Unconditionality

It’s fall, which means the rain falls on everyone in Portland, whether they have had the best day of their life or the worst. Whether a loved one has died or a loved one is proposing, whether one has tenderly dressed the wounds of a homeless person who has slept with the wrong person for the eighty-fifth time, whether a person has lost their job or just gotten news that their lifelong dream is coming into its own — It rains on all without comment.

Portland rain is, in that sense unconditional. Unconditional love is a theme playing underneath every important song of my life; whether as a parent, a lover, a daughter, friend or coach. Only when Love transcends incidental chemistry to fill the air with unconditionality does it become something worth laying down your life for — and therefore, something worth LIVING FOR!

I have known about this theme my whole life and have been impressed with the gap between my ideals, and the knowledge that possess in some inner cove concerning ultimate love, and yet how far I fall from that ideal.

I think unconditional love, when the rubber meets the road is like an exercise program: Incredibly hard at first, or when you’re breaking down in order to build up — and then effervescently wonderful once you find your flow and you’re IN it.

A friend, Lu, posted a website on her facebook called enjoyparenting.com, in which Scott Noelle lays out the features of unconditionality as a state in which one is connected to a sense of wellbeing untouchable by what is happening – a place where we act on life to create joy; even to entice joy’s emergence from a situation. Noelle contrasts that with understanding  joy as something that happens to us, like getting a shot at the doctor’s, or having money drop from the sky on our little human heads (metaphors mine.) Noelle describes “Attraction Parenting” as kids sensing a parent’s unconditionally wellbeing and wanting to align with that place in themselves. I have certainly seen that in the times I find my wellspring of wait – where I can let the tantrums and fussy-rums cascade on without trying to build a damn, ultimately they do want to find their way to center; to love deep and wide as the ocean of being fully known and understood.

What about the times I don’t want to exercise, so to speak? When I’m tired and I want the easy way out, or any way out? What about when I’m fed up with being the adult and I feel more like the kid with the tantrum? I can, for one thing, observe the fact that we are thing same — the kid’s not having life go as she wants it and it is too much to handle and her nerves are exploding in a fit. It’s the same with me — I’m not having life life go as I want it, and I’m basically in the same boat, only varying in the degree and form in which I express the identical state — the fit to be tied, totally unraveling state. I’m the same as a my kid, and that is a point of empathy, humility and understanding. I can look her in the eye and respect the experience she’s having, cause I get it. I’m so there.

I can also think about what my deepest needs are. Like, I may have a need for a peaceful wake-up period in the morning, or a restful night sleep, or a peaceful time with my kids, but are these needs worth the flight or flee response that implies that I have to either kill or be killed by my kid? “You’re killing me.” The phrase has actually come to mind on several occasions when it seems like the barrage of endless issues and fits piles up without ceasing. What I actually need more than for the kids behavior to stop? Let’s play it out to the fullest, most uninhibited extent: My kid doesn’t stop “killing me,” so I either leave my child or kill them. Does that make sense? The same child that I would easily lay down my life to protect, I want to kill?

It doesn’t. Because ultimate I have a deeper need to love, serve, honor and promote the life of my child, even than I have to survive. If I’m clear that the ultimate goal is unconditional love in the service of Life, then I can die happily, if necessary, and in the meantime, I can call myself off the cliff of conditionality, with an invitation back into the inner sanctum of understanding, love, peace and joy.

Which is a much more wonderful place to be than in survival city, if you feel what I’m saying.

Rainbows, Vampires and Peds

I’m lying on my pullout bed, listening to the sound of raindrops. The first quiet in a while. So many thoughts and feelings wash over me. It’s been a wacky week. A week ago I was on a train, snuggled into the crook of my husband’s arm, sans kids, on our way to Vancouver, BC. We were together all weekend, getting Canadian haircuts, playing madlibs, watching a rainbow birth itself through the dark and pouring sky, burning away the clouds at Stanly Park; observing the nightlife from the safe and happy distance of a Blenz Coffee shop ( sipping the most delectable dark hot chocolate); eating little plates of food at a fine wine bar called Uva — the only patrons not buying drinks. My mom was watching the kids, with the help of our sitter, taking them to eat at The Laughing Planet everyday, watching Gabe gorge himself on rice and beans, making candles from a Hearth Song kid and taking many trips to the glass elevator.

The week following the weekend in BC has been hard, screeching, fussing, demanding needs filling my ears, at the same time my heart has been working to grow to include these sounds, this intensity in its circle of unconditional love.

On Tuesday I have my first coaching session with Cassi, my mentor coach. I want to focus on being more effective, with less effort. The single thread that emerges from our banter and reflection is Unconditional Love. It is my highest calling, my yearning to live it, show it and impart it on an international scale and I’m being vetted by three little angelic beings who can get devilishly under my skin and inch me toward the cliff of insanity, where the choice between survival instinct and unconditional love so easily gets clouded by too much cortisol, other wise known as “you were on my last nerve ten minutes ago.” At which point, I go in the bathroom to cool off. When I come out, like a rainbow, out of nowhere, out of what seems like obliterating clouds of unending tantrums, an angelic hands touches me face and asks to read a story. A little body snuggles in. A sweet voice asks for an orange.

Speaking of cortisol, I have to spit on a stick as part of some lab work I’m having done. The other lab work I had completed on the hospital where my Love works this morning.  Wouldn’t you know it, I show up at his hospital and he isn’t even there — off on a pediatrics rotation at some other institution, which he doesn’t like as much as his regular hospital. The other night he told me about how a nurse accidentally gave a kid a double dose of antibiotics and how his orders sometimes not are followed through on. It’s hit or miss. That’s how I felt this morning trying to get Nika out of bed and dressed in clean clothes. But you expect to not always have your orders followed as a parent, challenging though it may be. It’s disconcerting to think at some hospitals it’s really touch and go about whether the staff actually does what the physicians instruct them to do in the way of tests, medicines and documentation. Interestingly enough, the same hospital that lacks consistency on carrying out orders is haywire anal about professional dress — God forbid you wear scrubs to work unless you are post call. Which my Love will be tomorrow when he either gets up or keeps being up for early morning rounds.

Waiting for my name to be called outside the lab, I eel sad. I wish my guy were here. I picture him swishing around in his white coat and I wish he were here, about to walk around the corner. The staff is lovely though. The art in the hallway is fun, and the flobotomist was cool. He asks me if I’m ready for him to steal my blood and I retort, “Well, it’s that time of year.” I ask him how he got into the business of stealing people’s blood. “It got out of the Navy and this was pretty much the only thing I was qualified to do,” he says.

“What do you want to do?”

“Oh I think I want to go into Health Care Administration and start making a positive difference in how things work instead of what I usually do, just complaining about it.”

I tell him how great it is that he is choosing to act for something positive instead of simply whining about things that could be improved. It’s nice to meet people like that. I walk out with less blood and a happier spirit.

On the way out, I treat myself to a gingerbread latte.

Feline Voyers, Flying Saucers & Silly Lovers

Whoosh whoosh is the sound outside my window as cars zip by on the wet roads. I find it comforting — soothing.

I’ve been feeling incredibly happy and thankful lately. Except for a few days when I felt sad — my father in law was in the hospital on his birthday, my husband pissed me off and I couldn’t even fight with him until the next day, and I found myself reading doomsday theories about the year 2012. I like the Portland weather this week as a metaphor for life: a light rain here and there, then a down pour, then a sudden showing of blue sky, a blowing of winds, then a peaceful, gentle moistness, like a calm blanket.

I like Life. It’s sort of wonderful and fun and incredible that we actually get to influence it, and yet we have ultimate to let go of control if we want to savor the ride fully. Like sex.

On that topic, it has been hard to find a few minutes totally alone. On a few days, when the kids have been in school, we have imagined it was just us, only to have a pair of yellow eyes stare curiously at us from under the blankets. Privacy has become an intimate joke. It’s fun to laugh about life, about sex, about feline voyers and little kids who clamor onto the bed, following a Blues Clues episode that finishes before we do. Life cracks me up.

On Tues, my Love and I have a little time to sneak out of the house like teenagers to enjoy hanging out with each other. We find ourselves at Urban Grind, a fun coffee shop on 14th St, with lime green walls, comfy sofas and a picture of Princess Di staring cynically at the pastries. Our hot chocolate is sumptuous and our local pockets are hot, savory and delicious. My Love and I  snuggle, talk, laugh — it’s amazing to enjoy life together. I love the way love and friendship have come into their own with us. It’s far more wonderful than the first days.

Across from us a young woman says, “You guys are cute.” I’m happy and giddy and flattered.” “I bet you would be surprised to hear we have three kids at home,” I say.

“Yes I would. You certainly don’t act like a couple that has three kids at home — and I think that’s a good thing.”

We chat with our new friend, Sarah. It turns out her boyfriend is a massage therapist. She asks what we do.

“I’ve heard of Life Coaching,” She says. My boyfriend was telling me he met someone who he talked about doing a barter with for message and life coaching.”

“That was me!” I say.

Small world.

Nika and I have been savoring the fun of mother-daughter times. We went ice skating last week on her day off from school. After tumbling once, I said, “are you okay?”  She looked me in face and said, “I’m strong, I’m tough and nothing can get to me.” After ice skating we nibbled mall sushi and chicken teryaki, and split a smoothie for the road. I’ve been letting her sit up front with me, in spite of the law. I feel she is old and enough and tall enough, and I have never been prone to follow rules that don’t seem to apply.

In the evening, after the little ones had been storied with Happy Birthday in Katroo, tucked in, snuggled in and eased to sleep, Nika and I have our usual tea. We enjoy a chat and she introduces me to a tiny furry friend named Cuddles, on load to her from her buddy upstairs. Nika introduces me not only to Cuddles, but also to the house she has created for the little fuzzy plastic creature, replete with a rug, fire place, sleeping pad and magnetic flying saucer. Only thing was is the flying saucer won’t fit in the house without obscuring the lovely rug, so Nika wants to build Cuddles a garage. Which we do, using a mini-milk carton, scissors, paper, a pen and a pink crayon. Apparently Cuddles likes pink.

As I am finishing up some work in later evening, a little man appears sleepy-eyed in his pajamas in front of me. It’s Gabe. I sit him him on the toilet and usher him back to bed. Two night-wakings from his sister later, the three of us are snuggled in bed in time for morning. “One more snuggle and then let’s get up,” says Gabe.” “Snuggle me first” says Avriana. Everyone gets snuggled and when Gabe ascertains that the quota has been met he asserts, “Okay, now let’s get up!”

It’s a brand new day. A few clients, lots of hugs, lunch for two in an empty house (other than the feline,) a trip to the toy store once the little ones are home from preschool, an Avsi tantrum on the way home from the toystore and then an interval of silence without kids or husband. They’re at target buying sneakers, kitty toys, a light vacuum cleaner and a digital timer. I’m here with  only the sound of the dishwasher and the street car arriving and departing to the rhythms outside our window.

In the evening, after a coaching session, I head out for Tai Chi. The movements feels so clean, flowing and rhythmic. It’s easy to get lost in it, until you wonder if you’re doing well or wishing you hadn’t lost pace there with that arm. It takes a moment to come back to the movement, to the effortlessness of freedom blending with methodical harmony.

“Where’s your man?” Our Tai Chi teacher quin inquires.

“He’s still on night float.”

When I get home, only Nika is still awake in her darkened room. She is calling my name. I hug her and stay for a minute, but I can tell she’s getting wound up. Soon she is upside down in a shoulder stand and out comes the loudest fart. I pat her head, hug and kiss her one more time and exit the premises. Once she has settled down, I come back in for one more hug.

“Why do you always leave when I fart she asks?”

“I only leave when you get wild AND you fart. Like when you do tricks and it happens to makes a fart come out. If you were lying peacefully in your bed and a fart happened to come out, I might go “ew” but I wouldn’t leave.

“I’m so gassy,” she says with big puppy eyes.

“Do you think aloe will really help?”

“Yes honey, I think it will help. Good night sweet Nika.”