Translations

How can I translate my life to you? Which language will I choose? Whice details do I leave in and which do I leave out? What captures the meaning best? Is there really such a thing as a literal translation? Even in the same language, words are packed with so many layers of meaning that no two people completely share the same impact of the letters on a page. I have so many questions my head spins. Many times neither language comes out right. Words no longer capture the swirling thoughts in my mind. Before I've been able to find the right ones, the thought has already changed shape. I am a foreigner in my own country.

Why do I need you to understand me so desperately anyway? Is it because I hardly understand myself? I want you to do the work, the translating. Reflect back an image that makes sense. Somehow capture all that I have been and am becoming at the same time. Be a bridge from the comfort of home to an ever-expanding, barrier-shattering world outside. I will fight my way out of any box you place me in so why do I seek refuge in labels?

I chose this road because it challenges me, forces me to live in between the lines and forge a path not yet marked. But at the same time I resent the work. Yearn for ease. It's been so long since I could rest in the luxury of simple sentences. Ones that don't require translation and interpretation, just a nod of recognition. I get so tired. Just want to be and yet am unsatisfied with the silence. I am driven to find words. They have always been my release. Now they fail me, and I feel betrayed.

Hibernating

Cycles...

I fall for it every time. That creeping panic that this winter might just have been the one to have finally killed that plant I have my eye on. Checking each morning if any green is peeking through the soil, or if a new leaf has appeared on that bare branch. And each day that I don't find anything, the tension builds.

Well, this has been a particularly hard winter. Sleepless nights with a new baby, the emotional roller coaster of an adjusting four year old brother, and now the terror of losing my ability to walk. First I was afraid of not being able to go for a much needed run, to drive myself to work, to care for my children. Then I found, it was also about not being able to get in the shower alone, to get my boot on and my crutches accommodated quick enough to make it to the potty in time, or just the simple act of carrying a cup of coffee to the couch to sit calmly and listen to KUT in the morning. It became the torture of listening to my baby cry and not being able to soothe her or having to say no to my sweet boy who wants to go fly a kite on a perfectly windy day. "Sorry, honey, you'll have to wait until Papi gets home."

God! Who is this person? Bedridden and dependent. Grumpy and numb. It seems I can't even hear the birds singing through the haze. Just biding my time. Watching Spring through the window as if it is a season for everyone else but me. Time to see everything that needs to be done but no ability to do it. My own personal circle of hell.

At first I fought it, and even ended up flat on my back, head hitting tile, waking both children and Polo who had finally managed to catch a much needed snooze. It took him two hours to get them both back to sleep. Humbled, I resigned myself. Back to bed, ice on foot. Pain pills popped. Earphones on.

Why the need to hibernate? Why must a seed germinate? Why does the caterpillar scrunch up into a tiny cocoon before taking flight as a butterfly? Why do babies spend 9 months in our bellies before springing out into the world?

I gather up all my energy and hold it tight inside. Let Polo take over the house. Watch him lovingly as he cuddles with Tara and plays with Diego. Laughing with them both in the bathtub. Getting them both ready and out the door in the morning. Not a single complaint. Not even a grumble. Just his knowing smile at my more ridiculous requests and a gentle reprimand from my son when I get stuck trying to get out the screen door by myself without asking for help. I turn over the goings on at school knowing I gave it all I had and now just need to let go. Gratefully accept the outpouring of help from family and friends. Make lists of what I will do when I get back on my feet. Remind myself that I am one of the lucky ones for whom this struggle is only temporary.

Surrender to the process of healing...

Then one day I wake up and sense a subtle change. Life is slowly coming back. I feel the energy pushing up against my skin. Eager to get out and stretch to the sky. A fresh new start. A yearning to feel the wind, the sun, the rain. Ready to shed my shell and leap into another cycle.

A tender shoot digs it way through the dirt...

Today I hobbled along outside seeing what plants survived the winter. Greeting each leaf I recognized like an old friend. And so it begins again. Tara turns one tomorrow. I look at my kids and marvel at the little people they are becoming. I sit back in awe at how the days just keep coming. The sun rises and sets whether I have "done" anything or not. And I guess the better question is not what I have accomplished today but who I've become.

What will burst through the soil this year? What flower will unfold from that tight little bud? What fruit will ripen enough to eat? What branches will spread their shady fingers during the scorching summer heat? And I laugh at myself. I fell for it again. My plants were never dead, just patiently waiting their turn.

...a season for everything. Will I ever learn?

ashes to ashes...

"What are you giving up for Lent?" my students banter amongst themselves. "Coke." "Mineral water." "Chocolate." And me? I've decided to give up my pride. I mean, do I really have a choice? I'm clunking around with a big ol' hunk of imperfection on my leg for all to see. A sign of my mortality, my limitation, my terrifying dependence on others around me. The ash on my forehead wears away in a matter of hours, but this leg? It will be reminding me every moment of every day for a long, long time.

It is so easy to get caught up in accomplishments, driven by goals, go to bed exhausted each night to wake up early and begin again the next day. Running an endless race. Proud when things go well, crushed when they don't. But a phrase keeps coming to mind. "It's not about me."

I'm not the one doing all this! Sometimes I fool myself into believing I have some modicum of control in the matter, but that usually doesn't last long. Life has a way of reminding me. And if I'm honest, I'd tell you, it's actually a relief. After weathering the customary panic attack, I enjoy falling again into the realization that I'm just an instrument on this earth. My only job to play the song given to me to the best of my ability. I enjoy stepping outside myself for a second and marveling at the masterpiece being played through me, through each one of us. Each of us playing a riff off the other. One day it might sound a little country, another kind of folksy, and maybe another with a touch of merengue... I just try to be true to the rhythm of the moment. Let it flow through me without going too far off key. Hold on to the spirit within that carries me through the ever changing melodies of each day. Sometimes I forge through, sometimes I dance, and sometimes I hobble. But it's not really about me.

Upside down flowers

When I was little there was a tapestry that hung on our wall that drove me crazy. It was huge. A lighthearted meadow scene with trees, woodland creatures, and an upside down flower... Sounds innocent enough, but there it was day in and day out. My eyes drawn to it every time I passed by with nothing I could do to fix it. It just taunted me. Almost perfect.

The story goes that Grandmom had left her needle in too long without working on it and it rusted. But instead of just giving up on it, or even covering it up skillfully, she memorialized the stain forever with an upside down flower.

Will I ever be so nonchalant about imperfection? Weave it seamlessly into the tapestry of my life as if it were part of the original design? I talk about it all the time. Hell, I have books on it, read whole theologies based on it. But here I am a month and a half into the new year and I'm already flat on my face with two of my three new year's resolutions and I can't help but feel the air knocked out of me. January completely slipped by without me writing my monthly gesture to this blog and I only played one soccer game before finding out I have a split tendon and am looking at three months of immobilization.

So I roll with the punches. Have a good laugh. But there's that upside down flower just staring at me every time I turn around. Why does it bother me so much?

I am blessed with an utterly amazing son, a stunning and strong young daughter, a gentle and understanding husband, and endlessly supportive family and friends. Why do I choose instead to see the unwashed dishes, the disorganized kitchen table, and unfolded laundry? Why do I focus on the unattained and possibly unattainable instead of wrapping myself up in the miracles all around me? Polo's going to be a US citizen for god sake! After 9 years of fighting...holding our breath, wondering, hoping, and pushing through. We'll never be forced apart again! My health has been given back to me. We have jobs and insurance. A cozy home to return to each night. Food in the fridge.

But it's never enough. There's always more. Things to tweak, things to dream of, things to improve. An ever elusive mirage like that infuriating line approaching infinity. You can't touch it or it would no longer be that which you seek. But it's immensity is overwhelming. Sometimes standing on the cliff's edge staring into the expanse comes in the form of a little flower...and mine just happens to be upside down.