The Consumption of Assumption
“I am thankful for my struggle, for, without it, I would not know my strength." ~ Alex Elie
For as long as I can remember, my birthday had been a contention of personal discomfort and unrest. Born on the 28thof December, it was lumped into Christmas break – a small cake with limited guests that felt like an afterthought, especially to my naive mind that was used to measuring my parent's love by "how much" - words purified by the praise for obedience in contrast to the consternation of challenge my inquiries offered, or by the freedom awarded certain genders in contrast to the duty of their roles.
I attached all sorts of things to this measurement–good or bad, happy or sad, worthy or unworthy, more or less - created my own scale of economies and, wove these assumptions into my life in all sorts of ways, weaving patterns that would predict meaning and how I would feel.
I measured by my own yardstick – how I would give more to my friends, how I always showed up for them with my attention and effort, and how, when I needed them most, they chose someone else, gave less, or were unavailable - at least that's what it seemed like in comparison; I was counting marbles in a jar.I did this for a while until my early 40s, when the world could no longer deliver all the demands of this kind of certainty and when I noticed just how much of my energy, and the motion of the future was consumed with assumptions.
It was my 44th birthday and I was feeling strong.
My sons - Matteo and Luca - were able to navigate safely outside the scope of my immediate attention, and I focused on learning about the Perennial Wisdom of Buddhism – trained my mind and attention - while cultivating a powerful routine - daily movement and pilates. I felt and looked amazing!
And, for a while, I felt so good that I was no longer aware that I may be receiving "less" because my attention was focused on nurturing myself rather than on measuring what others offered – this aerobic motive and breath of intention generated so much that I no longer needed to use my energy of attention proving something that felt painful.
In fact, this contentment overflowed into my friendships, nourishing them as grace shined through me. And, as friends texted instead of calling or just clear forgot, that tinge of "not enough" tugged and itched, but I no longer needed to scratch it.
Still, the night before that birthday, my "net worth" antennae was up!
Bill, my husband, had planned a ski trip with the boys as well as a massage with our friend Jodi. He knows that space without external expectation or obligation is a perfect gift, and I was sure the message was for myself. Yeah, he didn’t say anything but imagined finding a card when I woke up, one from him and handwritten notes from the boys.
Well, no note, no card, nada! "I knew it was too good to be true!”
Unable to accept the pain and possibility that my own family forgot my birthday, a part of me stayed hopeful, focused on an unfolding story in the future -- it’s not that they forgot, it’s that they forgot what day it was, and, on the way to Camelback they will suddenly realize and call apologizing.
As drama does, give it a script and it unfolds effortlessly.
By midday, I was fuming. No one had called - I mean no one! ... not my parents, not my brother, and none of my friends - I counted them all.
This feeling of “less than” - that no one cares - was really swelling out of control.
Then the doorbell rang; it was my friend Stacy and she held in her hands the most beautiful bouquet of flowers I had ever seen – the sheer texture and colors of the divergent, succulent blooms caught me by surprise and as she lay them in my arms, I began to ball. Tears relieved of suffering exploded the dam - how I wasn’t good enough and how the world had forgotten me - and the voice of gratitude holding space for those tears, "Oh! Here you came, to remind me that this is all in my head, all a silly misunderstanding – the way life gets in the way of those we want to celebrate and how easy it is to assume some unloving story rather than see the innocence of the situation."
Shortly after Stacy left, my parents arrived – my mom with a platter of baklava in her arms, “Happy birthday sweetheart! How do you feel? …good, good, good?!” while my dad's slit-like eyes beamed, “How's my sunshine?” But, again, I was overpowered by a hard, petulant, visceral denial of their love, “Take it back! I don’t want anything from anyone!”
My mom was heartbroken, my dad confused, and by the time Bill got home,“Oh, boy!”
Still, there was something beautiful and horribly imperfect about my reaction. Humility anchored me like a sinking stone, sent ripples of wisdom onto the surface demanding that I check in with the beliefs I put in motion, those folding and unfolding emotional molecules with motive like batter. I made a vow - toBe True.
I tried and I prayed.
Twelve years later, on my 56thbirthday, as I tried to console my mother’s terminally, agitated soul in hospice – I prayed. I prayed that she would die in my arms - that this day could finally mean something – that the death of my mother and the birth of a new me was Providence, a portal of atonement and alignment. I prayed and I danced, and I read and I held her decaying body in my arms.
She died five days later, on the 2ndof January and the emptiness of that request swallowed me whole.
And, it wasn’t until this moment, in opening up space to attend to the assumptions that have lacked relational understanding and correction, awakened by the constriction of suffering and enlightened within the conversation between Luca, and I and the expansion beyond identity and age; and within the image of Matteo on the screen next to my dad, under the Great Oak in the village in Greece transcending time; or within the joy of Bill returning home safely from his ride and the pain of my failure to receive him, did it all become perfectly clear:
There is nothing in this world that will prove that I am good enough as long as I am seeking outside myself, outside the beauty of this perfectly imperfect moment erupting right now - in my failure, in my forgetfulness, and in my opportunity of ascension.
Even the well-intentioned soul/child/daughter called Annette who longed for redemption and was willing to renunciate her celebration to receive the death of her mother, even here, in this sacred space there was a lie - a confusion, a heartbreak -- that what my mother embodied could possibly be measured or defined and that what remained of her body was a mere recollection of embodied memories.
It is in this intention to BE TRUE that I recognize that what I am cannot be measured, and when I do - when I "try" to measure my worth by what others give me - I am trapped, unable to tap into the freedom and dutiful dharma of devotion that I desired as a young girl, making everything that I seek inextricably out of my reach.
This mind cannot imagine alone - it cannot dream.
And, when we cannot dream or imagine, life becomes a purgatory of unfulfilled desire - carrots dangled ahead taking on many shapes and forms:
in the many ideas we have about our family and friends, our neighbors and community, our state and nation.
in how these ideas grow and in how those ideas are often, without attention, based on assumptions with hidden expectations.
in how we take on the identity of those assumptions -- these relational sparks of irrational emotion seeking a pathway and order, but which arrive confused by what attention is spotlighting ... worshipping.
in how attention, without training and understanding, is seized toward proving those assumptions and measuring those expectations, and in doing so, how any other possibility is taken from us.
I think about my mom every day, and every day I renounce every idea I had about her - that she might save me or that I could have done something different to save her, or that some mysterious message will be sent from her to relieve me of this suffering -- like, "we can only save ourselves, awaken from the mean sleep, by choosing to look in - to shift attention and to challenge, celebrate and consummated rather than obey, deny and consume."
As the day of the Assumption of Mary, comes near, and as the memories of celebration and feasts in the Thessalian mountains of chamomile call, this dream becomes a reality- that I and you and him and her and us and them - are more than this thought, this idea, this longing, this burst of energy - i am beyond this body and even this soul. and like Mary, my mother, what she has always been circumvents the natural process of decay here on earth. And so when we allow thoughts of desire to circumvent the agreement of the spark (Covenant), we fall asleep within the lies we tell ourselves about who we are and why we're here, and why we are unworthy or more worthy ... we miss the spark itself!
These lies that consume us are reflected in addiction, keep us prisoner in this idea of this body - and, like a sinking stone, we cannot escape the gravity of its weight, or the way measurement demands comparison:
Without challenge, is any of it even valid? Are these ideas worthy of the sacred space that they take up?
And, what might they abort if we were to awaken to the fundamental disagreement between who we think we are and what is? And what is cultured when courage and curiosity allow higher meaning to arrive?
This inquiry is a seed carrying the potential of a Word and is the spark of agreement called Christ - the spark that preceded my birth by three days, reminding me of my holy vow:
Be True and all will be restored.