Getting Caught in the Rain

It’s been a very rainy summer. I don’t mind summer rain. In fact, when I was younger, I used to love sitting on the warm cement driveway and getting drenched in the warmth and smell of the rain.

But this summer, I was supposed to be logging lots of hours on a bicycle. And I couldn’t really do that when it was pouring rain, which was often (or at least I shouldn’t do that, as my broken rib from last summer’s ride in the rain will attest). So on a recent early morning, when I saw the sky mostly blue and the sun shining after a night of rain and thunder, I decided to fit in a quick ride before work. About a half hour into it, the rain started. Mind you, it was still sunny. And there was even a beautiful rainbow in the distance. But it was raining, and it continued to rain until I got safely home.

This prompted me to think about all the times we get caught out in the rain, metaphorically speaking. Even those of us who are planners and try to take precautions can find ourselves in situations we had tried to avoid or ones that involve more risk than we’re comfortable with. Those of us who are not planners may get caught in the rain more often, but are probably also more okay with it.

So the question is, which should we aspire to? Avoiding getting caught in the rain? Or training ourselves to be more accepting of those situations in which life puts us without our permission? I’m blessed to have people in my life who embody both these extremes, and the spectrum in between. Their experiences are instructive.

Here’s what I have observed. First, you need to distinguish what kind of a situation you may be entering. “Risking” opening a baby’s diaper without having lots of wipes, cream, and a clean diaper close at hand should you find a blow-out is just plain foolish. For those of you unfamiliar with what a diaper blow-out is, imagine instead packing for a camping trip without taking a flashlight or pocket knife. Careless. But there are people who regularly put themselves in these situations, relying on the preparedness of others, or some other form of luck, to get them through the situation. Or not, and they willingly accept the consequences of this lack of preparation. Extra laundry or washing up, or stumbling in the dark, are not, after all, disastrous circumstances. (Hearing a sound in the dark outside one’s tent and not being able to see what, or who, is making it might be, though.)

Not preparing adequately for a work presentation or job interview, on the other hand, is a more serious situation in which to place oneself. So is dismantling something (a piece of furniture you need, a bicycle you use) without taking steps to remember how to put it back together. And for most people, it doesn’t take more than one or two failures in such situations to learn to be more prepared.

So assuming you are someone who prepares adequately for the situations that matter, what do you do when you still get caught in the rain?  I’ve noticed a trend that perhaps those who are more prepared find themselves caught in the rain less often, and when they are, often have a contingency plan. But the fact that they are less often caught in the rain also suggests that they are not big risk takers. Since the world needs, I believe, all kinds of personalities, including risk takers and play-it-safe-ers, I will close off with a couple quotes by people far wiser than me, and let you conclude for yourself how willing you are to get caught in the rain.

During the first period of a man’s life the greatest danger is not to take the risk.
-Soren Kierkegaard

Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.
-T. S. Eliot
Risk comes from not knowing what you’re doing.
-Warren Buffett
Once we believe in ourselves, we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight, or any experience that reveals the human spirit.
-e. e. cummings

Read more quotes on risk here.

Tree Branches

I’ve been looking at my hands a lot lately. They are my father’s hands. Since his death especially, I feel like they are often prominently veined, just like his were. Those of you who are medically trained may tell me it’s the heat, or something about my circulation, or whatever. But I think it’s simpler: the veins on my hands pop out like my Dad’s, with a frequency that they didn’t in last summer’s heat, or really anytime before Dad died. And that to me is a reminder that he lives in me. Literally. The map that created the cells of my body was made by his and Mom’s cells. The way I’ve learned to see the world was strongly influenced by the way he saw it.

I look at my toes. They are my father’s toes, with the second toe defiantly sticking out longer than the big toe. I look at my chin, and it is the chin that my father passed along to me from his mother.

I am comforted by these things. They reassure me that he is not gone at a time when I miss him and when his absence feels so absolute. They remind me of his lessons and his values when I need to be reminded. I don’t know what physical characteristics I will pass on to my children, but I know that one of the best things I can do to honor my Dad and his memory is to make sure my children know and learn from his spiritual characteristics. That, I’m finding, is a profound undertaking.

I remember a time when my older daughter was around two or three years old, and my Dad was sitting with her. She was looking at his hands and tracing the veins on them. He asked her if she knew what they were called. She answered that they were branches. He loved this response, and recounted it to me as evidence of how smart his granddaughter was. Indeed, veins are like branches; spreading out from their source, providing nourishment and life to their extremities. It occurs to me that this is what he did, and what each generation ought to do for the one after it: he and my Mom raised and nourished us, and provided shade from the world when we needed it. Now, as we raise our children, we take that nourishment and pass it onto them. And so the tree grows, providing shade for its youngest members, and for those with whom life has been a little too harsh, and who need the respite, however temporary, of family.

On Risk

Our culture values risk-taking. It may be because, as a nation of pioneers and immigrants, it is in our genes to walk on unproven ground, or because success stories of risks taken are glorified in our media and national lore. The point is: taking risks is generally viewed as a good thing.

This viewpoint, by the way, is a privilege: a cultural privilege, if you will. There are plenty of people in the world for whom basics: safety, food, clothing, shelter, and perhaps a small emergency fund, even if they have them, are very easily threatened or lost. Doing something to risk losing them is simply reckless: you are thankful for what you have, and you are careful to keep what you have. The idea that you should take risks seems quite irrational and unnecessary from this point of view.

So what does risk have to do with privilege (an assertion I may or may not have made in my last entry)? Again before I answer this question, I have to pause for an explanation. Many of the examples I have given thus far of privileges and risks are of material and other creature comforts: jobs, food and shelter, etc. I list these because they are the easy, and the most visible, privileges to point out. I’ve resorted to them perhaps more than I ought to. I said it in my last entry, and it merits repeating: there are different kinds of privileges, and risks to correlate with them: Material privilege/risk, social privilege/risk, personal privilege/risk, etc. Materially, you may be privileged with a stable or well-paying job, money, etc. Socially, you may be privileged with close and loyal friends, or a large and loving family, or a supportive community. Personally, you may be privileged with confidence, health, intelligence, a firm faith that helps you weather life’s storms. etc. And many of these are invisible: a person who doesn’t have the typical markings of privilege may in fact consider themselves very privileged in one or more of these other ways.

There is no clear answer to this question unless you also look at a third value in this privilege-risk equation. It is, well, values. (Pun intended.) What is most important to you? What are you not, or less, willing to risk or to lose? The defining question, in other words, is: for whom, or for what, are you taking this risk? Does the risk you are taking advance your life in the ways that matter most to you?

Here’s an example: if what you value most, and the way you are most privileged, is the wonderful and strong relationships you have with family and friends, and you take a material risk (by taking a job, for example, which is less secure or potentially pays less than your current job) in order to have more time and closer proximity to friends and family, you are acting in line with your values and taking a risk on a less valued aspect of your life.* Is it really a risk? Do you regret the move if the job doesn’t work out? Probably not, if your relationships are richer as a result. And the third part of the equation, privilege [of relationships], is even greater, or at least the same (ie, you are still privileged with a strong social network). 

But what if your values and your privileges don’t line up? To continue with the same example, what if you still value your friends and family above all else, but those networks are not very strong, or are troubled by some unhealthy dynamics/relationships? Your privilege lies instead in the area of your aptitude, and your resulting career, which is a very stable and lucrative one. What if you still make the same decision, based on your values, to take a lesser job because it will allow you more time and energy for your friends and family, difficult as some of those relationships may be?

Now do you regret it? If you still value those relationships above all else, then the answer is still no. It’s a more complicated no, because our society teaches us to hold onto our privileges– particularly the visible, material ones–unconditionally. 

I know how I answer this question, but let me post it out there, in case anyone has gotten this far into my rambling (and thanks, by the way): do you live according to your values, or to preserve your privileges? 

Sometimes, it is choosing our values over our privileges that is the riskiest choice we can make. And that, ultimately, is the connection I see between privilege and risk.
___________________________
*Please pardon the cliche example. As I write today, I lack the imagination to come up with a more interesting one.

Privilege

“To whom much is given, from him much will be required.”
Luke 12:48

At work this semester, I’ve been talking with college students about privilege. Have we been privileged in some way? Educationally? Financially? Socially? The word “privilege” carries mixed meanings: having privilege is generally recognized as desirable, but depending on context and tone, being labeled as privileged can also induce guilt or defensiveness. This is especially true for people who are expending energy and time figuring out who they are and what they want their life to be–aka, college students–but it can also be true for those of us who have crossed into full-fledged adulthood. Many are past the stage where they–we–feel guilt for the privilege we have, and others still struggle to acknowledge that we have any privilege. Either way, it’s allowed me to spend a lot more time articulating my thoughts about a topic that’s been on my mind for some time.

First off, there is of course the viewpoint that, if you’re lucky enough to have money, health, intelligence/aptitude, a stable home life, or any other privilege that opens doors for you in life, then you’re fortunate, and you can leave it at that. You owe no one anything.

I disagree whole-heartedly. None of us, no matter how smart, strong, charming, etc., has gotten far in life alone. Someone cared for and sheltered us, someone helped us with homework, someone paid, or helped pay, for our education. Someone connected us with someone who got us that career-making internship, someone was there for us when we needed the emotional support. To make Simon and Garfunkel’s point, to say “I am an island” is simply fooling oneself. 

This is all pretty elementary stuff. But I needed to lay it out as groundwork for my next entry, on risk. Well, maybe it’ll be on risk. I can’t completely articulate yet the connection between privilege and risk, but I hope to explore it in the next entry. 

Until then!

A Lesson from Bilbo Baggins

Hobbits are homebodies, a fact I remembered when I saw the movie The Hobbit recently. Bilbo Baggins has created a home full of physical comforts and reminders of the goodness of his past. Home is the place in which he can exhale deeply and let himself be embraced by all his favorite things. Home is to Bilbo, in the words of an old IKEA commercial, the Most Important Place in the World.

But then Bilbo decides to follow Gandalph the Grey and a band of dwarves he doesn’t know to places he has never been and to encounter creatures he has never imagined. Thus the movie begins. But this scene, in which you see how precious his comfortable life is to him, and his decision to then go off on his adventure, struck a chord with me.

I too happen to love our home and the life that we have built in it. I have tried to make it a place where my family, immediate and extended, and my friends can feel at home, and be embraced by a feeling of comfort and well-being. Sometimes I wish for a snow day just so everyone can stay in our warmest, softest clothes and just be.

But I have also been thinking a lot lately about the calling of my faith not to be too attached to my world, and to be willing to pick up and follow a new path, if doing so advances my spirituality. Many are the Biblical parables of people who stumble on this path because they cannot give up the security of their belongings, their positions, others’ opinions of them: whatever it is they hold most precious. If I heard this calling, would I be quick to follow it? I want to say yes, absolutely. But if I am being completely honest with myself, I like coming home to a warm house. I like having warm clothes to wear (I like warmth–can you tell it’s winter?). I like having a bicycle and running shoes, whose uses bring me enjoyment. I like being able to sink into bed at the end of a long day under the warm (there it is again!) covers. I like that I have good relationships with others that allow me to get more done.

I don’t believe I am being called to give these things up at the moment, mind you. But the point is that I ought to be willing to.  I would like to reach a point where my priorities and focus are always so aligned that I would leave the trappings of my world without hesitation. I would like to know that before I ask myself, am I ready to part with this thing, I see instead the good it can do me and others to part with it, and that it doesn’t matter whether or not I am ready. I would like to know that I act first out of love for others before I think of my own interests. Wouldn’t that be awesome?

Ever wondered about this? How easily could you leave your world? The reason need not be spiritual advancement. Sometimes it is helping a friend or taking risks to support something that matters to you. Sometimes it is, simply, going on an adventure because your life has become too routine. How do you decide that you need to leave the comforts of your home, physical or emotional? At what point is it worth giving up home? Bilbo won’t find out for a long time that his sacrifice was worth it. Worthwhile, I believe, do most of ours end up being, if only we will take that first leap.

"The Days Are Long, and the Years Are Short"

My transition to motherhood remains among the most momentous changes of my life. Getting married was cakewalk. Finishing school and starting my first full-time job aren’t even in the same ballpark. No, those first few weeks, then months, then years of motherhood shook to the core everything about my life and everything I thought I knew about myself, my abilities, and my expectations. 

One of the assumptions I’d made early in my adult life is that the hours of my day exist for me to make the most out of each one. I mean in a how-many-things-big-and-small-can-I-check-off-my-to-do-list kind of way. I used to be a very efficient person, if I may say so myself. I could do things in a day that would now take me, well, a lot longer. I’ll get to that.

“The days are long, and the years are short.” I heard this adage only recently, and it has become my mantra. Any parent will tell you that your lives when your kids are young are full of monotony, routine, and stress. Each day takes such physical and emotional effort that you are spent by the end of it. The days are indeed long. Perhaps because of the monotony and routine, though, the years seem to fly; and the children grow out of each phase before you have a chance to fully savor it. Yet at the same time that I look forward to the day when interrupted sleep and changing diapers will no longer be a part of every single day, I know the funny things they say, the looks of unconditional love and trust they give us, and their unique and sometimes heart-breaking view of the world at this age is priceless, and that I will one day look back with a deep nostalgia for this season.  I know from talking to parents of older children that what is to come will cause us to remember only the sweetness and simplicity of the kids at this age.

One of the reasons that motherhood was so hard for me is that one has no control of one’s day as a mother of young children: the “plan” for the day regularly flies out the window. Think you can leave them to sweetly play in view while you pay some bills then get dinner ready? Think again. The plan will be thwarted by inexplicable fits of crying, accidents, the sudden ability to get into a cupboard she’s not supposed to, and/or whining that she needs a snack–no, she doesn’t want that snack! Planning a nice family trip to the zoo? Or even a routine, productive, day at work?  Sudden illnesses will arrive that only a mother’s constant arms can soothe. Need to make a “quick” run to the grocery store? An insistence that she can zip up her own coat and put on her own shoes–a process that began 15 minutes ago, mind you—ensuing tantrums, and then a diaper blow-out by #2 leave you in the exact same spot half an hour later. 

Ok, so I change my expectations of what I can get done in a day. Just maintain. Make sure we are all fed, clothed, clean, occupied. Make sure they know they are loved unconditionally. And later, one, maybe two quick tasks after I’ve put them to bed. Among the lessons this era has taught me is to be patient with myself, and that I am not superhuman. Sorry, world, you can no longer rely on me to be the WonderWoman of Efficiency. 

I shall strive to achieve other attributes during this season, though that is a topic for another day. It is amazing to me how much can happen in every season of our lives. It is amazing how much ground, emotional, intellectual, or even physical, one can cover in a single lifetime. For now, this season of young children is marked by sweetness and simplicity, and I am determined to appreciate it for the richness (and sleeplessness and clean-up and inefficiency) it contains.



Life’s Seasons

To everything there is a season,
    A time for every purpose under heaven:

A time to be born, 
    And a time to die;
A time to plant,
    And a time to pluck what is planted;
A time to kill,
    And a time to heal;
A time to break down,
    And a time to build up;
A time to weep,
    And a time to laugh;
A time to mourn,
    And a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones,
    And a time to gather stones;
A time to embrace,
    And a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to gain,
    And a time to lose;
A time to keep,
    And a time to throw away;
A time to tear,
    And a time to sew;
A time to keep silence,
    And a time to speak;
A time to love,
    And a time to hate;
A time of war,
    And a time of peace.
 -Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8
This is as true today as it has been since it was written, centuries ago. There is a sadness to this passage, but also a comfort. It is a reminder that, if the season in which I find myself now is joyful and easy, it will not last. And if the season in which I find myself now is difficult, it will pass.

Life changes, and with it, we change. The things that used to satisfy us, the things we used to desire, we desire no more.  Things we did not used to understand, we now appreciate. We have all been told that one of life’s certainties is change. We have also been told that the more things change, the more they stay the same. I say the more things change, the more we confirm that the driving forces behind that change remain the same. Some things are universal beyond the basics of food and shelter: our desire to be understood, to be deeply connected to others, to be seen as who we are. I would propose that changes to our individual lives and to our society (present technological advances being a perfect example) are all efforts to achieve these desires.

So our lives are made up of chapters, each distinct. And while some are overwhelmingly happy and others disparaging difficult, I’d say that most are a unique combination of treasures and challenges. It’s easy enough to wish the hard ones away (and wish them good riddance when they’re over), but it’s much harder to stop and embrace the good chapters, or even the good moments of the mundane chapters. Advice abounds for surviving rough patches, most of it basically saying to just hang on; it won’t last forever. But what about advice for appreciating the moments of bliss? More importantly, how does one hang onto these moments? 

I suppose this is why people take pictures or videos, write journals, or create scrapbooks. We attempt to capture a moment in such a way that an image, a passage, or a sound will bring back the bliss of that moment. It’s as if we–I should say I–want to collect all the good stuff of life and put it somewhere to be accessed and enjoyed over and over. Sometimes we succeed in capturing these moments, but I would venture to say that even this is not enough. 

We don’t want to remember that moment, we want to return to it. We want life to be now just how it was then. We want to return to that chapter, that sweet spot, and stay. Right there. Not move.

Life will not comply with this desire, of course. And in the end, we wouldn’t want it to. How stale a life that would be if everything was always good and nothing ever challenged us, pushed us, stressed us. We know this. Our lives are made up of chapters. Each chapter, each time, will end, to be followed by another. That’s just the way it is. 

My challenge is to recognize each time as it comes, and to live it. If in nothing else, life will always be rich in change, both welcome and unwelcome. I will still try to capture the good moments, of course, because I do love my camera, and I do love the pen (keyboard?). But I will not pine for those moments. As a Christian, I know that life holds wonders and joy far greater than any collection I could store up, because there is much I do not yet know and much I have not yet seen. While I work to reach that life,  I will still appreciate the good times for what they are, be grateful for them, and when the time comes, let them go.