This morning a cool breeze was blowing through the windows and the sun was bright and inviting. I decided I’d like to walk the dogs on my favorite country road. Kimberly asked if I wanted to use the new dog harness she bought for Mazie, and I declined, but while getting the leashes, I felt a sudden shadow settle over my soul from somewhere vague and indistinct. As I loaded the dogs into the car, I tried to sort out the feeling. Something about the new harness was upsetting me. We recently got a second dog Mitts, and last week we bought him a harness that would inhibit his tugging on the leash. They have clever designs that force a dog into a turn when they pull, and I told Kimberly that I could add the feature to Mazie’s harness so we would not need to buy her another one. Two days ago Kimberly mentioned that I needed to do it soon because she was not able to control Mazie on walks, then yesterday she phoned to tell me that she had bought Mazie a new harness. I kept quiet, but I was exasperated.
Neither of us spends much money (we don’t have much to spend), but I am more austere than she is, so minor conflicts like this come up on occasion, especially when I feel I can solve the problem for free. Of course, that means she has to wait, especially if my emotions are dragging their feet. She is pretty patient, but eventually she asks me to either finish the project or agree to spend the money. This time there was little waiting, no discussion, and a unilateral decision. Naturally, she had every right since by agreement only large purchases require joint decisions. In fact, if we hadn’t discussed it at all, I would have been only slightly and briefly irritated because the bottom line was loss of money, not loss of self worth as it now felt.
As a child, I was highly sensitive, believing that others did not care about my feelings and latching onto anything that might be construed as evidence. As kids do, I blamed myself, sure that I was unloved because I did not deserve to be loved. I assumed my own inadequacy until it shaped my heart into a subconscious outlook, easily flaring up into depression as it bypasses any conscious thought process. I don’t stop to make a rational conclusion: “He was impatient with me because I’m too slow… I shouldn’t be this slow… it proves that I am a failure as a human being.” I just feel bad without knowing why. Sometimes even my emotions take time to settle in–my initial reaction may be a self-defensive anger covering over the sense of shame that gradually seeps in unrecognized to color my days.
As I walked, I started pulling loose the tangled threads of subconscious assumptions that triggered this current sense of worthlessness. Simply identifying the source released a good deal of its hidden power to subvert my heart. The next step was to validate my own worth independently of how Kimberly thought of me or treated me. My value cannot rest on another person, even on one so vital. My worth is anchored in the infinite and unconditional love with which God values me. Then having found some level of security, I took another look at what Kimberly’s behavior meant… and decided that objectively it had nothing to do with her opinion of me. She may have been acting from a sense of urgency or expedience or need for resolution. Buying a dog harness was not a telltale sign that she didn’t care about me. It was a sign that she wanted a dog harness.
MITTS
It’s our anniversary today. Last year I went “whole hog” as my mother would say: an 8 foot card of all Kimberly’s attributes. This year things have gone the other direction–pork rinds so to speak. We’re both tired, worn down, stumbling through our days clinging to linty scraps of hope that we keep misplacing. My offering in celebration of 7 years of marriage was a handful of dry, leftover brownies I brought home from work and a love note scribbled on a slip of paper from our refrigerator grocery list pad. I left that for her to discover this morning when she got up.
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This is what real marriage is all about. If a couple’s relationship is threatened by what does or does not happen on their anniversary, they’re making that date carry far too much weight. You cannot make one day’s extravagance compensate for even a month of short-changing the relationship, and by the same token, a paltry celebration does not diminish a well-maintained heart connection. A marriage is built on daily choices–to listen, share, cry, laugh, trust, support–not on grand gestures. I’m very grateful for what Kimberly and I have.
This afternoon Kimberly and I were listening to an NPR Fresh Air interview of musician Sam Baker. He was the victim of a bombing in Peru by the communist group Shining Path, which prompted one of his striking lyrics: ‘Everyone is at the mercy of another one’s dream.’ Yes, we daydream of weddings and families, homes and careers, but our plans collide: mother and daughter over weddings, husband and wife over child-rearing, homeowner and banker over late mortgage payments. If we can’t agree over a music station driving to Walmart or where to hang wet towels, how can we compromise our deepest, longest held dreams. Must I abandon my dreams to fulfill yours or do we each halve our hopes? Does relationship shrivel potential?
Group goals differ from personal goals, and each has advantages and disadvantages over the other. Choosing relationship changes dreams, but if we are innately social beings, then purely individual plans are misguided and incomplete. We can only be our true, whole selves and fulfill our potential within the context of relationship. It is in togetherness that our richest dreams are shaped. With God’s help even difficult relationships can enhance our journey; we can turn the barricades thrown up by our enemies into stairsteps to the stars, just as Sam’s devastating injuries gave him a new and better purpose, to write songs on albums titled Mercy and Say Grace. I want to live in such a way that those who cross my path, even briefly, find help on their way rather than hindrance, encouragement rather than pain.
* * * * * *
After the interview I told Kimberly I like NPR anchors. They are nice people. Even when they disagree with their guests, they are polite and respectful. On his website, Sam reflected about his interaction with (NPR’s) Terry Gross, “I talked to her last week in Philadelphia at WHYY. I am a long time listener and a fan and was nervous (and a bit intimidated) to talk with her. She is gracious and charming and I am deeply grateful.” Kimberly replied to me, “Those gentle people are the only ones I want as friends.” I said, “That’s funny because you didn’t marry one!” Mind you, I try to be gentle. I’m just not very good at it, like a lumberjack with a bone china teacup, and I often feel deeply flawed as a human being for not being nicer. So why would Kimberly choose me?
We’ve had this discussion many times. In spite of warming up to nice, she keeps choosing real instead, because (as it turns out) you can’t really have both–no one can always be sweet and still genuine. When we let our insides out, the shadows appear. Kimberly was raised on nice, and didn’t discover her anger until she met me. She fearfully buried that part deep inside from everyone, even herself, and it was killing her. The folks who keep the ugly locked inside not only hurt themselves, but short-circuit their relationships. If I trust you only with what’s admirable, then you don’t know me and can’t love me for who I am. To truly connect at the heart level, we have to share more than happiness. As it turns out, I’m very good at real, both in being vulnerable and accepting others in their vulnerabilities, and that is what Kimberly needs most deeply. When she committed to our relationship, she gave up on her safe, carefully crafted dream and woke up to a reality far better.
Some dreams are in fatal conflict, and pursuing them tears everyone down. Surprisingly, fairytale endings often fit this mold because they are unrealistic, delusive, and usually selfish, and they depend on everyone involved having precisely the same unchanging vision. Trust me, after the credits roll, the sheen of Prince Charming dulls quickly as he wipes his mouth on the kitchen towel and forgets to replace the TP roll, and if Cinderella enforces her Hollywood dream, everyone else is going to be living a nightmare pasted over with smiles. May we all learn to dream together, to find the richest, fullest expression of ourselves in the symphony of relationship.
Go in peace, go in kindness,
go in love, go in faith.
Leave the day, the day behind us. Day is done.
Go in grace. Let us go into the dark, not afraid, not alone.
Let us hope by some good pleasure, safely to arrive at home.
–Sam Baker–
I hit a deer yesterday morning as I drove home from work at 2:30 a.m. I often see deer the last half mile, sometimes just twin dots as their eyes reflect my highbeams while their bodies blend into the terrain. They are skittish, at times plunging into the road from the safety of the field, so I watch for them. But this one leaped out of the dark when I was going 50 mph, landing a few feet from my bumper. I’d have been heartsick to injure it, but it was killed instantly, so instead the slime of shame started gumming up my soul over the cost of fixing the car. Kimberly has often warned me to be careful, but I’d seen no deer in two weeks so my mind had drifted to other things. Would I have seen it, could I have avoided it, if I’d been alert?
In driving safety, Berly’s got me beat. She is more careful and aware in life, while I am more fearless and ruminative or if you prefer more reckless and scatter-brained. All personality traits have their benefits and detriments, and Berly’s make her better behind the wheel. They also make her more stressed and tired behind the wheel, so ironically I, the dangerous one, do most of the driving. There usually is a trade-off somewhere in the plus and minus categories of our personal characteristics. We often suppose there is some golden mean to seek–a perfect balance of caution and risk, of intensity and tranquility, of talking and listening–shave off the bumps to fill in the holes and end up with the perfect personality. Except those convexes and concaves are what make us each unique individuals with unique contributions. Our patterns of light and shadow shape our beauty, and our mix of strengths and weaknesses bond us in relationship.
Of course, I want to shore up my weaknesses as best I can; I want to become safer in traffic. But I must measure that against my own abilities and gifts, not my wife’s. She will always be better on the road, and that is okay… that has to be okay. Her safe driving must not be the basis for critiquing and shaming my erratic driving. In the first few years of our marriage, I was a strong defensive driver… meaning I was strongly defensive about my driving, a toxic mix of pride and shame towards any complaint. But I have slowly owned my faults and am now grateful for her backseat driving. She used to silently stomp invisible brakes on her passenger floor, but now she cries out, “That’s a stop sign!” or “That car is turning!” Team driving like team living brings out the best from both of us, but it requires mutual trust and respect built from honest interaction about our vulnerabilities and caches of shame.
I got my mom’s gerry-rigging gene. Kimberly sometimes laughs at the outlandish solutions I invent, but I can usually solve her problems. When we’re traveling and have very limited resources, I can fix it if it’s too hot or too cold, too high or too low, too dark or too light. I’ve been known to create furniture alternatives, substitute apparel, and make-shift appliances. And when we’re at home, the possibilities are endless, even when there’s no money.
Of course, my first tries are often flubs, sometimes disastrous or comical, like the soil bed I built on the outside of our second story deck to keep the deer from eating our tomato plants (and easier to tend). I didn’t think about how much heavier wet dirt is, till one night after three days of rain the whole thing crashed to the ground with a thump that brought us running. Or the time I didn’t notice the fatal flaw in my towing plan.
On the more comical side was my solution for Berly’s morning juggle out to the car for work, carrying her bagel and coffee and purse and bag. What could I invent to carry her bagel and coffee that she could hold with one finger, with a flat bottom so she could put it down as she opened and closed doors? I took a laundry bottle and cut holes in the side and tried to decorate it so it didn’t look so much like, well, a plastic jug with holes… using the contours of the container as a creative canvas. The results were… um….
Functional or not, that wasn’t going to leave the house for public viewing! The next iteration involved a shirt sleeve and hook, but Kimberly left her job before I could perfect the design. If you’ve got a problem, I’ve got a solution or three, and they usually work in the end, with minimal cost… as long as I don’t burn the house down in the process.
Jesus walked this lonesome valley.
He had to walk it by Himself;
O, nobody else could walk it for Him,
He had to walk it by Himself.
We must walk this lonesome valley,
We have to walk it by ourselves;
O, nobody else can walk it for us,
We have to walk it by ourselves.
We sang this mournful spiritual in church last week. Loneliness is miserable, so why do I feel uplifted by this song?
Is there something in music or poetry or art that somehow ennobles or beautifies sadness?
Or is it the sharing of sorrow that salves the sting?
Perhaps it is getting outside of your experience to look on it with some level of detachment?
Or maybe it is the courage that is displayed by facing into the pain rather than running or hiding?
Why is the experience of a broken heart terrible, but the story of a broken heart strengthening?
**Please give me your thoughts**
“The opposite of depression is not happiness, but vitality” –Andrew Solomon
If you are like me, you feel encouraged by hearing the stories of others who struggle with depression. Loneliness, the sense that others cannot relate or understand or empathize, is both a fuel for and a flame from depression. So hearing others share their own journey is a balm to my weary soul. Here is such a talk by Andrew Solomon.
Kimberly and I know one another’s stories and experiences so well that it often seems there is nothing else to share, like we are trapped inside our own little bubble… it is safe, but offers little chance for fresh input to spark change. It seems that every time we crack the door to let in a little good, a tide of anti-grace is waiting to push its way in. The world is so full of direct and indirect condemnation, which is especially hard for sensitive souls to filter out. Perhaps you can relate.
For 18 years now I have been struggling with depression. It gets worse or better suddenly and without reason for unpredictable periods of time. My latest downturn came in winter. I’ve tried so many different strategies to lift my spirits, pushing myself into things I’d rather avoid, but the fixes never hold. The last few days have been crushing. For two nights running, I bunkered down in my office instead of sitting at the reference desk, coming out only when someone needed my help.
Yesterday Berly emailed me a link to a TED Talk video about community, and I watched it this afternoon. It was very touching, especially the story of a crippled elephant cared for by her herd. Like that elephant I am broken, but in ways no one can see. My depression is far more debilitating to my life than a wheelchair would be. But that 15 minutes shared by a South African storyteller sang some relief into my tortured day. It made me think that maybe I can make a small difference for one person by sharing life on this blog, perhaps a spark of connection, a sense that you are not alone in your struggle. I don’t need to be clever or poetic or memorable. Just being myself, sharing my little scraps of hope and discovery, struggle and pain, may lift someone’s flagging soul, even for an hour.
May we somehow, across the distances, touch one another with compassion and understanding and find a little relief in our shared stories.
I was washing dishes in the kitchen yesterday and thinking. My mind follows me everywhere and won’t shut up. Suddenly I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach as I reflected on a political article I had been reading. The current state of civic engagement in America is deeply disturbing to me, but what drives the stake into my heart is the entrenched position of my own people, the church… at least that part of the church I have always called home spiritually. It feels to me like our world is careening around hairpin turns in the dark and the headlights just died. This is not going to end well. And leaning against the sink with dripping hands I realized another huge source of my depression.
I have known for many years that my personal sense of failure drove me into a deep depression. I gave it everything I had and just couldn’t make it work: the overwhelming poverty of India mocked my attempts to help. It is a great blow to realize your life is meaningless in the greater scheme of things, that your world, even your small corner of the world, will go on as it always has with or without you. Still, though I wasn’t making a difference, someone was making a difference. I had lost all hope for my own personal relevance, but I knew that the good side would win.
Then I slowly realized my pointless life was not in contrast to the overall progress of the world, but was a microcosm of it. All the good in the world–the huge, sacrificial efforts of selfless people–did not and could not ever reverse the direction of this tragic human story. Suffering is alleviated and evil stopped in small back eddies of history, but the world as a whole flows on in its destructive ways.
At some point in my own journey I finally understood that the positive, upbeat message on which I was raised was a false narrative that we told each other to keep us fighting a losing battle. Against all the evolutionary optimism of my culture, the world would never be a better place, and there was nothing any of us could do to change that. One war would succeed another, today’s tyrant would rise on the ashes of yesterday’s, a new disease would always spring up to laugh in the face of all our medical advances. We were doomed to play violins on the deck of our sinking Titanic. I was not just a failure in my own small sphere, but my story was one line in a great tragedy. My impotence was a small, dark reminder of the miserable whole. I was not simply hopeless about myself, I was hopeless about the entire world.
I’m not suggesting we should stop playing our violins. If we are all going down, perhaps we can bring some small comfort to face the disaster. But if we hope that our stringed ensemble will keep the ship from sinking, we set ourselves up for repeated disappointment, and despair at last. We will either strum more and more violently trying to drive back the rising waves or we will pretend the ship is fine and turn a deaf ear to the cries around us. In a crazy way I found hope in hopelessness yesterday. Sweeping away false hope clears a space for realistic hope.
It is not useless to adopt one mangy mutt from a city full of strays, give one store clerk a smile in her long, harsh day, clarify a point for one person on a website crowded with dissenters. It is no small thing to bring laughter to a child’s cancer ward, to give a sandwich to a man three days hungry, to hold the hand of a mother whose son was killed in Iraq. Perhaps I cannot cure Alzheimer’s, but I can listen lovingly to the same story repeated for the fourth time.
We have violins, let us play them.
A week ago I was sitting at the library reference desk and one of my student workers was talking to a couple of friends. We allow this for a couple of minutes, but they kept jabbering. When there was a pause in the conversation I said, “If you want to keep having this discussion, why don’t you take it elsewhere.” The visiting students were clearly embarrassed and immediately apologized and headed out the door. The student worker continued with her shift, but at the end of her hour she got up and left in complete silence. I’m not deaf to social cues and guessed she was upset with me. Sadly, I can come across as more harsh than I feel… something in the tone of my voice, the look in my eyes, the cock of my brows.
I know this because Kimberly regularly yanks my chain about what I have said or done with others that seems completely tame to me–I was not barking, I was not even growling. Apparently my perception of “normal” is skewed towards blunt and angry. I take umbrage easily. I lack grace. And even when I manage to have a gracious mindset, my frown lines still crease–my mom was right: making ugly faces does stick. I have improved a great deal, but Kimberly keeps wincing, so I’ve clearly got a ways to go.
Every plain statement comes with assumptions, context, implications, connotation… in short, the unspoken part of our message is often more powerful and important than the spoken part. This is true not only because we can give it more weight, even unintentionally, but because the unspoken has unusual advantages, being unseen it easily slips past all our defenses.
- It’s often felt, but not identified consciously, so the person falls under its influence without a chance to examine and question it.
- It’s hard to call out because it can easily be refuted with “that’s not what I said” or “that’s not what I meant.”
- The person reacting has no “proof” so he doubts himself and may not even understand why he is reacting as he is, even blaming himself for feeling blamed, a double whammy.
When dad says, “That was a great science project. Next year you’ll probably get first place,” his words are floating in a relational stew. The boy knows his father, knows what he thinks about science versus sports, knows how he weighs second place versus first, knows how he values his son’s achievements compared to his job or favorite sitcom or other kid’s accomplishments. The father’s sentiments override everything else, and his actual words are powerless in such a competition. We are all born intuitively perceptive, remarkably so, even if we cannot put it into words or rational explanations.
No amount of care in choosing my words or facial expressions is going to change the experience others have of me, except in the most superficial interactions. My only hope is to grow more into a gracious heart, for the heart always comes leaking out between and around all my words, my polite behavior, my planned smiles. The truth has an inevitability, even when I try to suppress it, even when I’m blind to it in myself. Sometimes people know me better than I know myself. So I listen to them, even when it sounds like poppycock 😉 .
Janathan Grace Reflections 