The trial and verdict in the Jerry Sandusky case prompted a flood of memories for me, not the good kind.
Back in 1995 in Birmingham, Ala., Don Corley, a man considered by many to be a pillar of the community -- Scout leader, active church member, friend -- was convicted of child molestation and sentenced to 30 years in prison. We were members of the same church and my then-husband had worked with him on different projects involving communication and videotaping and sound. Among other church-related activities, Don led the church's Boy Scout troop, known for the number of Eagle Scouts it produced, and actively mentored the boys, including several who were from single parent households.
When he was arrested and convicted, it was a huge, horrible shock -- and in our household even more so because our daughter had not only attended school with the victims but had been close friends with at least one.
These wonderful young people had had their lives changed forever by the sick perversion of a man who preyed on boys in what was considered to be a safe place, just as Sandusky did.
Corley's victims have created a website with information about Corley and possible parole, and are devoted to making sure the man serves his entire sentence. It has a great deal of information about child molesters as well. I applaud their bravery and acknowledgement of how this crime has impacted their lives, and their work to bring awareness of the issue of child molestation.
But before that, another man (who I knew fairly well) molested someone very close to me, also gathering his victims in what was thought of as a safe place, and threatening them with the loss of their families and friends should they tell, much as Sandusky did with at least one of his victims. I was unaware of the closest molestation until just a few years ago, although I knew about others who had been hurt when the man was prosecuted for molesting the five-year-old daughter of friends -- others, who we knew of, did not choose to be part of that case, unfortunately. He served a very light prison sentence, released early for 'good behavior.' I now know more details of his behavior than I wish I knew.
Like the children molested by Corley and Sandusky, these young boys and girls bear lifelong scars. Even now the memory haunts and taunts at least one victim, causing severe mental distress and vocal and physical hallucinations, despite therapy and medication.
I find it difficult to even consider forgiving such acts. While I understand it is an illness, there is no acceptable excuse to molest children, ever.
And while the families of the perpetrators may have been blindsided and horrified, there are also always signs, looking back, that they either chose not to see or that they took pains to overlook for any number of reasons -- financial or social, for instance. They bear a different kind of responsibility and grief and remorse.
But we all have a duty to be watchful of the children we know, to listen to what they say, to teach them how to respond and to be honest, to help them understand that there are indeed bad people in their worlds but that they should not be afraid to tell a parent or a counselor or a pastor or a friend if they are being hurt.
I pray for the victims of Sandusky and Corley and the unnamed man, but I cannot bring myself to pray for those sick, twisted men, to grant them the release of forgiveness from any source. Justice in these instances will never really happen, no matter how long their prison terms.
Child abuse casts a shadow the length of a lifetime. --Herbert Ward
If I Had My Child to Raise Over Again
by Diane Loomans
If I had my child to raise all over again,
I'd build self esteem first, and the house later.
I'd fingerpaint more, and point the finger less.
I would do less correcting and more connecting.
I'd take my eyes off my watch, and watch with my eyes.
I would care to know less and know to care more.
I'd take more hikes and fly more kites.
I'd stop playing serious, and seriously play.
I would run through more fields and gaze at more stars.
I'd do more hugging and less tugging.
I'd see the oak tree in the acorn more often.
I would be firm less often, and affirm much more.
I'd model less about the love of power,
And more about the power of love.
Showing posts with label suffering. Show all posts
Showing posts with label suffering. Show all posts
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Reverb 10: what defined this year
For Dec. 29 -- Defining moment. Describe a defining moment or series of events that has affected your life this year.
Oh, hands down (pun intended) it was Jan. 4 when I fell sideways onto the pavement at the Redding Convention Center parking lot and when I sat up, my wrist was in an 'S' curve. It was not just a little break either -- but one that required surgery, a plate, and seven screws to fix. And some six months to recover from.
It changed everything for me this year.
I 'retired' -- at least I began to draw Social Security, although I'm busy doing many things. I stopped freelancing because I couldn't type and couldn't take interview notes, and my head wasn't in a good place to be able to do that anyway.
I was dependent on others to help me drive, wash, cook, even dress myself, and I learned to use my left hand, sortakinda, to eat, to operate my trackball, to sign my name, to dry my hair, to apply makeup. I hated it. I felt awkward and old and wobbly and mortal.
All of the other stresses were still there, too -- providing support for R on her bad days, finding an attorney to help with her disability claim, taking care of the house and kitties and so on. I did most of it pretty well after the first month or so, and while the physical injury healed and I was done with physical therapy by mid-April, it left me with a fear of falling, a wariness that has yet to leave me, and an awareness of how very fragile we really are; how quickly life can change in a moment.
It left me tired. Weary. Not energized. Afraid of something else happening.
That, and dealing with R's ongoing illness -- appointments, phone calls, ER visits, doctor visits, etc. -- were the overwhelming thoughts and feelings I lived with this year. There were some good times, some nice moments. But mostly it was one day at a time, one month at a time, just getting through as best I could.
I do not want 2011 to be a re-run in any way. Things are looking better and I'm feeling more optimism than I have all year. I'm glad to see the end of 2010.
Oh, hands down (pun intended) it was Jan. 4 when I fell sideways onto the pavement at the Redding Convention Center parking lot and when I sat up, my wrist was in an 'S' curve. It was not just a little break either -- but one that required surgery, a plate, and seven screws to fix. And some six months to recover from.
It changed everything for me this year.
I 'retired' -- at least I began to draw Social Security, although I'm busy doing many things. I stopped freelancing because I couldn't type and couldn't take interview notes, and my head wasn't in a good place to be able to do that anyway.
I was dependent on others to help me drive, wash, cook, even dress myself, and I learned to use my left hand, sortakinda, to eat, to operate my trackball, to sign my name, to dry my hair, to apply makeup. I hated it. I felt awkward and old and wobbly and mortal.
All of the other stresses were still there, too -- providing support for R on her bad days, finding an attorney to help with her disability claim, taking care of the house and kitties and so on. I did most of it pretty well after the first month or so, and while the physical injury healed and I was done with physical therapy by mid-April, it left me with a fear of falling, a wariness that has yet to leave me, and an awareness of how very fragile we really are; how quickly life can change in a moment.
It left me tired. Weary. Not energized. Afraid of something else happening.
That, and dealing with R's ongoing illness -- appointments, phone calls, ER visits, doctor visits, etc. -- were the overwhelming thoughts and feelings I lived with this year. There were some good times, some nice moments. But mostly it was one day at a time, one month at a time, just getting through as best I could.
I do not want 2011 to be a re-run in any way. Things are looking better and I'm feeling more optimism than I have all year. I'm glad to see the end of 2010.
Thursday, August 05, 2010
Motherhood, revisited
I'm trying to remember really hard tonight why it is I so desperately wanted to be a mother, why my ex and I went through years of fertility testing, adoption interviews, emotional pain that was devastating to our sex life and self-esteem.
There was a charming, delightful little bundle of baby at the end of all that. She grew up reasonably okay and we had some good times -- or so I thought until the last several years, when I discovered secrets she'd hidden which are now contributing in no small way to mental and health issues which are now front and center in her life, and which have certainly impacted mine, financially and emotionally.
Didn't protect her very well, it seems. Bad mama.
And then when my beloved came along years later with two more daughters, I was delighted to have them. And I fell in love with them. Oh there were issues there too -- but there also were some good times, some real bonding.
One has estranged herself from us for reasons we know not. Poof. Gone. No crystal ball here -- no explanation, no demands, no nothing.
REALLY bad mama.
The other, the one who has called me Mom for several years and who regards my first daughter as her sister, has pretty much said that I'm a crappy person who she has lost both faith in and respect for because I/we didn't leap to bail her out of an admittedly difficult place, and because I sent e-mail links without signing them or even so much as a note. And I didn't call her back when I said I would. (I'm guilty of that, no question. The e-mails were sent on the fly, in haste, not deliberately being 'cold,' and were intended to offer helpful information. I didn't call her back because ... it's complicated. But I should have.) She's saying she doesn't need this kind of 'family.'
Bad, BAD, ROTTEN mama.
So what's the solution since I can't go back to the past and change how I did things then, teach lessons better, act as a better example myself?
Beat myself up some more?
Self-flagellation may be the road to spiritual bliss in some cultures, but I'm not good with pain.
Give them whatever they want/need whenever they ask, regardless of the impact it may have on our own retirement plans or emotional health? Because that's what 'good' parents do -- devote themselves to the well-being of their children even if the children are adults and we have no say in the decisions they're making for themselves?
I don't think so. I don't think the parenting books think that's a good idea either.
Give 'em both one last check and move to outer Mongolia, leaving no forwarding address?
Tempting. Really tempting. Well, maybe not the outer Mongolia part, but certainly the no fowarding address part.
I don't think I'm a cold, unfeeling, uncaring person. Most of my life I've had the opposite problem -- getting too involved in the problems of others (and ignoring the ones of my own, which have a nasty way of eventually demanding attention). I've often trusted too easily, taking people at their word, and have been disappointed time and time again. I don't like to think of people being sick or sad or hungry or depressed or homeless or abused, and I try to help where and when I can.
But I don't know where this ends. I don't know where the boundary is between too much and not enough. I don't know how to say no or enough without it causing high drama and more trauma for all of us. Like most men, my honey is better at separating emotion from action, but he's not a happy camper either. Bad daddy?
(At least we're suited for each other, I guess -- bad mama and bad daddy. )
This is not what I'd pictured all those years ago. This is not how it was in my family nor in his, and not what our children grew up watching.
I'm still working to accept my children as they are, warts and all, and I love them dearly. But I'm not sure that means that I sacrifice who I am, what my dreams and goals and desires are, what we've worked for all these years, to meet their needs and wants now.
Wonder if Mongolia has an ocean? (heading for the atlas...)
There was a charming, delightful little bundle of baby at the end of all that. She grew up reasonably okay and we had some good times -- or so I thought until the last several years, when I discovered secrets she'd hidden which are now contributing in no small way to mental and health issues which are now front and center in her life, and which have certainly impacted mine, financially and emotionally.
Didn't protect her very well, it seems. Bad mama.
And then when my beloved came along years later with two more daughters, I was delighted to have them. And I fell in love with them. Oh there were issues there too -- but there also were some good times, some real bonding.
One has estranged herself from us for reasons we know not. Poof. Gone. No crystal ball here -- no explanation, no demands, no nothing.
REALLY bad mama.
The other, the one who has called me Mom for several years and who regards my first daughter as her sister, has pretty much said that I'm a crappy person who she has lost both faith in and respect for because I/we didn't leap to bail her out of an admittedly difficult place, and because I sent e-mail links without signing them or even so much as a note. And I didn't call her back when I said I would. (I'm guilty of that, no question. The e-mails were sent on the fly, in haste, not deliberately being 'cold,' and were intended to offer helpful information. I didn't call her back because ... it's complicated. But I should have.) She's saying she doesn't need this kind of 'family.'
Bad, BAD, ROTTEN mama.
So what's the solution since I can't go back to the past and change how I did things then, teach lessons better, act as a better example myself?
Beat myself up some more?
Self-flagellation may be the road to spiritual bliss in some cultures, but I'm not good with pain.
Give them whatever they want/need whenever they ask, regardless of the impact it may have on our own retirement plans or emotional health? Because that's what 'good' parents do -- devote themselves to the well-being of their children even if the children are adults and we have no say in the decisions they're making for themselves?
I don't think so. I don't think the parenting books think that's a good idea either.
Give 'em both one last check and move to outer Mongolia, leaving no forwarding address?
Tempting. Really tempting. Well, maybe not the outer Mongolia part, but certainly the no fowarding address part.
I don't think I'm a cold, unfeeling, uncaring person. Most of my life I've had the opposite problem -- getting too involved in the problems of others (and ignoring the ones of my own, which have a nasty way of eventually demanding attention). I've often trusted too easily, taking people at their word, and have been disappointed time and time again. I don't like to think of people being sick or sad or hungry or depressed or homeless or abused, and I try to help where and when I can.
But I don't know where this ends. I don't know where the boundary is between too much and not enough. I don't know how to say no or enough without it causing high drama and more trauma for all of us. Like most men, my honey is better at separating emotion from action, but he's not a happy camper either. Bad daddy?
(At least we're suited for each other, I guess -- bad mama and bad daddy. )
This is not what I'd pictured all those years ago. This is not how it was in my family nor in his, and not what our children grew up watching.
I'm still working to accept my children as they are, warts and all, and I love them dearly. But I'm not sure that means that I sacrifice who I am, what my dreams and goals and desires are, what we've worked for all these years, to meet their needs and wants now.
Wonder if Mongolia has an ocean? (heading for the atlas...)
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Feeling out of sorts? You're not alone
As I mentioned a few posts ago, things seem very unsettled and uncomfortable in the world now, both in my little personal sphere and the earth as a whole.
I start nearly every time the phone rings, hoping it's not one of the princesses with yet another crisis and health issue. The youngest has not only delivered a baby -- young Gabriel -- in the past three weeks, but also ended up in the hospital with pneumonia last week, exacerbated I'm sure by all the smoke and nasty air that we've had in these parts from the fires. (it's smoky again today)
And the eldest is battling big depression and mental health issues far away from me so that I can't even put my arms around her and just cry with her. So I try to do it via phone. She's talking to me -- a good thing -- and is getting help, but it seems like one big crisis after another, impacting finances as well as job and emotional health.
All of which invite the ice weasels, which so far I've managed to stave off from a full-fledged attack. I can feel them nibbling, though.
And I'm not the only one who is having these feelings. Lunaea posed the question a few days ago and got some good responses. And Joanna offers her own suggestions for dealing with emotional issues today.
There are good ideas here to cope, and I've done most of them at one point or another. For now, I'm trying to stay in the moment and focus on what I need to do here. I'm trying to remember that I am powerless over people, places and things, and that there is really not one thing I can do to fix this for either princess. They must do the work. I am the listener, the comforter, the suggester. I try to make solid suggestions and hope the seeds grow. They each must find their own way through their dark and stormy times, but I hope that while I talk to them that I can be the lighthouse in the darkness.
I am grateful for my lighthouse, my wonderful husband, and for his sane and loving touch. I am grateful for my own sense of self and strength. The ocean renewed some of that for me this weekend. I watch the hummingbirds and water my plants and harvest the good veggies, and am thankful for life and for its constancy. As the old fades, the new takes its place. My daughters have to find their own paths through the darkness, just as I have found mine.
I start nearly every time the phone rings, hoping it's not one of the princesses with yet another crisis and health issue. The youngest has not only delivered a baby -- young Gabriel -- in the past three weeks, but also ended up in the hospital with pneumonia last week, exacerbated I'm sure by all the smoke and nasty air that we've had in these parts from the fires. (it's smoky again today)
And the eldest is battling big depression and mental health issues far away from me so that I can't even put my arms around her and just cry with her. So I try to do it via phone. She's talking to me -- a good thing -- and is getting help, but it seems like one big crisis after another, impacting finances as well as job and emotional health.
All of which invite the ice weasels, which so far I've managed to stave off from a full-fledged attack. I can feel them nibbling, though.
And I'm not the only one who is having these feelings. Lunaea posed the question a few days ago and got some good responses. And Joanna offers her own suggestions for dealing with emotional issues today.
There are good ideas here to cope, and I've done most of them at one point or another. For now, I'm trying to stay in the moment and focus on what I need to do here. I'm trying to remember that I am powerless over people, places and things, and that there is really not one thing I can do to fix this for either princess. They must do the work. I am the listener, the comforter, the suggester. I try to make solid suggestions and hope the seeds grow. They each must find their own way through their dark and stormy times, but I hope that while I talk to them that I can be the lighthouse in the darkness.
I am grateful for my lighthouse, my wonderful husband, and for his sane and loving touch. I am grateful for my own sense of self and strength. The ocean renewed some of that for me this weekend. I watch the hummingbirds and water my plants and harvest the good veggies, and am thankful for life and for its constancy. As the old fades, the new takes its place. My daughters have to find their own paths through the darkness, just as I have found mine.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Fire strikes -- and so do looters
The Humboldt Fire started near Chico, where Tony works, last Wednesday and many of his company's employees had to evacuate their homes near Paradise.
It has been devastating to watch the news, see the map, and read the comments by worried friends and family. Our home is 50 miles to the north and west, so we were not threatened by this one. But everyone who lives in California fears wildfires, as well they should.
There were 74 homes destroyed by this fire; cause at this point unknown. Thousands of firefighters from throughout California assisted the battle to contain it. Hundreds of people were evacuated and sheltered and fed by volunteers and good people.
And last night on the news there was this report about looters. Today, Tony discovered that one of his colleagues was a victim, and that his insurance company only covers $5K caused by theft. The guy -- a young man with a family -- did not lose his home to fire, but lost its contents to thieves who took advantage of his absence and stole everything: tools, toys -- everything.
How do people lose ethics? Did they never have them in the first place? What corrupts a person, causes them to compound a terrible event into an even more incomprehensible act?
Tony's colleague did not realize that others had also been looted, so he perhaps can find some company with his misery, and perhaps they all can work towards a solution, towards regaining some of the stolen merchandise.
I'm 60 years old. And I don't think I'm particularly naive. But this just blows me away -- sort of like the guy I wrote about a few days ago baffles me with his nastiness and mean spirit -- only these thieves are even lower than that on the ethics and decency scale. They kicked people when they were down, walked away and left them gasping. And didn't look back. That is the true tragedy in this.
It has been devastating to watch the news, see the map, and read the comments by worried friends and family. Our home is 50 miles to the north and west, so we were not threatened by this one. But everyone who lives in California fears wildfires, as well they should.
There were 74 homes destroyed by this fire; cause at this point unknown. Thousands of firefighters from throughout California assisted the battle to contain it. Hundreds of people were evacuated and sheltered and fed by volunteers and good people.
And last night on the news there was this report about looters. Today, Tony discovered that one of his colleagues was a victim, and that his insurance company only covers $5K caused by theft. The guy -- a young man with a family -- did not lose his home to fire, but lost its contents to thieves who took advantage of his absence and stole everything: tools, toys -- everything.
How do people lose ethics? Did they never have them in the first place? What corrupts a person, causes them to compound a terrible event into an even more incomprehensible act?
Tony's colleague did not realize that others had also been looted, so he perhaps can find some company with his misery, and perhaps they all can work towards a solution, towards regaining some of the stolen merchandise.
I'm 60 years old. And I don't think I'm particularly naive. But this just blows me away -- sort of like the guy I wrote about a few days ago baffles me with his nastiness and mean spirit -- only these thieves are even lower than that on the ethics and decency scale. They kicked people when they were down, walked away and left them gasping. And didn't look back. That is the true tragedy in this.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Wisdom to know the difference
I am powerless over people, places and things.
For anyone who's ever been in a 12-step program, that's a mantra you learn and repeat daily, if not more often.
The only person you have any control over is yourself: your actions, your emotions, your behavior. You choose. And in the choosing, you create your own destiny.
But boy, oh boy, it is hard.
I want to "fix" situations. I want to "fix" people. It's so obvious to me that it only would take just this leeeeeetle bit of action or non-action, and then things would be sooooo much better.
Especially when it comes to my children. And anyone I love or care about.
Accepting another's right to act as s/he chooses is so hard for me sometimes, and especially with my daughters, I am constantly letting go and then taking back the worry and the fear for their wellbeing and their future. And then letting go again.
It is hard to accept without visible judgement too -- I try hard to keep a poker face (and am terrible at it), to keep my voice even and unemotional, to keep my words neutral and calm. And yet I know where I'd like each of them to go, which paths to choose that will help them to have good outcomes and lessen the pain and stress that I see ahead otherwise.
But oh, I am not omniscient, I am not all-powerful, and I cannot. I CANNOT. control their choices and destinies, any more than my mother or father could control mine. I made choices, a couple of ones that hugely impacted my life and who I am, and yet I'm okay. I am working to accept where they are, although it is so painful to watch them hurt and teeter on the edge of depression and actions which will have life-long implications!
I can't "fix" my daughters' problems nor their unhappiness. I can and have encouraged them to take steps to help themselves, but it's always a lack of money, time, or something else, it seems.
There is a long-time friend who is unhappy with his life -- he has always felt that he never gets a break, never has the wind at his back for very long, if at all. He has complained about his life for as long as I've known him. He doesn't like living alone, has little family left, and while he has friends, he desperately wants a love relationship, a companion. He is a good person and helps others, lives an ethical life, but yet feels unloved and as though he is of no importance to much of anyone. It hurts my heart when someone I care about feels so unloved and alone.
I can't "fix" him (I've tried, believe me).
I'm so aware that there are people who don't seem to have the ability, the desire, to take control over their lives and change what they don't like. Long ago I knew a woman, a bright, pretty, very talented children's librarian, a success in her field and loved by her colleagues and clients. She was hospitalized numerous times for depression and suicide attempts, including a terrible instance when she swallowed Drano, which left her alive and unable to eat normally. Not too long after she was released from the hospital after that attempt, she finally succeeded in ending her life.
And I guess I don't understand. I know depression -- most of us at one point or another have been depressed and paralyzed into inaction, although most of us don't make it into hospitalization and eventually come out of it or get help.
It is hard. Changing, making changes is so hard. There are days, weeks, even months that are just slogging through the crap, putting one foot in front of the other, getting through and doing it all over again the next day. But it passes.
NOTHING lasts forever. EVERYTHING changes.
I'm trying to remember that as yet again I put my worry and concern into the great universe rather than keeping it close to me. I trust that the people I want to fix will find their paths, will be taken care of, will be offered choices, just as I have been. I pray that they have the courage and the strength to follow the paths that will help them lead the kind of life they say they want.
And I pray for the serenity to accept their choices.
For anyone who's ever been in a 12-step program, that's a mantra you learn and repeat daily, if not more often.
The only person you have any control over is yourself: your actions, your emotions, your behavior. You choose. And in the choosing, you create your own destiny.
But boy, oh boy, it is hard.
I want to "fix" situations. I want to "fix" people. It's so obvious to me that it only would take just this leeeeeetle bit of action or non-action, and then things would be sooooo much better.
Especially when it comes to my children. And anyone I love or care about.
Accepting another's right to act as s/he chooses is so hard for me sometimes, and especially with my daughters, I am constantly letting go and then taking back the worry and the fear for their wellbeing and their future. And then letting go again.
It is hard to accept without visible judgement too -- I try hard to keep a poker face (and am terrible at it), to keep my voice even and unemotional, to keep my words neutral and calm. And yet I know where I'd like each of them to go, which paths to choose that will help them to have good outcomes and lessen the pain and stress that I see ahead otherwise.
But oh, I am not omniscient, I am not all-powerful, and I cannot. I CANNOT. control their choices and destinies, any more than my mother or father could control mine. I made choices, a couple of ones that hugely impacted my life and who I am, and yet I'm okay. I am working to accept where they are, although it is so painful to watch them hurt and teeter on the edge of depression and actions which will have life-long implications!
I can't "fix" my daughters' problems nor their unhappiness. I can and have encouraged them to take steps to help themselves, but it's always a lack of money, time, or something else, it seems.
There is a long-time friend who is unhappy with his life -- he has always felt that he never gets a break, never has the wind at his back for very long, if at all. He has complained about his life for as long as I've known him. He doesn't like living alone, has little family left, and while he has friends, he desperately wants a love relationship, a companion. He is a good person and helps others, lives an ethical life, but yet feels unloved and as though he is of no importance to much of anyone. It hurts my heart when someone I care about feels so unloved and alone.
I can't "fix" him (I've tried, believe me).
I'm so aware that there are people who don't seem to have the ability, the desire, to take control over their lives and change what they don't like. Long ago I knew a woman, a bright, pretty, very talented children's librarian, a success in her field and loved by her colleagues and clients. She was hospitalized numerous times for depression and suicide attempts, including a terrible instance when she swallowed Drano, which left her alive and unable to eat normally. Not too long after she was released from the hospital after that attempt, she finally succeeded in ending her life.
And I guess I don't understand. I know depression -- most of us at one point or another have been depressed and paralyzed into inaction, although most of us don't make it into hospitalization and eventually come out of it or get help.
It is hard. Changing, making changes is so hard. There are days, weeks, even months that are just slogging through the crap, putting one foot in front of the other, getting through and doing it all over again the next day. But it passes.
NOTHING lasts forever. EVERYTHING changes.
I'm trying to remember that as yet again I put my worry and concern into the great universe rather than keeping it close to me. I trust that the people I want to fix will find their paths, will be taken care of, will be offered choices, just as I have been. I pray that they have the courage and the strength to follow the paths that will help them lead the kind of life they say they want.
And I pray for the serenity to accept their choices.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
When bad things happen -- what do you do?
Living is suffering. That's pretty much the whole foundation of Buddhism. The way you get through that suffering is outlined in the rest of the tenets of that path, which are not much different ultimately than those in Christianity -- right speech, right mindfulness, right understanding, right livelihood, right effort, right action, right thought, right concentration. Following those precepts will bring you to the end of suffering, i.e, the lack of craving, of attachment.
Okay, so I get that, imperfectly. I even work on it.
But there are days when suffering just seems to be all around me. Certainly there is physical suffering from pain, or illness, or injury. I watched the effects of pain on my mother and it is not just a physical reality, but also one that compromises the mental abilities, even mitigated by meds. It is a suffering I fear because I've seen what it does. The physical pain I've felt in my lifetime has largely been endurable and I've always recovered fairly intact. Some physical suffering just does not go away.
There is mental suffering, being unfulfilled, frustrated, the going-nowhere-fast kind. We all suffer that, usually daily, and it can grow into a tremendously painful burden to carry. It also can lead to physical suffering, in that what you think can indeed affect health. Anyone who has ever been in a terrible job situation knows this one. The Katrina victims, the 9/11 survivors know it *again* as the media observes the respective anniversaries with endless stories of loss and despair.
And then there is emotional suffering. If you get your feelings hurt easily, you know emotional suffering. When you get angry or endure humiliation as a result of another's actions, that is emotional suffering. If you've endured the breakup of a strong relationship, you've suffered emotionally. It can be a result of physical suffering, or mental suffering, and all three can be intertwined to make endless days and nights of suffering.
When you are a parent and your child is injured/teased/bullied/ostracized, you suffer too, for them and with them, possibly remembering your own experiences. When your grown child faces job loss or financial difficulties, or is in a difficult relationship, you still suffer -- unlike their childhood when you could ride your white horse into the fray armed with a bandaid or a cookie or hug to heal the wounds, there's not much you can do but love them.
Watching a child or friend or colleague or spouse suffer because of their decisions and actions and the re-actions of someone who has some kind of power over them -- a boss, a significant other, a sibling -- is beyond difficult when you love them. I want my children to be happy, to find fulfillment in their lives, to have love and "enough" of everything. As they struggle to achieve that, they suffer, and so do I.
Watching my mother struggle with her physical limitations and mental distress was very hard on me -- I wanted so much to make it easier for her, to ease her suffering. And I know that I did all I could do. Despite the gratitude that I have for her peaceful death and end to suffering, I miss her presence in my life, her wit, her advice, her willingness to listen. I suffer from grief.
So what do you do to ease the suffering of another?
You know you can't fix it or make it go away -- it may not be yours to handle (and besides, isn't the very act of getting involved to that extent sometimes a denial of your OWN inability to handle some situation in your life?) But we give advice (that we probably wouldn't take), we bring hot soup or hot fudge sundaes, we call or write or e-mail with support. We cry with them (and for them). We pray.
And that's all we can do. "I am powerless over people, places and things."
I do not have to allow another's suffering to take over my life. I have a choice in how I react to adversity and difficulty. I can decide a course only for myself, not for anyone else (which, of course, doesn't stop me from making suggestions!)
There is a line in Neil Simon's play "Jake's Women," that I've never forgotten -- I once played Jake's psychiatrist, Edith. She listened to him agonize for years over his failing relationship with his wife (and sister and daughter and former girlfriends) because of his attachment to his long-dead wife. Dr. Edith finally proclaimed to him, in Brooklyn-accented tones, "We make our own destiny, Jake."
And we do. With each decision we make, we choose a path. How we react to our suffering caused by relationships or bosses or pain or death or hurt feelings or anything else is a CHOICE WE MAKE. If we don't like how we feel/live/work, only we have the power to make it different. My life -- your life -- is not anyone else's responsibility. *I* make my own destiny.
Okay, so I get that, imperfectly. I even work on it.
But there are days when suffering just seems to be all around me. Certainly there is physical suffering from pain, or illness, or injury. I watched the effects of pain on my mother and it is not just a physical reality, but also one that compromises the mental abilities, even mitigated by meds. It is a suffering I fear because I've seen what it does. The physical pain I've felt in my lifetime has largely been endurable and I've always recovered fairly intact. Some physical suffering just does not go away.
There is mental suffering, being unfulfilled, frustrated, the going-nowhere-fast kind. We all suffer that, usually daily, and it can grow into a tremendously painful burden to carry. It also can lead to physical suffering, in that what you think can indeed affect health. Anyone who has ever been in a terrible job situation knows this one. The Katrina victims, the 9/11 survivors know it *again* as the media observes the respective anniversaries with endless stories of loss and despair.
And then there is emotional suffering. If you get your feelings hurt easily, you know emotional suffering. When you get angry or endure humiliation as a result of another's actions, that is emotional suffering. If you've endured the breakup of a strong relationship, you've suffered emotionally. It can be a result of physical suffering, or mental suffering, and all three can be intertwined to make endless days and nights of suffering.
When you are a parent and your child is injured/teased/bullied/ostracized, you suffer too, for them and with them, possibly remembering your own experiences. When your grown child faces job loss or financial difficulties, or is in a difficult relationship, you still suffer -- unlike their childhood when you could ride your white horse into the fray armed with a bandaid or a cookie or hug to heal the wounds, there's not much you can do but love them.
Watching a child or friend or colleague or spouse suffer because of their decisions and actions and the re-actions of someone who has some kind of power over them -- a boss, a significant other, a sibling -- is beyond difficult when you love them. I want my children to be happy, to find fulfillment in their lives, to have love and "enough" of everything. As they struggle to achieve that, they suffer, and so do I.
Watching my mother struggle with her physical limitations and mental distress was very hard on me -- I wanted so much to make it easier for her, to ease her suffering. And I know that I did all I could do. Despite the gratitude that I have for her peaceful death and end to suffering, I miss her presence in my life, her wit, her advice, her willingness to listen. I suffer from grief.
So what do you do to ease the suffering of another?
You know you can't fix it or make it go away -- it may not be yours to handle (and besides, isn't the very act of getting involved to that extent sometimes a denial of your OWN inability to handle some situation in your life?) But we give advice (that we probably wouldn't take), we bring hot soup or hot fudge sundaes, we call or write or e-mail with support. We cry with them (and for them). We pray.
And that's all we can do. "I am powerless over people, places and things."
I do not have to allow another's suffering to take over my life. I have a choice in how I react to adversity and difficulty. I can decide a course only for myself, not for anyone else (which, of course, doesn't stop me from making suggestions!)
There is a line in Neil Simon's play "Jake's Women," that I've never forgotten -- I once played Jake's psychiatrist, Edith. She listened to him agonize for years over his failing relationship with his wife (and sister and daughter and former girlfriends) because of his attachment to his long-dead wife. Dr. Edith finally proclaimed to him, in Brooklyn-accented tones, "We make our own destiny, Jake."
And we do. With each decision we make, we choose a path. How we react to our suffering caused by relationships or bosses or pain or death or hurt feelings or anything else is a CHOICE WE MAKE. If we don't like how we feel/live/work, only we have the power to make it different. My life -- your life -- is not anyone else's responsibility. *I* make my own destiny.
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