember as I was only on that particular campus for one year and it was my first year away so the memories are stark, vivid, and close to the surface. I was 13. He is 13 now. I was soooo grown up. He's...well it is highly possible that he feels as grown up as I did back then and maybe he's more mature than I might believe is even possible for this child-man who was a newborn such a short time ago.

I know I'm messing some things up. I know I'm imperfect as a mother, especially a mother of a teenager! I'm new at this. I remind him of that. Just as his being older is newish to him so too is it new to me. We're figuring this whole thing out together. One thing is certain, we aren't done growing yet! I'll do my best and fail a lot. He'll do what he can to be patient with me, but he'll suck at that too. But this bumpy awesome ride is the nature of adolescence. It isn't boring.

My main question now...where are we going when our now ten-year-old enters seventh grade? That much dreaded year has come and gone relatively smoothly for one and is but two years away for the other. I don't know...how about another lap of the globe?

Audiobooks, Routines, and What it Means to be Home

Audiobooks are a part of our life--before, while traveling and again now that we've returned. While traveling, we listened to audiobooks (most often referred to as "books on tape" proving the age of the parents carefully selecting books for our family's education and entertainment). We listened to many while in Europe as that was where we most frequently rented a car and therefore could share in an audio experience collectively. We attempted to choose books that through the use of history and fiction could bring a place to life in an historic way for our story-devouring children.

In Peru, we listened to Turn Right at Machu Picchu which beautifully brought to life the story of the controversial Hiram Bigham III as well as the landscape of the area we personally explored on our own trek. In England we listened to The Constant Princess a quite fictionalized story of Catherine of Aragon and her life both in Spain and England. This one was our first big stretch of inappropriateness as the narrator discussed details of her wedding night as well as other less child-friendly forays. I quickly learned that my quick-twitch action to turn the volume down as adult scenes arrived only served to bring attention more fully to them. I soon gave up my meager attempts at censorship and let the story expand young minds beyond the bounds of history. After that, we got looser rather than more restrictive and launched into two Dan Brown novels while in Italy, Inferno and The Da Vinci Code. We followed those up with the heart-wrenching and beautiful one two punch of The Book Thief (set during the Holocaust) and Angela's Ashes (set in Ireland during the Great Depression). What we listened to wasn't easy stuff. It made us talk. It was too much at times for not just our kids, but for all of us. AND our books brought to life through story some of the intangibles of history in a way that facts, figures and even photos have a difficult time doing. Our connection to people (fictional or factual) gave more heart and context to otherwise somewhat distant experiences. All our stories were just that, stories...based in some historical time and place, but stories.  We were enthralled and connected to history and to each other. 

Here in this ordinary life, audiobooks join us on long road trips, carpool and for me as I tootle around town running errands or returning from carpool without the car-load of kids. Currently, my carpool is devouring one book and I'm listening to a few others, one story one, one more of a self-help type, two to work with different audiobook moods.  Today, while listening to "The Gift of an Ordinary Day" by Katrina Kenison (recommended by a dear friend as a memoir she thought I'd like in both style and content) I found myself drifting off while she spoke about what home really means to her and drifting into what it means for me. For her, home was the routines and structure that defines a life being lived wherever it is rather than a house. Home, she says, can be created anywhere. This last part of her musings I agree with, home can be created anywhere, but for me I am bristling with the whole concept of routine especially as a cornerstone of home.

It has been over a month now since returning to L.A....five and a half weeks since we collected our suitcases at LAX for the last time on our nearly year-long journey. The first few weeks I was floating on the joy and fulfillment wake left by the experience of so long away, away and together with family. My first real break, the first real moments of slipping away from that current that allowed all to be well with the world even when it wasn't, happened when the kids started school. It was the routine associated with home that splashed water into my mouth while I floated and sent me thrashing around sputtering and flailing.

I have fantasized about the boys going back to school, of languid hours of "me time" awaiting after school drop off, opportunities to attend yoga classes I love and the simple routines I have adored in the past like making my tea or coffee and making my way back to my desk to immerse myself in the project of the day. These mental fabrications and travel-rough-spot-salves are based on a way of life that use to exist in some form in a time before. Like the author I'm listening to, I found solace and joy in regularity, routine, and an organized calendar. Today, these things seem to make my skin bristle and I ponder the change.

While it use to be that routine and rhythm gave me and I know my kids comfort, a predictability to life. Things around could get cacophonous and we could all grab hold of the side-railing called routine. Our lives were busy, crazy, overly-filled, but we had our routines and they steadied us as the rest of our busyness dodged us this way and that.

Craziness has met us here...much of it self-inflicted. We rented out our house for a year and came home to the challenges that follow leaving our quirky Topanga home of 15 years in the less than caring hands of others. Knowing we needed a car for our trips to Mammoth, we sold mine requiring a new car purchase within a few weeks of our return. And, we gave away most of our living room furniture along with the Sharpie on the pillows and food stains on the cushions, ready to make the break from the sofas of our children's childhoods to ones their more grown-up selves could maybe, just maybe appreciate and enjoy without the love that requires personalization of a juvenile type. Without anywhere to sit and the acquisition of first a rug and then a highly unique, albeit beautiful, coffee table in Morocco sent us to hiring an old friend who is also a designer to aid with what we thought would be refinishing the floors, painting the walls and buying a few pieces of furniture, but grew into far more. Yes, the craziness of life here met us full on!

What surprised me though, was that the routine of regular life back here didn't offer the comfort it usually use to. When I could look on my calendar and see YOGA on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays I knew I had "me time" carved out and scheduled. That use to give me a sense of joy.

Today is Wednesday. My calendar reminded me this morning that I had yoga at 9:30 with one of my favorite instructors. It is the most organized of my days; I drive carpool, do yoga, shower, run a few errands including grabbing much needed groceries and head back to drive the other side of carpool. Organized, reliable, steady, and today...rather than refreshing me I felt parched as I unconsciously drove to my awaiting appointment with myself. My energy started to drop, a dark mood cloud flowed overhead, and Katrina Kenison read on and on about home and everyday life. Unlike last Wednesday when I felt this same response to a similar day, today, I caught myself. I got off the freeway early, found a Starbucks bathroom in which to change out of my yoga clothes, got back into my car and sat.

That was the moment of truly gifting to myself "me time." What did I want to do? What would truly be self nurturing? Most often the answer to that question is yoga, hence the reason it lands on my calendar as a place holder for personal time. Today, however, the effort of yoga felt like too much. In yoga there is a lot of surrender, but there is also quite a bit of effort, the two the ha and tha. Life is offering plenty of opportunities to exert effort. What I needed today was surrender, care, attention and a chance to express myself.

I drove my nurture-needing-self to the salon. I got my eyebrows done and picked the more expensive "spa-pedicure" complete with massaging chair and surrendered. Letting go into the moment, I closed my eyes and felt into the care being offered to my body by the mechanical hands at my back and the four hands touching my body--two on my feet and two on my hands. In the past I might have been busy with my phone or my thoughts while such luxury was bestowed, but not today. Today I practiced the yoga one of my primary teachers assigned to me years ago, but that I doubt she meant it for a spa day, I "presenced" each moment. This meant no judging, no good/bad, no preferences, just being and receiving the gifts offered exactly as they were being given, fully. The yoga of spa day and routine breaking. My mat stayed rolled up in my trunk and my yoga practice so far today has been deep.

Now, I sit waiting for my lunch, finding expression in words to an audience of ether. I reflect down at my toes, unfamiliar now "done" as they haven't been in over a year in their previously customary silver polish and I question what it means to have a "home." No, for me, now in this new incarnation of myself, home is not found in routines or rhythm, schedules or well organized calendars nor in complete itemized to-do-lists.  Home is a feeling within my body. I found it last night as the boys and I played "Mille Borne"while eating a far too simple meal for my previous self of bagel pizzas and frozen peas. Home is the moment shared with a friend in a yoga studio on Tuesday while she hugged me and communicated her understanding of my altered state of being. Home is the moment this morning in the bathroom of the Starbucks where I changed clothes and didn't buy coffee. And home is now, in these moments while I explore the landscape inside me, when I slow down enough in the craziness and busyness that has been a hallmark of my life here, to reflect and listen to the voice and silence inside. Home is not in the routine, but the moments of truly living that routines often mask rather than bring fully to life. Home is this moment, this feeling in my body right now.

I like home...wherever and whenever I can find my way there. Location is not necessary.

While some places are easier than others, home can be with me anywhere. In fact, home was often easier to find while traveling, than it has been since I've been back. Too often I've responded to my day out of habit and routine and in so doing killing my sense of home. It has been the ways I've broken those and acted most differently to situations and people that have brought me closest to home here. So while I am still surrounded by boxes I plan to allow myself to unpack them slowly, impulsively when called for rather than adding them to a to-do-list. We'll see. I may not be able to hang like this for long...practicing responding rather than giving everything structure, but right now that sounds like good medicine.