Last month, I sat across my Hasidic Jewish boss. She talked passionately about politics (although our meeting was not supposed to be about that) and I asked her where she found time to do all of this? She had 12 schools, a business on the side and was in the middle of an audit. She smiled and said that her children were grown now and at night, there was always time. She's a woman in her 50's with two masters, 7 children, and innumerable grandchildren and has a lot more in her plate than most women I know. I told her about my blog--my pursuit to virtue and she was amused. I asked if she knew that the Woman of Valour was supposed to be Sarah and Bathsheba. My boss rolled her eyes. She said the Virtuous Woman was not a particular woman. "It could be any woman," she said. "It's the type of woman she is. She works hard, she takes care of her family, she takes care of herself. She's educated. She runs a business. She is..." my boss looked up and smiled dryly.
"A Jewish woman," I finished. "How is it done?" I asked.
Three months ago I embarked on a journey to become the Woman of Valour found in Proverbs 31. I established that Elizabeth, as I named her, was perfect and that I, Anna Marie, was an epic failure in comparison but hey, I'm almost 40 and I was determined to achieve the unachievable and with a little bit of attitude trimming, some self-control, several sacrifices, denials of everyday pleasures, I too could become the Virtuous Woman. But here I am, after 12 weeks, thankful that my blog is only the "pursuit" towards perfection and not "gaining" perfection because shocking as it might be, I am still very far behind.
Frankly, I might have regressed.
I tried really hard in the beginning to wake up every morning, pray, exercise (stretch) and spend atleast 5 minutes on my hair and I knew, I KNEW, I should not have taken the weekends off. Any good coach could tell you that if you sit your best players two games a week, that player will lose his mojo. And so, I did. The weekend reprieve from daily routine of waking before dawn, praying, exercising and primping extended to Monday mornings. And yes, yes, eventually, the reprieve lasted five days and the commitment dwindled down to a resentful two and finally, I was overcome by the who-are-you-really-kidding mantra that played in my head every time I tried to get up to get right back on track. And I have decided never to enter a depriving type of diet ever again. The 9 weeks no sugar diet I capriciously committed to left me with an insaitiable desire to ingest anything and everything with corn syrup and I have spent everyday since the end of that diet eating brownies, cookies, and cakes. And maybe I broke that diet way before it was over. It's hard to imagine the Woman of Valour binging on pastries and afterwards staring at herself in the mirror and mumbling, "You're a pathetic failure."
Last week, as I sat trying to make a left turn in the middle of traffic at Ocean Parkway and none of the drivers would let me through, I knew as I screamed, "Stupid Brooklyn Drivers, let me through you morons!" that it was time to re-evaluate my pursuit to Virtue. Time to get back on track or get off altogether.
You see, it's been over two weeks since I wrote on this blog. I knew I would have to confess to my readers. And here I am. Ashamed.
I got up this morning wondering where this pursuit has taken me. Nowhere? Here I am, still getting up later than I should, running like a wildfire in the mornings before work, hoping I don't scare the children I teach with my unruly hair, my prayer life hanging on a balance, my cluttered closet looking like a clearance sale, still as disorganized as ever. How far was I to virtue?
"Well, Anna Marie, how do you do it?" My boss asked, smiling. "You're doing a lot and you have a family and small children."
I supposed she was right but I wondered how much does the woman herself, my boss, her daughters, and women like them, mattered in the height of their own virtue? It's hard for me to imagine my boss enjoying herself. I realized that this journey has led me to discoveries unintended for this pursuit. Or perhaps God being God, knew I needed to make some detours before I can reach my own destination to Virtue. I've started getting to know the root of my emotions. I've uncovered the reason why I don't cry. And I've revisited bravely the day I almost lost my daughter. In 3 months time I've gotten to know myself more than I have the last 37 years of my life and realized more than ever that truly, Elizabeth is the type of woman I really want to become but I don't want to reach my destination having gained all of what makes one virtuous while neglecting the woman herself. I have a deep desire for success and I want to achieve as much as I can for as long as God would allow but this blog has made me realize that I also want to be happy, know who I am, and not lose myself for the sake of what I should be.
And then today I spent a portion of the day with my boss's beautiful 28-year-old daughter. She is a Board Certified Behavior Analyst, has her master's in special education, and the genius behind her mother's schools. She also has five children. It's just their way of life, she explained matter-of-factly. Not all Jewish women reach the level of Elizabeth but yes, that is the woman they're to become. It's the guideline they follow and that's just the way it is. She seemed neither impressed nor overwhelmed with the set of standards outlined in that last chapter of Proverbs. As far as she was concerned it was as expected as an 18-year-old going off to college. It was simply the thing to do.
Needless to say, I am a long way to Virtue. Unlike a Jewish little girl born into the culture that sees the Woman of Valour not only as someone she can become but a woman that she must become, I come from the secular culture that sees the Woman of Valour as a mythological figure whose qualities make the average person hyperventilate. So I think the key is for me to stop glorifying Elizabeth and saying quite simply, hey, this is the set of guidelines I'm going to follow. As far as I'm concerned it's as achievable as going to college. It's simply the thing to do. No big deal. And should I need to hyperventilate, I'll always keep a paper bag within reach. But I will keep running after Virtue and I will keep pursuing Elizabeth, even if I did stop for a water break the last two weeks.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
The Shadow of Death
My three-year-old daughter stood on the scale last night, looked down at her feet and mused, "Thirty pounds and twenty-two, mommy." I beamed and told her that that was wonderful, it was the perfect weight and I wished I weighed the same. She waved her hand and shook her head, interrupting my glee. "No, no," she corrected. "Thirty-one and twenty-two." I put on a perplexed face and repeated her newfound weight. She confirmed that indeed, that was the result on the scale and she walked away, satisfied at my confused state. I laughed out loud and of course, predictably, I saw her lying on a hospital bed and I heard the sound of beeping machines and I shuddered as I do everyday and whispered, "Thank you, Lord, she's here."
If you know me then you know, of course, what happened to Alanna early last year. I tell everyone that my husband picked up the swine flu from a local gym where he worked out religiously three times a week. I tell you these gyms are a laboratory for germs that'll kill you if you're not careful. Wlad picked up the swine flu and then Nana got real sick, etc., etc., so I'd stay away from these gyms if I were you! But the root of the virus' origin and how my husband and Alanna came across it I don't really know but the gym theory sounds plausible and so I tell it with conviction as though I myself had swabbed the equipment in the place and discovered H1N1 under a microscope. I get "wow" and "oh really?" and then, a thoughtful reply, "I don't think the gym I go to has the swine flu, though. It's pretty clean." And so the message goes unheeded.
Alanna's fifth day in the hospital will remain seared in my memory for as long as I live. There were numerous, harrowing moments lived in the depths of hell during that hospitalization but the morning of Alanna's transfer from Staten Island Hospital to Columbia Presbyterian will never leave me. After never leaving her side, hardly ever sleeping and neglecting to use the bathroom that resulted in a bladder infection, my cousin, a respiratory therapist, and my best friend, a doctor at John Hopkins, convinced me to go home and get some rest. My two-year-old was already on a respirator and all she needed now was close observation. She had fought the doctors and nurses the night before as they struggled to put a C-Pap on her to help her breathe and she finally conceded, in pure exhaustion, but laid on her crib with a look of horror on her face, her mouth frozen in a frightened state, teeth exposed for a long time, an oversized mask over her tiny face. She was paralyzed with fear and she searched my face with her large, bewildered eyes and I stood over her, helpless, asking for her forgiveness. I could not help her and I could see that that was the only thing she wanted. I called my husband who was recovering from the swine flu himself. He had been begging to come and see Alanna but we all decided that it was better for him to stay home and regain his strength. I told him to come. Alanna might not make it in the morning and then I went to the bathroom, laid in a fetal position, and sobbed quietly.
The next day, she was placed on life support but before her elected intubation I looked at her and said, "Nana, you're going to sleep for a while. You'll play with Gabba Gabba and eat all the strawberries you want." I didn't want to frighten her with my tears so I fought them back. She was fatigued, burning with fever, and every breath brought her excruciating pain. The large mask on her face made a loud sound of air pushing in and out. The nurses prepared to move her crib. I said, "Nana, I love..." and through the sound of the machines, her fever, pain and exhaustion, Nana said loudly, "you."
That night, left in the care of ICU nurses and under the close eye of my cousin and my friend, I went home to get some rest. By five o'clock the next morning I received a text from my friend. Something had gone terribly wrong. Alanna's lungs which were filled with infection had both collapsed. I remember running wildly in the quiet hallways of the hospital, the security guards looking at me without asking for identification, their conversations diminished into concerned whispers as I kept repeating, "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," under my breath. I got to the 4th floor and I could hear the sound of loud, furious beeping. I could hear frantic commotion and when I got to my daughter's room doctors and nurses were running and there was my baby girl in a paralyzed coma, a tube in her mouth, her body sunken in the bed and life, life was clearly leaving her. I stood over her bed and shook, "You fight, Nana," I pleaded. "You fight, baby girl!"
I was ushered out of the room and they closed the door. I could hear the angry alarms of the machines and I could hear feet running. I collapsed on the floor and I yelled out my daughter's name. People say that life flashes before your eyes before you die and I think that may be true. Because all I could see while I screamed was Alanna smiling, eating, laughing, and watching her cartoons. Snapshots that I had just seen her do the week before. And I wanted to rewind time to go back to the week before. I wanted it to be the week before!
How maddening it is to live in the shadow of death!
An orthodox Jewish friend of mine whose company I truly enjoy surprised me with this information outside of the scriptures about Sarah, the virtuous woman: "She died of a broken heart, did you know? Goth, the giant, coveted her and told her that Isaac, her only son, was dead. And she died on the spot. She died of a broken heart."
I told him that I could understand that. That losing a child may be the worst thing that could happen to any woman, virtuous or not. Then I thought, what a shame it was that Sarah did not realize that Isaac was not dead, that the pain she suffered from the loss was in fact just the shadow of death and that that pain, though harrowing and excruciating, one day would pass. But it's hard to tell a mother in the face of death that there's nothing to fear and that a miracle can happen.
I'm watching my daughter right now coloring and talking to herself, a smudge of ice cream across her upper lip. She bosses all of us around in the house and we let her. I remember asking God in her suffering to take her if it was His will. I was shaking and heaving and wailing. But God knew better. He knew that Alanna was just under the shadow of death and that my daughter's pain and my anguish, though harrowing and excrucitaing, one day would pass.
(To see Alanna's miraculous account please check out www.worshipandpraise.net and click under "testimonials.")
If you know me then you know, of course, what happened to Alanna early last year. I tell everyone that my husband picked up the swine flu from a local gym where he worked out religiously three times a week. I tell you these gyms are a laboratory for germs that'll kill you if you're not careful. Wlad picked up the swine flu and then Nana got real sick, etc., etc., so I'd stay away from these gyms if I were you! But the root of the virus' origin and how my husband and Alanna came across it I don't really know but the gym theory sounds plausible and so I tell it with conviction as though I myself had swabbed the equipment in the place and discovered H1N1 under a microscope. I get "wow" and "oh really?" and then, a thoughtful reply, "I don't think the gym I go to has the swine flu, though. It's pretty clean." And so the message goes unheeded.
Alanna's fifth day in the hospital will remain seared in my memory for as long as I live. There were numerous, harrowing moments lived in the depths of hell during that hospitalization but the morning of Alanna's transfer from Staten Island Hospital to Columbia Presbyterian will never leave me. After never leaving her side, hardly ever sleeping and neglecting to use the bathroom that resulted in a bladder infection, my cousin, a respiratory therapist, and my best friend, a doctor at John Hopkins, convinced me to go home and get some rest. My two-year-old was already on a respirator and all she needed now was close observation. She had fought the doctors and nurses the night before as they struggled to put a C-Pap on her to help her breathe and she finally conceded, in pure exhaustion, but laid on her crib with a look of horror on her face, her mouth frozen in a frightened state, teeth exposed for a long time, an oversized mask over her tiny face. She was paralyzed with fear and she searched my face with her large, bewildered eyes and I stood over her, helpless, asking for her forgiveness. I could not help her and I could see that that was the only thing she wanted. I called my husband who was recovering from the swine flu himself. He had been begging to come and see Alanna but we all decided that it was better for him to stay home and regain his strength. I told him to come. Alanna might not make it in the morning and then I went to the bathroom, laid in a fetal position, and sobbed quietly.
The next day, she was placed on life support but before her elected intubation I looked at her and said, "Nana, you're going to sleep for a while. You'll play with Gabba Gabba and eat all the strawberries you want." I didn't want to frighten her with my tears so I fought them back. She was fatigued, burning with fever, and every breath brought her excruciating pain. The large mask on her face made a loud sound of air pushing in and out. The nurses prepared to move her crib. I said, "Nana, I love..." and through the sound of the machines, her fever, pain and exhaustion, Nana said loudly, "you."
That night, left in the care of ICU nurses and under the close eye of my cousin and my friend, I went home to get some rest. By five o'clock the next morning I received a text from my friend. Something had gone terribly wrong. Alanna's lungs which were filled with infection had both collapsed. I remember running wildly in the quiet hallways of the hospital, the security guards looking at me without asking for identification, their conversations diminished into concerned whispers as I kept repeating, "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," under my breath. I got to the 4th floor and I could hear the sound of loud, furious beeping. I could hear frantic commotion and when I got to my daughter's room doctors and nurses were running and there was my baby girl in a paralyzed coma, a tube in her mouth, her body sunken in the bed and life, life was clearly leaving her. I stood over her bed and shook, "You fight, Nana," I pleaded. "You fight, baby girl!"
I was ushered out of the room and they closed the door. I could hear the angry alarms of the machines and I could hear feet running. I collapsed on the floor and I yelled out my daughter's name. People say that life flashes before your eyes before you die and I think that may be true. Because all I could see while I screamed was Alanna smiling, eating, laughing, and watching her cartoons. Snapshots that I had just seen her do the week before. And I wanted to rewind time to go back to the week before. I wanted it to be the week before!
How maddening it is to live in the shadow of death!
An orthodox Jewish friend of mine whose company I truly enjoy surprised me with this information outside of the scriptures about Sarah, the virtuous woman: "She died of a broken heart, did you know? Goth, the giant, coveted her and told her that Isaac, her only son, was dead. And she died on the spot. She died of a broken heart."
I told him that I could understand that. That losing a child may be the worst thing that could happen to any woman, virtuous or not. Then I thought, what a shame it was that Sarah did not realize that Isaac was not dead, that the pain she suffered from the loss was in fact just the shadow of death and that that pain, though harrowing and excruciating, one day would pass. But it's hard to tell a mother in the face of death that there's nothing to fear and that a miracle can happen.
I'm watching my daughter right now coloring and talking to herself, a smudge of ice cream across her upper lip. She bosses all of us around in the house and we let her. I remember asking God in her suffering to take her if it was His will. I was shaking and heaving and wailing. But God knew better. He knew that Alanna was just under the shadow of death and that my daughter's pain and my anguish, though harrowing and excrucitaing, one day would pass.
(To see Alanna's miraculous account please check out www.worshipandpraise.net and click under "testimonials.")
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Doomsday
So Doomsday, apparently, is in a few hours. I had a chance to google it late yesterday. The info was vague but the message, like those on torn boxes carried by a few homeless men in Manhattan, was clear: The end of the world is here. The good ones are being raptured. The rest of you will suffer an inconceivable death. Repent.
Thankfully, the time and date and year are provided so a handful of people have decided to throw "grown and sexy" (as per one post on facebook) parties but prepared to repent the very last minute and walk with ease into the Pearly Gates. May 21, 2011 at 6PM. Some people at my 2nd job asked me what I thought. One older woman, a bit panicked, seemed unsure about the lunacy of the whole thing and she wondered, what IF, what IF, Brooklyn was really going to be thrown across to California? What then? She seemed disheartened and I assured her that apparently she had plently of time to make it right with God and so, in essence, she was going to be just fine. "You're right, dear," she said but didn't appear any less worried. Then she pressed, "But what do you think, dear? What if the world is going to end Saturday? What do you think?"
I told her that I was going to be pretty upset. I had been studying for a Board Exam that would determine my promotion in September as a director of our ABA program (I didn't give her all that detail, but I touched the surface.) And then I told her that I had always wanted a Gucci bag and my 3rd job was going to pay for it but you know, these Gucci bags are made out of secret diamonds and it would take me a year of working before affording one so Doomsday could not, must not, come this weekend! I laughed, amused at my own ramblings and the woman walked away. I could hear my mother's rebuke, that I joke around way too much and I could see my brother, the pastor, and his pleading eyes for me to "please be serious for once" and finally my husband's somber face, reminding me that not everyone understands my humor. I ran after that woman and touched her arm gently. I knew that she was raised a Baptist and I had a feeling that if we grew up under the same spiritual tutelage, Doomsday was most likely used as a weapon to shape her into goodness. If she had not been in her absolute best behavior, May 21st quite possibly brought her much terror. I reminded her that no one knew the day or the hour. No one knew it. It was in the Bible, I said softly, loud enough for only the both of us to hear. The same man had predicted the end of the world more than 15 years ago and here we were still, we were here still. She relaxed and smiled, "You're right, dear. That is what the Bible says."
On the drive home in the BQE, where most of my random thoughts take place, I thought about the many things I would love to put on my Bucket List. Sky diving, going to India, learning how to ride a motorcycle (a fantasy I've had since I was a little girl after watching Grease 2), spending a day in a Tibetan village, etc., I chuckled at my own thoughts as I often do and then I realized that if I never get to do any of these things, it wouldn't really matter. But running my own school, getting my PhD., speaking at an Autism Convention, writing a best seller, are personal accomplishments that mean deeply to me.
This morning is the morning of Doomsday. I woke up before seven and as customary of my mornings, I went to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. Hair wild against my cheeks and resting carelessly on my shoulders. It is a phenomenon because it is in the very early morning, upon rising, that I look my best. Maybe because I'm refreshed, maybe because the markings of the day's stress do not begin until 8 o'clock, or maybe because I often inspect my face in the mirror with the lights off in the bathroom. I met my eyes and a thought hit me: What difference have you made? It's not what you've accomplished for yourself but how you've touched the lives of others that matter when you're gone. I really do not like these moments but I do get them and in this quest for Virtue, I've had to confront these moments more than I would prefer. I thought for a while, jogging my memory of ways I've touched lives around me. Had I really made a difference? And I don't mean a difference in my nuclear family or close friends but those outside of my circle, outside of the people I see on a daily basis and inevitably give of myself to. Have I been a source of dread or hope? Have I extended kindness always, always, always? Has my existence made another's life better, happier, easier?
Hell no longer scares me the way it did growing up. It's imprisoning and haunting affect has lost its grip on me and so Doomsday whether today or tomorrow brings me no terror. But my markings on this earth, the difference I've made because I lived here, the legacy I leave behind is what concerns me more. To have lived and made no mark, no difference, is to have lived and not mattered at all. That's worse than any apocalypse that could come my way. I'm hoping a conscientious life of valour, honor and virtue would inevitably touch those I love, those I meet or encounter in passing. And then I thought, it would be a tragic irony if Doomsday is really today, now that I've been forced to do some instrospection and I've been discovering some deeply hidden things about myself. Because wouldn't that be the biggest catastrophe of all? To have lived my whole life not knowing who I really truly was and giving of someone I really did not know? And since I'm still trying to make it there, the end of the world can't come. Not tomorrow, not next year. And certainly, not today. Not yet. I need more time.
Thankfully, the time and date and year are provided so a handful of people have decided to throw "grown and sexy" (as per one post on facebook) parties but prepared to repent the very last minute and walk with ease into the Pearly Gates. May 21, 2011 at 6PM. Some people at my 2nd job asked me what I thought. One older woman, a bit panicked, seemed unsure about the lunacy of the whole thing and she wondered, what IF, what IF, Brooklyn was really going to be thrown across to California? What then? She seemed disheartened and I assured her that apparently she had plently of time to make it right with God and so, in essence, she was going to be just fine. "You're right, dear," she said but didn't appear any less worried. Then she pressed, "But what do you think, dear? What if the world is going to end Saturday? What do you think?"
I told her that I was going to be pretty upset. I had been studying for a Board Exam that would determine my promotion in September as a director of our ABA program (I didn't give her all that detail, but I touched the surface.) And then I told her that I had always wanted a Gucci bag and my 3rd job was going to pay for it but you know, these Gucci bags are made out of secret diamonds and it would take me a year of working before affording one so Doomsday could not, must not, come this weekend! I laughed, amused at my own ramblings and the woman walked away. I could hear my mother's rebuke, that I joke around way too much and I could see my brother, the pastor, and his pleading eyes for me to "please be serious for once" and finally my husband's somber face, reminding me that not everyone understands my humor. I ran after that woman and touched her arm gently. I knew that she was raised a Baptist and I had a feeling that if we grew up under the same spiritual tutelage, Doomsday was most likely used as a weapon to shape her into goodness. If she had not been in her absolute best behavior, May 21st quite possibly brought her much terror. I reminded her that no one knew the day or the hour. No one knew it. It was in the Bible, I said softly, loud enough for only the both of us to hear. The same man had predicted the end of the world more than 15 years ago and here we were still, we were here still. She relaxed and smiled, "You're right, dear. That is what the Bible says."
On the drive home in the BQE, where most of my random thoughts take place, I thought about the many things I would love to put on my Bucket List. Sky diving, going to India, learning how to ride a motorcycle (a fantasy I've had since I was a little girl after watching Grease 2), spending a day in a Tibetan village, etc., I chuckled at my own thoughts as I often do and then I realized that if I never get to do any of these things, it wouldn't really matter. But running my own school, getting my PhD., speaking at an Autism Convention, writing a best seller, are personal accomplishments that mean deeply to me.
This morning is the morning of Doomsday. I woke up before seven and as customary of my mornings, I went to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. Hair wild against my cheeks and resting carelessly on my shoulders. It is a phenomenon because it is in the very early morning, upon rising, that I look my best. Maybe because I'm refreshed, maybe because the markings of the day's stress do not begin until 8 o'clock, or maybe because I often inspect my face in the mirror with the lights off in the bathroom. I met my eyes and a thought hit me: What difference have you made? It's not what you've accomplished for yourself but how you've touched the lives of others that matter when you're gone. I really do not like these moments but I do get them and in this quest for Virtue, I've had to confront these moments more than I would prefer. I thought for a while, jogging my memory of ways I've touched lives around me. Had I really made a difference? And I don't mean a difference in my nuclear family or close friends but those outside of my circle, outside of the people I see on a daily basis and inevitably give of myself to. Have I been a source of dread or hope? Have I extended kindness always, always, always? Has my existence made another's life better, happier, easier?
Hell no longer scares me the way it did growing up. It's imprisoning and haunting affect has lost its grip on me and so Doomsday whether today or tomorrow brings me no terror. But my markings on this earth, the difference I've made because I lived here, the legacy I leave behind is what concerns me more. To have lived and made no mark, no difference, is to have lived and not mattered at all. That's worse than any apocalypse that could come my way. I'm hoping a conscientious life of valour, honor and virtue would inevitably touch those I love, those I meet or encounter in passing. And then I thought, it would be a tragic irony if Doomsday is really today, now that I've been forced to do some instrospection and I've been discovering some deeply hidden things about myself. Because wouldn't that be the biggest catastrophe of all? To have lived my whole life not knowing who I really truly was and giving of someone I really did not know? And since I'm still trying to make it there, the end of the world can't come. Not tomorrow, not next year. And certainly, not today. Not yet. I need more time.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
The Naked Truth
My most well read blog, "Quiet Desperation" took 2 weeks to reach an impressive amount of views. But surprisingly, it only took 3 days for my last blog, "The Reason Why I Don't Cry" to reach those same numbers and then surpass it quickly. I think some people might have opened the blog in search for an answer to that phrase and as it turned out, most of them could relate.
One of the blog readers asked me a question regarding the last blog that made me look deep into myself, into my past and inevitably, into my childhood. I'm not one to argue therapy but I must admit I have questionable respect for psychiatrists and their long, soft couches, and the delving into the past so we could answer questions like why can't we sleep in the dark alone or why do we have such phobias against spiders? Maybe this is because I come from a different school of thought. I am, after all, a behavior analyst and as such I tend to frown on the "mentalist" point-of-view. Nevertheless, that hasn't kept me from intermittently acting like a psuedo pyschotherapist who try to convince friends that what happened in their past quite possibly shaped the condition of their present. I remember sitting across a successful, brilliant friend in Starbucks in downtown Manhattan and urging him to confront the broken little boy from his childhood who was most likely lurking in the shawdows of his subconscious, causing him so much anger and turmoil. I was sure I was onto something and I braced myself for a possible breakdown and a sobbing confession of, "You're so right! My God, it is because of my childhood!" Instead, true to form, my friend looked me square in the eye and said, "Chic, if that kid is still following me around I'd like to see him so I can beat the $!#@* out of him!" He wasn't going to take part of my pyscho mumbo-jumbo and inevitably, I was resigned to a fit of wild laughter.
But one of the readers urged me in my inability to be vulnerable to perhaps ask myself what I was afraid of "in the mutual exchange of shared experience." And included this quote: "You're one of those people who only give. You never let anyone give to you." It was, unknown to the reader, a question I had been asking myself for over a year. I am accustomed to being awakened at all times of the night by phone calls from women controlling their sobs, by acquaintances who weep in my arms, and by friends who disclose excruciating secrets that they beg me to tell no one, not even my spouse. None of these things shake me. I do not walk away thinking any less of these broken souls and I feel privileged that they would share with me such intimate moments of vulnerability. But a "mutual exchange of that shared experience"? The very idea of it is frightening.
But the scattered surprised response I got last year when I cried helplessly in the ICU while my baby girl fought for her life deeply disturbed me. When I fought back tears over the phone with my son's godmother six years ago after he, barely two years old, was diagnosed with diabetes and she panicked, Wait, are you crying? I was not the least bit surprised. And when my husband peered under my hair at my grandmother's funeral and asked, perplexed, Babe, are you really crying? I wasn't bothered. But for heaven's sake, here was my daughter on a respirator barely alive and surrounded by doctors who prepared us for what they thought to be the inevitable--wasn't I, the mother, atleast entitled to a moment of absolute, unrestrained hysteria? A long time friend could not keep himself from repeating over and over, "Wow, I never thought I'd see you cry like this. Wow, I never thought I'd see this day."
Well, needless to say, the shocked response to my most vulnerable moment have forced me to look deep into myself. Why was I so afraid of vulnerability? And so, I've stumbled upon this distant memory in my childhood that may have been the genesis of my fears:
I had a friend when I was five years old who gave me a shirt, a skirt, a pair of slippers and a clean, white underwear. I don't know why but on this particular day I decided to wear everything she had given me and I went out with my sister to play with her and a few other friends. As customary of most kids, an argument ensued and this time it was between this girl and my sister. Because my oldest sister was the bulldog in the neighborhood and I was the perpetual, whimpy cry baby, that little girl focused her anger on me. "Give me back my clothes," she demanded.
I think even I as a five-year-old thought this demand was rather ridiculous but I could tell that she was serious.
"We don't care about your stuff," my sister said.
"Give me my clothes," the little girl hissed. Then she added, "Cry, go ahead and cry."
"Don't cry," my sister said firmly. She looked at our friend. "She doesn't want your things and she won't cry."
"Give me my shirt!" I gave her her shirt.
"Give me my skirt!" I gave her her skirt.
"Give me my slippers!" I gave her her slippers.
"Give me my underwear!" I started...
"No!" my sister interjected. Thank God for big sisters! I kept the underwear on.
"Cry," the little girl hissed.
My sister and I left that play date. I walked home, a good ten minutes away. No shirt, no skirt, no slippers. An underwear--but no tears. I can still see everything so clearly as though it happened this morning. I can feel the urge to wail and heave and sob---but I can also feel every fiber in my being pulling together to do what I could never do before. Hold back my tears when I was falling apart inside.
I think that may very well have been the last time I allowed anyone to see me come close to falling apart. I learned a misconstrued lesson at a tender age that people can take back what they give you and prey on your vulnerability. That some will stop at nothing until they leave you barren and naked and they will rejoice at your brokeness. And perhaps that's why I can give and give but "I never let anyone give (to me)."
It wasn't meant to be a lifelong lesson. It was just a play date gone wrong among innocent, young children. But I learned a lesson on the power of stoicism. I may have walked home as good as naked but I was able to maintain my dignity because I refused to cry. I'd like to think in some way that that 5-year-old little girl walking home that day, summoning her will power to stay strong, has taught me to do the same when life over the years became difficult and unkind. But I too have to admit that while an undressed 5-year-old may evoke just curious stares from everyone, a 37-year-old walking in the same manner is not only creepy but highly unlikely. There's probably no reason now to be afraid to allow myself to be vulnerable to those closest to me knowing full well they will never hiss or prey on my vulnerability.
What a lesson I've learned about myself in this journey to Virtue! I told that same blog reader that perhaps only when I can get to know the real me can I become someone else--Elizabeth. And perhaps Elizabeth was sent by God so that I can get to know the real me and who knows, maybe when I finally find the whole truth about myself I may discover that Elizabeth was in me all along.
One of the blog readers asked me a question regarding the last blog that made me look deep into myself, into my past and inevitably, into my childhood. I'm not one to argue therapy but I must admit I have questionable respect for psychiatrists and their long, soft couches, and the delving into the past so we could answer questions like why can't we sleep in the dark alone or why do we have such phobias against spiders? Maybe this is because I come from a different school of thought. I am, after all, a behavior analyst and as such I tend to frown on the "mentalist" point-of-view. Nevertheless, that hasn't kept me from intermittently acting like a psuedo pyschotherapist who try to convince friends that what happened in their past quite possibly shaped the condition of their present. I remember sitting across a successful, brilliant friend in Starbucks in downtown Manhattan and urging him to confront the broken little boy from his childhood who was most likely lurking in the shawdows of his subconscious, causing him so much anger and turmoil. I was sure I was onto something and I braced myself for a possible breakdown and a sobbing confession of, "You're so right! My God, it is because of my childhood!" Instead, true to form, my friend looked me square in the eye and said, "Chic, if that kid is still following me around I'd like to see him so I can beat the $!#@* out of him!" He wasn't going to take part of my pyscho mumbo-jumbo and inevitably, I was resigned to a fit of wild laughter.
But one of the readers urged me in my inability to be vulnerable to perhaps ask myself what I was afraid of "in the mutual exchange of shared experience." And included this quote: "You're one of those people who only give. You never let anyone give to you." It was, unknown to the reader, a question I had been asking myself for over a year. I am accustomed to being awakened at all times of the night by phone calls from women controlling their sobs, by acquaintances who weep in my arms, and by friends who disclose excruciating secrets that they beg me to tell no one, not even my spouse. None of these things shake me. I do not walk away thinking any less of these broken souls and I feel privileged that they would share with me such intimate moments of vulnerability. But a "mutual exchange of that shared experience"? The very idea of it is frightening.
But the scattered surprised response I got last year when I cried helplessly in the ICU while my baby girl fought for her life deeply disturbed me. When I fought back tears over the phone with my son's godmother six years ago after he, barely two years old, was diagnosed with diabetes and she panicked, Wait, are you crying? I was not the least bit surprised. And when my husband peered under my hair at my grandmother's funeral and asked, perplexed, Babe, are you really crying? I wasn't bothered. But for heaven's sake, here was my daughter on a respirator barely alive and surrounded by doctors who prepared us for what they thought to be the inevitable--wasn't I, the mother, atleast entitled to a moment of absolute, unrestrained hysteria? A long time friend could not keep himself from repeating over and over, "Wow, I never thought I'd see you cry like this. Wow, I never thought I'd see this day."
Well, needless to say, the shocked response to my most vulnerable moment have forced me to look deep into myself. Why was I so afraid of vulnerability? And so, I've stumbled upon this distant memory in my childhood that may have been the genesis of my fears:
I had a friend when I was five years old who gave me a shirt, a skirt, a pair of slippers and a clean, white underwear. I don't know why but on this particular day I decided to wear everything she had given me and I went out with my sister to play with her and a few other friends. As customary of most kids, an argument ensued and this time it was between this girl and my sister. Because my oldest sister was the bulldog in the neighborhood and I was the perpetual, whimpy cry baby, that little girl focused her anger on me. "Give me back my clothes," she demanded.
I think even I as a five-year-old thought this demand was rather ridiculous but I could tell that she was serious.
"We don't care about your stuff," my sister said.
"Give me my clothes," the little girl hissed. Then she added, "Cry, go ahead and cry."
"Don't cry," my sister said firmly. She looked at our friend. "She doesn't want your things and she won't cry."
"Give me my shirt!" I gave her her shirt.
"Give me my skirt!" I gave her her skirt.
"Give me my slippers!" I gave her her slippers.
"Give me my underwear!" I started...
"No!" my sister interjected. Thank God for big sisters! I kept the underwear on.
"Cry," the little girl hissed.
My sister and I left that play date. I walked home, a good ten minutes away. No shirt, no skirt, no slippers. An underwear--but no tears. I can still see everything so clearly as though it happened this morning. I can feel the urge to wail and heave and sob---but I can also feel every fiber in my being pulling together to do what I could never do before. Hold back my tears when I was falling apart inside.
I think that may very well have been the last time I allowed anyone to see me come close to falling apart. I learned a misconstrued lesson at a tender age that people can take back what they give you and prey on your vulnerability. That some will stop at nothing until they leave you barren and naked and they will rejoice at your brokeness. And perhaps that's why I can give and give but "I never let anyone give (to me)."
It wasn't meant to be a lifelong lesson. It was just a play date gone wrong among innocent, young children. But I learned a lesson on the power of stoicism. I may have walked home as good as naked but I was able to maintain my dignity because I refused to cry. I'd like to think in some way that that 5-year-old little girl walking home that day, summoning her will power to stay strong, has taught me to do the same when life over the years became difficult and unkind. But I too have to admit that while an undressed 5-year-old may evoke just curious stares from everyone, a 37-year-old walking in the same manner is not only creepy but highly unlikely. There's probably no reason now to be afraid to allow myself to be vulnerable to those closest to me knowing full well they will never hiss or prey on my vulnerability.
What a lesson I've learned about myself in this journey to Virtue! I told that same blog reader that perhaps only when I can get to know the real me can I become someone else--Elizabeth. And perhaps Elizabeth was sent by God so that I can get to know the real me and who knows, maybe when I finally find the whole truth about myself I may discover that Elizabeth was in me all along.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
The Reason Why I Don't Cry
I recently took a personality test. It revealed that I am mostly a woman who likes results, who's goal-oriented, no-nonesense, determined to accomplish what I set out to do. To be honest the result did not shock me, as could be expected coming from the "Country of Control" (as per the personality test). Words like "deep thinker", "strong-willed", "born a leader" that would make someone else wince give me a warm, fuzzy feeling. I'd like to think that the Virtuous Woman came from the Country of Control. I'd like to think that she had tenacity; that she wasn't wishy-washy and that when she had something purposed in her heart, she saw to it that it was met. (Okay, perhaps my country's a little inactive when it comes to waking early, praying, exercising, etc., but we already established in Blog 5 that the Virtuous Woman wasn't perfect.)
But what disturbed me and disturbed me deeply was when placed on the scale of human warmth, I scored an icy 120 on the side of "hard" and my soft side merely met half of that scale. I stared at that result for a long time, stunned by my score, my head buzzing with rebuttal as I fought the urge to declare, "My God, I'm the tin man. All metal, no heart!" It was a blunt revelation of hidden things inside my physical shell. It explained with some attempt on euphemism that I am deathly afraid to show my feelings unless it's to someone I completely trust and even with that, the walls of protection rise up instantly at the very first sign of questionable support. But 120? What was the matter with me? What trauma did I experience as a child buried deep into my subconscious that made me place an iron cast on my vulnerable side? There is no way on this planet that the Virtuous Woman was emotionless! I was venturing on a senseless journey with no finish line!
That week while driving through Prospect Parkway there was heavy gridlock coming from Manhattan, the opposite side of my direction. As I came closer to the traffic I saw the cause of that volume--two collided cars, thrown in different directions. An FDNY was attempting to open the side door of one car with a huge machinery to get to a woman who was slumped against the driver's side. In the meantime, the EMTs had lifted a person on a gurney to put inside the ambulance. The only thing I could think of were the families of these victims waiting for them to get home from work but here they were involved in an accident that may be fatal. I burst into tears praying outloud in my car, "Please, God! Please, God! Let everyone be ok!" And I know it wasn't the proper time to think about it but this is the circuitry of my brain function--when I got to the light on my exit, seconds after the accident, I thought, "But wait, how could that affect me so deeply when I'm a cold, cold person?"
I immediately took out a mental list that outlined situations in my life that evoked such responses. Running out of work to meet an acquaintance suffering with depression. Driving to the hospital after working over time to stand by a friend's side as they cried over an ill family member. Taking out from my family's savings to help someone in need. I am being honest. I started making a list of all my good deeds that seemed to me were generated from a soft side in a dire attempt to prove, if only to myself, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that indeed, I do have a heart. This very act, I must tell you, disturbed me---recalling acts of good work that the Bible teaches us to forget in order to pacify my fear that I perhaps did not care about anyone. I had to get into a prayer mode in the middle of the BQE and ask God if indeed I was the tin man reincarnate. Then I saw a haunting vision of a good friend who, upon discovering infidelity in her marriage, cried at my feet and wailed as she begged me to remove the pain from her heart. I buckled down on my knees and we held each other and wept and I was awed by her open demonstration of pain. I thought at that moment that I would never be able to exhibit outwardly that much pain nomatter how excruciating it was and I admired her honest and naked response which exposed the depth of her suffering. I thought that she was one of the bravest women I knew. To be able to declare publicly that she was in deep pain, for me, took immense courage.
So God made me realize that the hard part was directed solely at me, sadly. That while I could be vulnerable for others it was a feat for me to be vulnerable for myself. "You have to atleast trust one person," my husband has said in times past. "I would love for that person to be me."
And this is my newest quest, in addition to waking up early, praying, stretching, etc., To work on the issue of vulnerability. To believe, indeed, that vulnerability in me could come from courage and that it is, to some extent, a part of virtue. I'll retake that test in a year and hopefully, the tin woman would have, in a year, found her heart.
But what disturbed me and disturbed me deeply was when placed on the scale of human warmth, I scored an icy 120 on the side of "hard" and my soft side merely met half of that scale. I stared at that result for a long time, stunned by my score, my head buzzing with rebuttal as I fought the urge to declare, "My God, I'm the tin man. All metal, no heart!" It was a blunt revelation of hidden things inside my physical shell. It explained with some attempt on euphemism that I am deathly afraid to show my feelings unless it's to someone I completely trust and even with that, the walls of protection rise up instantly at the very first sign of questionable support. But 120? What was the matter with me? What trauma did I experience as a child buried deep into my subconscious that made me place an iron cast on my vulnerable side? There is no way on this planet that the Virtuous Woman was emotionless! I was venturing on a senseless journey with no finish line!
That week while driving through Prospect Parkway there was heavy gridlock coming from Manhattan, the opposite side of my direction. As I came closer to the traffic I saw the cause of that volume--two collided cars, thrown in different directions. An FDNY was attempting to open the side door of one car with a huge machinery to get to a woman who was slumped against the driver's side. In the meantime, the EMTs had lifted a person on a gurney to put inside the ambulance. The only thing I could think of were the families of these victims waiting for them to get home from work but here they were involved in an accident that may be fatal. I burst into tears praying outloud in my car, "Please, God! Please, God! Let everyone be ok!" And I know it wasn't the proper time to think about it but this is the circuitry of my brain function--when I got to the light on my exit, seconds after the accident, I thought, "But wait, how could that affect me so deeply when I'm a cold, cold person?"
I immediately took out a mental list that outlined situations in my life that evoked such responses. Running out of work to meet an acquaintance suffering with depression. Driving to the hospital after working over time to stand by a friend's side as they cried over an ill family member. Taking out from my family's savings to help someone in need. I am being honest. I started making a list of all my good deeds that seemed to me were generated from a soft side in a dire attempt to prove, if only to myself, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that indeed, I do have a heart. This very act, I must tell you, disturbed me---recalling acts of good work that the Bible teaches us to forget in order to pacify my fear that I perhaps did not care about anyone. I had to get into a prayer mode in the middle of the BQE and ask God if indeed I was the tin man reincarnate. Then I saw a haunting vision of a good friend who, upon discovering infidelity in her marriage, cried at my feet and wailed as she begged me to remove the pain from her heart. I buckled down on my knees and we held each other and wept and I was awed by her open demonstration of pain. I thought at that moment that I would never be able to exhibit outwardly that much pain nomatter how excruciating it was and I admired her honest and naked response which exposed the depth of her suffering. I thought that she was one of the bravest women I knew. To be able to declare publicly that she was in deep pain, for me, took immense courage.
So God made me realize that the hard part was directed solely at me, sadly. That while I could be vulnerable for others it was a feat for me to be vulnerable for myself. "You have to atleast trust one person," my husband has said in times past. "I would love for that person to be me."
And this is my newest quest, in addition to waking up early, praying, stretching, etc., To work on the issue of vulnerability. To believe, indeed, that vulnerability in me could come from courage and that it is, to some extent, a part of virtue. I'll retake that test in a year and hopefully, the tin woman would have, in a year, found her heart.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Moral Obligation
My attempt at becoming Elizabeth isn't wishful thinking. I really, ultimately, want to be just like this woman. But it's been an uphill battle with setbacks and relapses, like forgoing the waking up really early, praying, and stretching pledge throughout the entire Easter vacation. I tried words of encouragement: "You can do this. With real determination, this can be done!" When that didn't work, a little guilt trip: "How could you sleep through the morning? You've made a commitment, aren't you ashamed?" Then, slander: "You lazy louse! You've no right to look at yourself in the mirror!" Nevertheless, I made the more desirable yet less plausible choice: I slept in late during my vacation.
I kept telling myself to just make the right choice. Choose to get up early. Choose to pray early. Choose to stretch. Late one morning during the break and stricken with guilt, I suddenly started stretching in the middle of the kitchen floor much to the bewilderment of my kids and my 3-year-old nephew. I pulled, bent, arched like a cat and they watched in stunned silence, clutching on to their juice boxes. I think they knew that I was trying to pacify a guilty conscience.
There hasn't been a day in weeks that I do not carry on a conversation with the woman in Proverbs 31. How did Elizabeth do it? Did she never, ever desire to sleep in? Did she never, ever neglect her family for a day because she had to prepare for a Board Exam? Was she never tempted to walk out of the house in sloppy sweats because it took too much effort to wrap her body in purple linen? How was she, daily, able to make the better choice? I think of the first day I studied with fervent commitment the first weekend of Spring break. I had ten modules to do and one of the modules alone had over 600 questions but there I was at Starbucks, a Skinny Latte in hand, books on the table, a laptop with an expensive review software blinking in front of me. I had tunnel vision, concentrating, focused. Then the next day I found out Starbucks had free wifi and continuous access to facebook and attention deficit became my friend.
At the end of my Easter break I decided to take a breather from studying and assess a supervision case I was offered. The hours were going to be painfully inconvenient, the paperwork unreasonable, the pay less than half of my usual hourly rate. I pride myself in having a heart but also a bigger brain which carries within its cerebrum some common sense. It was, to say the least, a perfunctory visit.
I sat across brandnew parents devastated by a recent diagnosis of autism. The father held his non-verbal daughter in his arms, answering questions I'm sure he had been asked a million times before. I watched the therapist work with the child and then I listened to stories of frustration, the disorganized behavior programs, the team meetings with no direction, the lack of appropriate lessons because of the absence of a skilled supervisor. And then I watched the child look up at me, her baby blue eyes bright, her smile beautiful and contagious. She made only incoherent sounds and she screamed to gain access to her wants. I could feel the wheels in my head turning and I could see in this mental conveyer belt an array of behavior interventions that could quickly target areas of deficit which would provide skills for the child and hope for the parents. I thought of the schedule again, the amount of paper work involved and the lack of compensation. "Don't..." I told myself. "Don't do it."
I shook hands with the parents. I shook hands with the therapist, then I stooped down to meet the child face to face. I would do the best I could, I tell them, smiling at the child. I could not make any promises but I would do my best and if all things go well, progress in the most basic needed skills should develop and develop quickly.
I stood in that livingroom and realized that not all decisions are made from choices. There are just some things that do not come from a heiarchy of selections and are not weighed on the balance of self-gain or convenience. Rather, some decisions are made out of moral obligation.
And maybe Elizabeth lived her life that way. Her devotion to her God, to her family, to the less fortunate and even to herself was not founded on a mere choice. Perhaps both her position of leadership and servitude came from a sense of moral obligation. And perhaps it was this moral obligation that contributed to her life of virtue.
I kept telling myself to just make the right choice. Choose to get up early. Choose to pray early. Choose to stretch. Late one morning during the break and stricken with guilt, I suddenly started stretching in the middle of the kitchen floor much to the bewilderment of my kids and my 3-year-old nephew. I pulled, bent, arched like a cat and they watched in stunned silence, clutching on to their juice boxes. I think they knew that I was trying to pacify a guilty conscience.
There hasn't been a day in weeks that I do not carry on a conversation with the woman in Proverbs 31. How did Elizabeth do it? Did she never, ever desire to sleep in? Did she never, ever neglect her family for a day because she had to prepare for a Board Exam? Was she never tempted to walk out of the house in sloppy sweats because it took too much effort to wrap her body in purple linen? How was she, daily, able to make the better choice? I think of the first day I studied with fervent commitment the first weekend of Spring break. I had ten modules to do and one of the modules alone had over 600 questions but there I was at Starbucks, a Skinny Latte in hand, books on the table, a laptop with an expensive review software blinking in front of me. I had tunnel vision, concentrating, focused. Then the next day I found out Starbucks had free wifi and continuous access to facebook and attention deficit became my friend.
At the end of my Easter break I decided to take a breather from studying and assess a supervision case I was offered. The hours were going to be painfully inconvenient, the paperwork unreasonable, the pay less than half of my usual hourly rate. I pride myself in having a heart but also a bigger brain which carries within its cerebrum some common sense. It was, to say the least, a perfunctory visit.
I sat across brandnew parents devastated by a recent diagnosis of autism. The father held his non-verbal daughter in his arms, answering questions I'm sure he had been asked a million times before. I watched the therapist work with the child and then I listened to stories of frustration, the disorganized behavior programs, the team meetings with no direction, the lack of appropriate lessons because of the absence of a skilled supervisor. And then I watched the child look up at me, her baby blue eyes bright, her smile beautiful and contagious. She made only incoherent sounds and she screamed to gain access to her wants. I could feel the wheels in my head turning and I could see in this mental conveyer belt an array of behavior interventions that could quickly target areas of deficit which would provide skills for the child and hope for the parents. I thought of the schedule again, the amount of paper work involved and the lack of compensation. "Don't..." I told myself. "Don't do it."
I shook hands with the parents. I shook hands with the therapist, then I stooped down to meet the child face to face. I would do the best I could, I tell them, smiling at the child. I could not make any promises but I would do my best and if all things go well, progress in the most basic needed skills should develop and develop quickly.
I stood in that livingroom and realized that not all decisions are made from choices. There are just some things that do not come from a heiarchy of selections and are not weighed on the balance of self-gain or convenience. Rather, some decisions are made out of moral obligation.
And maybe Elizabeth lived her life that way. Her devotion to her God, to her family, to the less fortunate and even to herself was not founded on a mere choice. Perhaps both her position of leadership and servitude came from a sense of moral obligation. And perhaps it was this moral obligation that contributed to her life of virtue.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Quiet Desperation
Ever since I learned that the Virtuous Woman could have possibly been Bathsheba aside from Sarah, I've been wondering if she had been happy. For some reason the word "happy" doesn't seem to apply to Sarah. When I think of the Matriarch of Judaism, I imagine a strong-willed, determined woman who pretty much could plow a land single-handedly while milking a cow and delivering a baby. And happiness was a feeling so unimportant that there was no need to experience such a sensation. There was work to be done and being "happy" was not part of the equation.
But then I think of Bathsheba. She was an ordinary woman. Sure, sure she was so beautiful that King David was willing to forgo all his moral principles and respond only to his basic instincts but as a woman of class, she wasn't by any means above average. But if she indeed carried within herself the qualities of a Virtuous Woman how must she have felt when she was torn from her home, subjected to adultery by her king, and then lose her husband to premeditated murder and become the wife of the man who planned her husband's death? The only thing I could think of is that she was oblivious to the murder plot. But even so, as a virtuous woman, when she layed with her king knowing that her husband was out in the battle field how did she, a woman of principle, feel about the whole thing? And what did she think when she realized she was carrying the King's unborn child inside her? I mean, we're not talking about a married groupie here who had a crush on a king and was giddy at the opportunity of a moment of passion with the most powerful man in the country, we are talking about Elizabeth, the Virtuous Woman, the woman of Valour, the one who surpassed all other honorable ones. She had to have loved Uriah and even if she was only married through cultural arrangement, she must have atleast been loyal to him. I wonder if she told a close friend, if she prayed, if she cried herself to sleep. And when she became the queen, I wonder if she thought about how she got to her own throne and I wonder if she ever looked toward her old home (after all, it had to have been within an eye shot away since King David saw her bathing) and I wonder and have been wondering if Bathsheba lived in quiet desperation?
I've read and re-read Proverbs 31 and while it lists in detail the qualities of this Virtuous Woman, there is no mention of down time for her, no mention of laughter, no mention of friends. No mention of happiness. Maybe a virtuous woman never has to stop to dwell on what may be lacking in her life---perhaps she has nothing lacking in her life, therefore she never experiences a moment of absolute void. Could virtue be synonimous to happiness? Somehow I doubt it.
My bestfriend is the closest thing to Elizabeth that I know. She is an operating doctor in one of the top hospitals in the world. She barely has any time to sleep. Her body is trembling with exhaustion when she gets home yet she religiously bathes her daughter, reads her a book and prays with her as she tucks her to sleep. On her days off she cooks enough for the week and catches up on laundry while simultaneously works on Abstract Presentations for the next medical workshop she has to conduct in some city filled with medical students. And of course, she is beautiful.
But because she is my friend I know of her quiet desperations, and she knows of mine. She's aware of questions like, "What am I doing? Am I doing enough? What does all of this even mean?" And she's aware of my paranoia, my silent fears, my insatitable desire for success which deepens the well of a mother's guilt.
There are good mothers I think who stop and reflect on their lives and wonder what if they had gone to school and did more for themselves as much as they do for their children? There are business women who lose friends as they gain success and perhaps wonder to themselves if everything gained would be worth the loss if it means gaining back things more meaningful? And then there are carreer moms like me who live in constant guilt because our sense of fulfillment is met outside the comfort of our homes.
It would be comforting to know that Elizabeth had her moment of quiet desperation. That it did not make her less amazing but that in the height of her virtue she felt some kind of void that some women experience. I think to myself, the greater you become the less those around you can relate to your greatness. And when you're in a league all on your own, there must be moments of isolation. Isolation, for me, is often a relief but it also brings some level of loneliness.
I wonder if Bathsheba felt the same.
But then I think of Bathsheba. She was an ordinary woman. Sure, sure she was so beautiful that King David was willing to forgo all his moral principles and respond only to his basic instincts but as a woman of class, she wasn't by any means above average. But if she indeed carried within herself the qualities of a Virtuous Woman how must she have felt when she was torn from her home, subjected to adultery by her king, and then lose her husband to premeditated murder and become the wife of the man who planned her husband's death? The only thing I could think of is that she was oblivious to the murder plot. But even so, as a virtuous woman, when she layed with her king knowing that her husband was out in the battle field how did she, a woman of principle, feel about the whole thing? And what did she think when she realized she was carrying the King's unborn child inside her? I mean, we're not talking about a married groupie here who had a crush on a king and was giddy at the opportunity of a moment of passion with the most powerful man in the country, we are talking about Elizabeth, the Virtuous Woman, the woman of Valour, the one who surpassed all other honorable ones. She had to have loved Uriah and even if she was only married through cultural arrangement, she must have atleast been loyal to him. I wonder if she told a close friend, if she prayed, if she cried herself to sleep. And when she became the queen, I wonder if she thought about how she got to her own throne and I wonder if she ever looked toward her old home (after all, it had to have been within an eye shot away since King David saw her bathing) and I wonder and have been wondering if Bathsheba lived in quiet desperation?
I've read and re-read Proverbs 31 and while it lists in detail the qualities of this Virtuous Woman, there is no mention of down time for her, no mention of laughter, no mention of friends. No mention of happiness. Maybe a virtuous woman never has to stop to dwell on what may be lacking in her life---perhaps she has nothing lacking in her life, therefore she never experiences a moment of absolute void. Could virtue be synonimous to happiness? Somehow I doubt it.
My bestfriend is the closest thing to Elizabeth that I know. She is an operating doctor in one of the top hospitals in the world. She barely has any time to sleep. Her body is trembling with exhaustion when she gets home yet she religiously bathes her daughter, reads her a book and prays with her as she tucks her to sleep. On her days off she cooks enough for the week and catches up on laundry while simultaneously works on Abstract Presentations for the next medical workshop she has to conduct in some city filled with medical students. And of course, she is beautiful.
But because she is my friend I know of her quiet desperations, and she knows of mine. She's aware of questions like, "What am I doing? Am I doing enough? What does all of this even mean?" And she's aware of my paranoia, my silent fears, my insatitable desire for success which deepens the well of a mother's guilt.
There are good mothers I think who stop and reflect on their lives and wonder what if they had gone to school and did more for themselves as much as they do for their children? There are business women who lose friends as they gain success and perhaps wonder to themselves if everything gained would be worth the loss if it means gaining back things more meaningful? And then there are carreer moms like me who live in constant guilt because our sense of fulfillment is met outside the comfort of our homes.
It would be comforting to know that Elizabeth had her moment of quiet desperation. That it did not make her less amazing but that in the height of her virtue she felt some kind of void that some women experience. I think to myself, the greater you become the less those around you can relate to your greatness. And when you're in a league all on your own, there must be moments of isolation. Isolation, for me, is often a relief but it also brings some level of loneliness.
I wonder if Bathsheba felt the same.
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