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By Mama Paloma, 23/01/2012 22:19

He stared at the open palm of his left hand for a long time. That ten-year-old girl grasped this hand and hugely changed something inside me, but I can’t give a reasonable explanation of how such a thing could have happened. Still the two of us understood each other and accepted each other in a very natural way in every last particular–almost miraculously so. Such things don’t happen all that often in this life. For some people, they might never happen.

H. Murakami, 1Q84, p. 523-524

Five years ago, for my birthday, I bought myself a ring. I stumbled on it in a tiny jewelry shop in Lisbon. It has several thin, intertwining threads of metal, organically irregular in thickness, with a few small diamonds caught in the spaces where the threads cross. When I saw it, I immediately thought of the ways our paths and lives cross others’ all the time bringing us shining moments of connection. I asked to look at this one-of-a-kind piece and it fit me perfectly, as did the metaphor.

The other day, a friend from my teenage years popped online and said hello. Back in 1989,  in an unusual and romantic setting, we had one of those innocent, exciting Summer romances that come with sheltered adolescence and naivete. We had only been vaguely in touch the past couple of years, via FaceBook, after two decades of no contact.

He asked me if I remembered a particular day…when it started to pour while we were swimming in the harbor and we huddled together under the dock to avoid the enormous tropical raindrops which were cold compared to the warm sea water. He said he would never forget that day, that it had stayed with him all these years. “It was beautiful…,” he wrote, “…its funny how that never happens now.”

The conversation touched me and it was more than nostalgia. I happen to be reading Murakami’s latest book, which I received (in hardcover, no less) as a Christmas gift. One of the main story lines is about the pair in the quote above, the pure and unrequited love they carry throughout their lives. As my friend described his memories, his experience of that moment that so resonated with mine, it was hard not to draw a parallel with the fantastical fictional world of the novel I am reading.

It has me thinking of how, most of the time, when those diamond moments occur, we have no idea if the other person shared that experience. In those moments, for me at least, it doesn’t even register as possible that my presence, my small action, my taking the hand of another, could create and impart something they might hod dear.

Too often, I don’t even realize the value of the moment until later, when I pull it out with the leftover change of the latest journey and find, mixed in with the lint and metro stubs, a sparkling gem. These I treasure, imagining that I am the only one who carried the moment away in my pocket.

Every great once in a while, usually when a friend is up too late at night on the other side of the world, probably more than a little drunk, I get a glimpse of something like this and it makes my heart ache a little. If we could know those moments truly when they come, if we could recognize rare magic and give it its proper place, what would our lives be like?

And what price do we pay when we don’t? That thought brings to mind another Murakami piece but I’ll leave my reflections on that one for another post.

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By Mama Paloma, 23/01/2011 14:52

So many times, I have wanted to do what Chris Hoff does here…to capture a moment when the scenery, the song on the radio, the location all combine to form a ‘moment’ that feels somehow significant in its random ordinariness.

Today, AJ and I are both fighting colds. Winning the fight, I think. Ten hours of sleep, ginger tea, and a lazy Sunday are the weapons of choice. To pass the time, we hit up our YouTube account, which has numerous playlists I have created to amuse him and, of course, there’s one of all of the video clips of him I have uploaded for friends and family to enjoy. He asked to watch it and so we did for a while.

Looking at these blips in his development—from this account of his frenetic efforts to grab the camera as a two-month-old to discovering Santa’s leavings on Chrismas morning—I am struck by a couple of things.

One is how much he L O V E loves to watch himself. Without the veneer of expected modesty and self-critique we acquire somewhere along the line, a three-year-old relishes his own reflection and reliving past moments.

Another is  how hard it is to both observe and participate in these moments. It’s something I have struggled with a lot as a single parent. I want to preserve these moments but, at the same time, want to be present and a part of things. Behind the camera, I am slightly removed, engaged in framing the experience–something that can’t be done from within the experience itself.

For me, this challenge extends beyond the realm of documenting our lives. When juggling multiple priorities, time lines, and threads of activity, it isn’t easy to be fully present for any of it. Just this week, I was sitting with a client, also a mom who works outside the home, as she talked about this dilemma. As she said, “I just want to be more present with my kids,” I nodded internally in agreement. Then, also internally, I jumped out of my seat in a panic. I had forgotten to send the address of AJ’s preschool  to my friend who was picking AJ up for me that day! It was about the time she should be going to pick him up. What kind of parent am I?

And what kind of therapist am I? If nothing else, it is my job to be fully present for those who come to consult with me. Containing my panic, I wrestled with these conflicting assessments. I realized that, lame as I was for neglecting to send the needed information, the world was not likely to come to an end as a result. AJ was safe at his school (exorbitant late fees be damned) and this client has been consulting with me long enough to work out that I am, indeed, a real human being. So, I quietly took a deep breath and stayed engaged until the conversation reached a natural point of ‘switching gears’ and then asked her if I could excuse myself for a moment. I explained that her comments had reminded me of something I neglected to do. I called. AJ was fine (my resourceful friend had looked up the school on Google). We laughed. It was not my most shining moment as a parent or a professional but it passed.

I am not sure how to tie this all in but it is connected for me somehow–the threads of our lives and the way we weave them together, the impossibility of completely separating the threads of the professional and personal, the organization of all of these pieces and the holes that develop when we drop a stitch and that then, in time, become part of the pattern and wholeness of a life lived.

And the moments that speak from their ordinary synchronicity of the meaning and beauty of it all.

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By Mama Paloma, 18/01/2011 09:00

A client just shared Sustainable Love, a New York Times article by Tara Parker-Pope with me. This client identified with the article’s premise that a relationship that ‘works’ is not inherently satisfying–that partnership today is about being challenged and individually satisfied. What caught my attention, though, was how social construction of identity emerged as a key component of relationships.

The effect of self-expansion is particularly pronounced when people first fall in love. In research at the University of California at Santa Cruz, 325 undergraduate students were given questionnaires five times over 10 weeks. They were asked, “Who are you today?” and given three minutes to describe themselves. They were also asked about recent experiences, including whether they had fallen in love.

After students reported falling in love, they used more varied words in their self-descriptions. The new relationships had literally broadened the way they looked at themselves.

“You go from being a stranger to including this person in the self, so you suddenly have all of these social roles and identities you didn’t have before,” explains Dr. Aron, who co-authored the research.

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By Mama Paloma, 16/01/2011 17:51

A Sunday morning dose of humor, that those of us who have been married will recognize as funny but not far from the truth.

Recently I discovered that spouses, like computers, must be booted up before they can hear what you say.  Try walking into a room where your spouse is otherwise engaged and simply launch into your statement or question. Notice that your first sentence doesn’t count. That might go like this.

You: I think the ice maker isn’t working.

Spouse: What?

In that example, the spouse had not yet booted into listening mode. You can solve this problem with what I call the boot up tone. It is a sound that serves no function except to say, “Shift to listening mode.” I highly recommend that you use your spouse’s first name as your boot up tone. People are programmed to hear their own names even when they won’t notice other background noise. And I recommend speaking in the key of F, even if that isn’t your normal range, because it’s a great tone for penetrating background noise. It’s also a good idea to stretch out your spouse’s name a bit. I turn Shelly into She-e-e-e-e-lly. Try it at home. It works. But use your own spouse’s name.

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By Mama Paloma, 05/12/2010 19:54

Maybe it’s the end of the year, the approaching holidays with their attendant emotionality, or the movement of the planets,but people are coming out of the woodwork and I am facing an emotional housecleaning that I am just not sure I am up for.

Most of the situations I need to sort out are relationships that have been difficult for some time. I have wanted to move toward something better with these people but have not been able to find a way. There’s the sibling whose narcissism makes holding any space for my experience extremely difficult who wants to re-engage after more than two years. And the friend who I seem to slight at every turn, unintentionally, and who reacts by issuing ultimatums and lecturing me on how I should be. Sorry, I really am doing my best to juggle the various components of life and work at the moment, am easily overwhelmed in social situations, and just don’t have any energy left to ‘work on’ myself. There’s the ex who owes me money and lambasted me for asking for it in a semi-public way (after having had to ask, repeatedly, in a private way and not getting anywhere) and the not-yet-ex who wants to be with me but doesn’t have the time for what would be my version of a meaningful relationship.

And today I am a bit pissed off about it all. This may be because, after getting AJ off to church with my mom (for the last time until February–she is leaving the country and I am losing my mom and my childcare backup for that time) early this morning and falling into a much needed couple of hours of sleep, I was awakened by a call (that, thankfully, I didn’t pick up) from the aforementioned friend who needs to talk to me about my latest transgression (which I can only guess at) because “that won’t happen again.” AT 9:00AM ON A SUNDAY.

I am a bit cranky.

I want to say, “You’re crazy and emotionally abusive. No, I don’t want to ‘reconcile our relationship.’” I want to say, “Since who and how I am in the world is so hurtful to you, how about we just stop being friends?” I want to say, “Stop whining and pay me, you poor excuse of a mooch.” I want to say, “Geez. Forget it.”

I want to say these things in articulate and precise and witty ways. I want to be mean.

But then I think of the quote I saw recently, on one of those square magnets with the black background and the words in white. I liked the quote and bought the magnet, which is now on my fridge.

Beginning today, treat everyone you meet as if they were going to be dead by midnight. Extend them all the care, kindness and understanding you can muster. Your life will never be the same again.

Og Mandino, The Greatest Miracle in the World
(1923 – 1996)

Sounds good, right? It is good. And, once I let the crankiness and meanness settle, it is really how I want to be.

And there, my friends, is the rub. How would I deal with each of these people if I knew they were dying today? I am trying to imagine but my sense of being wronged, my fear that I suffer from a fundamental social disability that leads me to handle these things badly, my limited capacity to handle one more thing, is getting in the way of even that.

I don’t want to say what I want to say and I don’t know what else to say. Going along with these people’s preferences for our relationships has not worked for me. Confronting our differences might resolve the situation but not without inflicting hurt on them and on any future relationship we might have.

So I say nothing at all. Until I can manage something better.

In the meantime, this is entertaining:

According to horoscopeswithin.com which I found by Googling “current astrology,”  is currently featuring “Mars…clashing with Jupiter and Uranus… When these two areas of the zodiac clash, we sometimes see local gossip, dysfunctional family relationships, drunken neighbors, hospitalized or institutionalized relatives/community members, and/or self-destructive behaviors, addictions, etc causing all kinds of problems.” (Given the subject of this post and the frequently loud/apparently intoxicated state of my downstairs neighbors, I may start referring to this site for more than a reference.)

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By Mama Paloma, 21/10/2010 06:13

…and so much sadder to be cynical. No one says it like D. Mode. Really, is this asking so much?

I tried to preview this post and got the following message from WordPress:

Sorry, what you are looking for is not here.

Thanks, Universe…really effing funny!

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By Mama Paloma, 10/03/2010 05:22

Tonight was AJ’s third call with his dad. Gotta give it to the guy, he does seem to be following through at least on the phone contact. The time difference makes it hard. Adam has to cut out for his lunch to catch us at dinner time. He’s somewhere outside of his work, AJ is tired and cranky. So far, Skype or similar has not been an option.

But AJ loves this. He chats away about whatever is interesting to him. Last time, on the weekend, he just played for a bit. As though his dad was just sitting there watching him. It’s odd how much he gets and what he doesn’t. He still tries to ‘show’ his dad stuff through the phone.

And today he asked his dad to come visit. Specifically, he said ‘daddy come home?’ He kept repeating it until both Adam and I understood. Adam was tongue-tied. Understandably. I don’t think he expected this. I didn’t. Not yet. After missing a few beats, he said ‘I can’t come, buddy, I’m in Australia.’ I followed up and asked Addison if he remembered when we went to see Aunty Naomi on the airplane. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘You remember how we had to sleep on the plane and it took such a long time?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well that’s where your daddy is. He can’t just come here. It’s really, really far.’ AJ considered this for a moment before responding. ‘Daddy come helicopter,’ he said.’You think your daddy should come in a helicopter?’ I asked. ‘Yeah,’ he replied, ‘daddy come helicopter or plane.’

He had it all figured out.

When the time came to say goodbye, he cried. He was sad and angry with us for not figuring out what was so obvious to him. His daddy should ‘come home NOW!’ It was really hard.

It was also, in some way, good. Not that I want him to suffer. Really, I can’t let myself think ahead to what suffering there could be in the future. But I do believe that suffering that is about connection and belonging, about knowing and caring for others is far preferable, far more livable than the suffering that comes from the absence of those things. Who knows what lies ahead but, for now, my son has a connection with his daddy, a sense that his is there for him (even if not playing in his playroom), a place in this his weird, messed-up family where he is loved and safe and can say what he wants and cry his little heart out if he needs to.

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By Mama Paloma, 09/09/2009 05:30

I have to thank Jess for my new favorite noun: the retread. Well, I knew the noun before but this is the application of the word to our, er, affiliations. We all have them. Those relationships with friends/exes/family members we keep going back to and patching up even though we know they are shot.

I have never been one for cut off in relationships. I really value valuing people and relationships and acting with compassion and gentleness and acceptance. This is the core of my spiritual and relational practice. I am quite proud of having sorted things out to a workable place with a number of people–especially family members–and happy to have those people in my life.

Still, at some point, trying to sort things out becomes a bit like patching a bald tire. It’s one thing to patch things up when there has been a rift or a misunderstanding. It’s another to try to hold something together by layering more stuff on. Yet, we do it all the time. We talk and talk and try to sort it out. Or we shut up, swallow it all, and smile just to keep it going.

I say ‘we’ because I am pretty sure, I want to believe, that I am not the only one pouring in time and energy trying to make the thing whole, hoping it can be like it might have been.

This is where wisdom comes in. The wisdom to let something be what it is. Or, rather, what it isn’t. The wisdom to separate the fixable and desirable from the terminally unsatisfying and dangerous.

This is a hard lesson for me.

Because it is so hard, the Universe has given me a number of opportunities to let people go recently. There was a minor series of guys before my son’s father…some entertaining, some lame stories…warming me up for that big one. There was, this past year, a very painful but necessary break-up with my sister.

I am still not sure I am right to do this. To relegate a person, a relationship to the recycle heap. It feels wrong. By personality and now by profession I try to mend relationships, to build understanding and connection.

But sometimes, people, it’s just the right thing to do. Stop trying to make it better. Don’t patch it and put it back on thinking it might get you a few more miles when you know full well it could blow on you when you’re doing 80 on the freeway and bang you up real good. Let it be what it is. Leave it on the side of the road for someone else to pick up and make into a planter or some flip flops or playground topping. Yes, playground topping. Did you know that stuff is made from old, worn out tires?

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By Mama Paloma, 25/07/2009 03:34

I recently dated someone for a couple of months. Among his many (many) complaints about me was the fact that, in any situation (but especially in a disagreement), I am more concerned with the process than the content. I am more interested in the how than the what. This drove him mad, in all likelihood because his how drove me mad. He is, I truly believe a kind and giving person at heart. And he does give and is kind. However, quite often, this giving kindness comes in rather, um, shall we say, rough packaging.

Case in point: I was feeling ill. My stomach was upset. He made me ginger tea (kind), he brought it to me (very kind), he said, very sternly and a bit sharply, “You should drink this.” The other person present looked at me, seeming a surprised and a little uncomfortable. “The sentiment is good,” I commented, “even if the delivery isn’t.” She nodded.

To me, packaging matters. Delivery matters. How things feel and are experienced matters. For my would-be lover and I, this sensitivity, in part, destroyed our connection. My sensibilities could only handle so many insults. It was very hard to believe that he didn’t think I was an idiot when he spoke to me like I was an idiot. It was hard to remember that he wasn’t yelling at me when he raised and hardened his voice and would not listen to anything I said.

At the same time that I was sorting out how much this all did matter to me, I was working, with him, on a project. This was the culmination of some work I started in Africa almost three years ago. I had the opportunity to take this work and present it at the Liberian Embassy in Washington DC. I was torn up about the disintegrating relationship. It went against all of my sensibilities and felt so wrong to go forward with everything else without setting that right. And I tried to set it right. Up to the day I left, I was trying to have a conversation that could help it end well.

It didn’t work.

So, I had to do something uncomfortable. I had to keep going in spite of feeling messy and ugly and sad. Perhaps this was my lesson in all of this. To keep focused on the content of my life even when the process seems a bit off.

On reflection, this may be the lesson of the past two years: that I can honor my natural desire to attend to process but am also able to move forward when the how is not as I would hope. The process of having my son–from unintentional conception to betrayal by his father to a difficult hospital birth–was not at all in keeping with my preferences. Yet, I managed to keep going, to make meaning of these experiences, to connect with my son, and (so far, at least) to have a happy, healthy child.

So, I say, for today, process is paramount, my friends, but not all.

And that is good enough for me.

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By Mama Paloma, 01/06/2009 04:25

This started as a bit of a rant. With the following disclaimer:

If you read this and think it is about you, it’s probably not. On the other hand, if the shoe fits, I suppose you can put it on and dance around a bit. It is a sad commentary, I suppose, that it takes more than both hands for me to count the exes, close friends, and current interests whom this could be about.

I was annoyed. Yet again, I found myself dealing with yet another self-consciously angsty guy who feels the need to remind me that they are not ‘ready for a relationship.’ The assumption being, of course, that I am just dying to hitch my cart to their pony and ride off into the sunset.

I was annoyed with this whole class of men–most of my generation–who have been studied and written about because of their overwhelming lack of maturity. ‘Late starters’ who are described as a group. I know them as a bunch of individuals. Each one thinks that they are unique, that they are a lone wolf in a world of packs. Sorry to break it to you, boys, but this just isn’t the case. Instead of something special in your carefully-crafted fucked-upness is a total cliche. If I come across one more guy who tells me how he really wants to go off to a monastery as he interrupts  a meal to respond to a text or email on their phone, who is always re-reading Kerouac or Hemingway or whoever, who pretentiously positions himself as an unpretentious outsider, who tells me he is a loner but then spends every other night in a bar just to be around people, who is all up in my shit and then reminding me that they need their space, I may seriously consider shooting myself in the face.

But it’s not, really, about them at all. This is about me, about being a single woman–a single mother–in a larger cultural context which rewards men for remaining functional adolescents, punishes women for growing up and–naturally–fosters some really fucked-up dynamics between men and women.

Today, I went with a friend to a meeting of a group called Single Mothers By Choice. I first became aware of this group in October 2005, when a male friend sent me an article that featured this group for women who choose to have a child without having a partner. I am going to hunt down and post that article at some point, but my favorite line in it was about how an increasing number of women in their 30s are subscribing to the ‘something is not necessarily better than nothing’ theory of marriage. I love this.

I actively made the choice to be single. I left a long-term relationship and marriage in 2001 because I knew it would be better for me to be alone than to continue.

I also actively made the choice to be a single mom. When I got pregnant, and knew that my baby’s father was not going to be involved, I considered all of my options. I decided to go it alone. I went through the pregnancy alone, the delivery with the support of some phenomenal women but sans partner, I am the sole parent and breadwinner.

Now, I choose to try to date men without compromising these choices. I think that I am giving and caring in all of my friendships. Boys tend to confuse this with my falling in love with them and wanting them to step in and parent my son and plan a life together. They are so wrong. By ‘date,’ I mean uncommitted companionship, fun, and friendship. I do not mean Relationship-with-a-capital-’R.’ That’s not even on my radar. I just don’t think that it is in the cards for me. And this is all right.

I am not saying that I am rigidly tied to flying solo forever. Given the right circumstances and a remarkably tenacious individual, I might be convinced to re-consider. I might even fall in love.

But, for now, this is the deal:

• I am not looking for a partner.
• I am not looking for a father for my son.
• I like my life.

If you are lucky enough to have me share a bit with you, enjoy and appreciate it. Otherwise, take your bag of angst and issues and hit the road.