Turning thirty

My birthday's coming up, and l had this whole thing l was going to write out on my thoughts about turning thirty...but they're sort of pretty much summed up in this piece l wrote for my mom's 60th commemoration book about growing older, so here you go.
When people ask my age, l say twenty nine, and then jokingly add that l plan on staying twenty nine for as long as l can get away with it. It’s a telling statement for two reasons; one, l really don’t wanna grow up (I’m a Toys-R-Us kid…), and secondly, I think I’m afraid of “losing” myself. It’s the fear of turning thirty; I know this, since I’ve never cared much about my age, and all of a sudden, the thought of pretending I’m younger is REALLY attractive. I think there’s a stigma surrounding the thirties and forties, one that implies that we get less attractive, less enjoyable or interesting, have less fun, have less of….everything.

People say forty’s over the hill, but everyone hints that it’s really thirty. I find myself getting caught up in this hype, and frankly, it pisses me off. I remember telling Mom several years back that I believed that physically, people become more beautiful as they age; the wisdom and character they’ve gained becomes etched in their faces, and that, in turn, adds character to their visage. She found this hilarious, if I remember correctly, and I think her response was along the lines of “You may feel differently in a decade.” I understand this now, not because I look older than my twenty nine years, but because, on some level, I’ve fallen for the hype that we also get less *attractive* as we age.

But here’s the thing. The reason it pisses me off is because I find my mother to be a direct contradiction to the beliefs that we become less of ANYTHING as we grow older. And I’m a pretty reliable source on this, being her daughter and all.
Over the years, I’ve seen my mother open up in ways I don’t think she was able to during my younger years and in an unhappy marriage. I think staying in it for my sake forced her to keep a part of herself shut down, and having an angry and rebellious child on her hands didn’t help either. It was only after I graduated and she met Harry that things seemed to really open up for her, though I noticed a huge change in her demeanor after separating from Dad. As time has gone on, she’s ‘settled’ into herself in a way that I can only understand through a few ‘settling’ experiences of my own, but it’s a beautiful thing to watch. And every time we talk, I realize just how far I have to go…and just how far I’ve come. I spend a lot of time thinking about Mom and the advice and wisdom she’s passed down over the years, and wishing dearly that I weren’t still so screwed up in the head. This is funny, because I also know full well that much of her wisdom comes from experiences I have yet to face – so why do I fear turning thirty? Because I have a deep love/hate relationship with instant gratification. I want to be there NOW, know what she knows, have the love she has, have the *center* she does.

As my mother’s gotten older, she’s also gotten more beautiful. I found a photo of her recently back when she was twenty two, and because I don’t remember her looking like that, I found her absolutely STUNNING. As I considered how I see her now, and how she looked then, I appreciate both…but lack of wrinkles generally equal lack of wisdom (plastic surgery don’t count), and while I still think my mother’s beautiful, it’s her aura, the confidence she proudly but humbly wears around her, that truly makes her stunning. Back then, she was stunning physically, yes. Now, what makes her so striking is her beauty *combined* with her ESSENCE. It takes great skill to know your worth without letting it color who you ARE. She’s a hard act to follow, but I’m gonna do my best. In doing so, I’ll have to stick to my own “Beauty is increased through age” philosophy – so in the future, when people ask me my age, I think I’m gonna say “Months away from thirty, baby. Only a few months away from thirty.” Thirty one can’t come fast enough.

Another one from Mom

This one's about six years old, but l still carry the original everywhere l go. l think it was the first real concrete understanding l had of how deeply my mother loves me and how much l affected her everyday life. lt was truly the highest compliment l can think of.

Harry, the love of my life, has a philosophy about organizations, namely that they are all inherently selfish. Thus, he tells all his new employees that it’s crucial to be absolutely clear about your own life goals, then to find the organization that can serve as the vehicle to help you achieve them. Otherwise, you run the risk of feeling used by any group you join.

I don’t know that I was 100% clear on this in 1967 when I decided to join the Order (ICA), but if someone had said it to me, I can imagine responding that, indeed, I was using the Order to reach my life goals. The surprise is that it turned out to be more of a “vehicle” than I ever imagined. In fact, I think it was more of a magical steed. It took me to a thousand places I would never have otherwise seen. It provided me with more weird and wonderful experiences than any one person deserves. It led to friendships that continue to be the richest, most durable, deep and satisfying of my life. Some of these friends are current and often seen. Others show up every ten or twenty years, and it feels like yesterday that we were together. It provided an incomparable experience of life in community. It gave me methods that I have used successfully in every job I’ve ever had. Colleagues at work thought I was marvelous, and I didn’t tell them how little I had to do with it! Finally, it anchored me in a word about life, gave me a God that was ever-creative, expanding, intelligent and beckoning, and thereby gave my life a center that has sustained me for fifty-five years.

Was it all rosy in the Order? Of course not. Were there decisions made that I would make differently now? Of course. I cried a lot, both for myself and for others. I traveled too much. I hurt and neglected family, friends and colleagues in the name of the mission I was on. But even then, somewhere deep inside, these events wove themselves into the fabric of my life, and I learned from them. To quote a Sufi poet, “When, in dying, did I ever grow less?”

What were the ‘life goals’ that made me choose the Order as the means? Put succinctly, I wanted enlightenment and a life of service. I certainly haven’t achieved the former, but I got wonderful tools and insights from 23 years of collegiums, studies, RS-1s and art form conversations. As for service, I found the opportunities were limitless, in both the microcosm of a spiritual hous and in whatever country I happened to find myself. I learned that ‘service’ has many faces, from tiny acts of kindness to worldwide, history-long schemes. In the late 80’s, I began to experience that my magical steed was growing tired. She didn’t seem to be carrying me with the same passion as before. To be fair, it wasn’t all her fault. There were personal dimensions that were taking on more importance; I was growing older; my child was growing older; I was getting tired. And finally, I made the decision to change horses. It was a decision enacted with a sense of elation and freedom as well as with sadness that a long, rich phase of my life was ending. There was no anger. There was only gratitude for all the years of fulfillment she had given me.

What was the cost to my child? What toll did it take when she was thrown into the fourth grade in a French school without a word of French? What happened to her when the Kenyan women threatened to stab her for some minor infraction? Did her psyche ever recover from always being the alien, the outsider, the weird kid who lived in a weird house with a bunch of other people? What wounds never healed from her encounter with a pedophile (and I use the word to describe someone who was diagnosed as such and received treatment)? And on top of all that (and much more), she had parents with a mission, for God’s sake. Parents whose unresolved tensions only occasionally surfaced, but were forever a part of the landscape of her home. A mother who probably would have preferred to remain childless. Was she damaged?

If you ask me, I would certainly say yes. The odd thing is that she wouldn’t. She really appreciates her growing up. She even thinks her parents did a pretty good job, despite their flaws. She feels that living as she did made her more aware, both of the world and of herself. She likes her life and herself as she is right now. If I were to see her ‘through God’s eyes’ (to quote John Dunne), I would have to say she is probably more right than I am.

We used to study a paper by John Knox called “The Event and the Story”. I still cherish that image. Life is full of ‘events’. Some of them, when remembered, cause me intense shame or anger or sadness or disgust. Others provoke joy, satisfaction, and gratitude. But the events themselves are objective. They happened, and now they’re past. And I am left forever with the question of what story I will create to weave those events into the tapestry of my life. I can weave a tapestry that is dark, or I can weave one that is light. I can create a story that takes life away or that creates it. My daughter, this strange young angel, has created a story that gives her life. Can I do less?

ln the Beginning

This is a piece my mom recently shared with me. lt never fails to amaze me how similar we are sometimes, and how our views coincide, even when l was a little girl. My mom kicks much ass.

In the Beginning

Soft lowing bleeds through the final frame of a forgotten dream. My body aches from the hard straw mattress. Nestled in the half moon of my body, my daughter stretches and turns. “Mom,” she whispers, “what’s that?” “Cows,” I whisper back. “Let’s go see them,” she says. And we creep into the still-gray morning.

As we stand silently, bare arms pimply from a cold breeze, the pink ruffle of dawn slips over the horizon. It is our first day in Kamweleni, a village tucked into the dry hills of Kenya. “I love this place,” Alison says with quiet awe. “So do I,” I answer.

This is the beginning. I’ve almost forgotten yesterday, the hot, cramped trip from Nairobi to Machakos, the battered minivan that crashed into giant potholes and slid around muddy corners toward deep ravines. I’m glad I didn’t get the quick and painless death I prayed for.

I’m aware of a strange collision of fear and wonder, terror and peace. I don’t yet know that I will encounter these polarities a thousand times over the next six years. I don’t realize that we will be different people when we leave, that my little girl will grow into a young woman who is racially color-blind, and an outsider in her own culture, that I will be humbled by people who manage poverty, death and strangers with dignity and generosity of spirit, that I will forget old fears and discover new ones, that I will feel unaccountably “at home” and unequivocally alien. On this first day, I am only just discovering the magic, sadness and glory of Africa, its deep contradictions, and unlimited potential. Thank god for the unknown – and for the journeys that take us there.

Dream lnterpretations

l had this dream last night that l was dressed up all hot at some party with a mini on, and at some point, looked down and had this really long but soft brown hair all over my legs. l kept pulling it all together and tucking it into my boots and hoping nobody would notice, which they did. l think it turned into a nightmare when they all started pointing and laughing.
Moral of the story? l need to shave.