Seven words

Right teacher; right time; new mantra; new view—I grew. (With apologies for this one’s length; it couldn’t be helped, it wrote itself).

Because of seven words, I see things differently now.

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Dr. Wayne Dyer first articulated this now popular saying in his bestselling book: “The Power of Intention”:

If you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change.

I know, from personal, lived, moment-to-moment experience, as a teacher, principal, father, husband, and now caregiver to an 84 year old Dad, that this is Truth with a capital T. ANYTHING we look at can be viewed, by the power of our intention, in any way of our choosing. Such is the power of our mind to co-create the world we live in. Most of the time, we tend to react too quickly and forget about this subtle power of ours. We tend to default to our in-grained, habitual patterns of stimulus/response: receive a stimulus, respond immediately—>see the world as we see it in that moment’s emotional filter.

Holocaust survivor Dr. Viktor Frankl, in his AMAZING and very accessible book “Man’s Search for Meaning,” shared that, between stimulus and response, there is a gap. And within that gap, lies our power to choose our response to the world. As an educator, when I had students who “went from zero to 1000mph” with their rage or tantrums, I knew it was our job to try to “widen that child’s gap” so that they learned tools and strategies that gave them different ways of responding (not reacting!) to stimulus. And when they got good at widening their gaps using learned strategies, they began to see the world differently.

Full disclosure time:

At times lately with Dad, my gap was shrinking.

And I wasn’t feeling good about it.

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This from another marvelous book by Ram Dass and Paul Gorman: “How Can I Help?: Stories and Reflections on Service:”

…[At] certain points—whether as the result of circumstances or the unexpected consequence of choice—helping out gets heavy. The care of others starts to be real work. A growing burden of personal responsibility leads to exhaustion and frustration. We feel as if we’re putting out more than we’re getting back. [As] our heart begins to close down, joy and inspiration give way to apathy and resignation. (p. 184-5)

Dass and Gorman call that point in time: burnout. It’s a wall that gets erected, if we are not careful, between the caregiver and the care-receiver. The materials for this wall are always present (eg: night terrors, toileting, showering, feeding, doctor visits, etc.); the wall gets built when there is a forgetting—a forgetting of our own ability to bring spaciousness to the experience, to be “the witness,” to widen that gap, to invite “this too” into the relationship. A forgetting of looking for love and compassion; a forgetting of looking for Soul.

I was close to hitting a wall that was well under construction. Although it was not yet a wall built to heights of apathy and resignation (GOSH how scary THAT would be!); it was a wall being built with the materials of exhaustion, confusion, interruption, and frustration.

And I thought I knew better. DANG IT!!!

Fortunately, Dad Eldered me.

Here’s how he did it:

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The other day, Dad gave me a new mantra for my life practice.

Seven words.

Seven words that reached mantra status.

To reach “mantra status,” words have to have deep meaning, poignancy, depth and relevance; a rhythm resonant with soul such that the words themselves transcend “mere words” to become something much more profound. With each recitation, each letter that makes up each word of the mantra weaves itself more indelibly into one’s DNA. You don’t create a mantra like that yourself. A mantra like that finds you; finds you to become a part of you. It just so happens Dad was the source of my new mantra.

He Eldered me by a gift of seven words.

And I don’t think he knew it. My Dad gave me a new mantra that I’ll be keeping forever. It was only 7 words long, but I’ll never forget his words, nor how he sounded when he said them, nor his feelings behind the words, nor the feelings invoked in me when he gave them to me. He didn’t just say them out loud—well, he did, but in addition to just saying them, he gifted them to me and because I needed to hear them, those seven words I’ll keep forever.

I really don’t think he knew I needed to hear the words as an “Eldering reteaching;” I don’t think he wanted to call me on anything or embarrass me or cause me regret. I think he intended them as an act of soft kindness; of words said aloud out of gratitude at the end of a hard day. In the end, his motivations don’t matter. Besides, I know they were said with the deepest of humble appreciation. My Dad can’t do sarcasm and his motivations are always pure.

Gosh the things I still learn from him!

What he gave me was a gift that I forgot I needed. I was looking at things in a way that I was not feeling good about. My gap had shrunk so far that, at least internally (for sure) I was starting to react to things in a manner I wasn’t proud. Outwardly, I thought no one else was noticing.

Silly me.

I was at the start of creating a world that wasn’t going to be fun, let alone pretty.

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When I forget that days are just days; moments are just moments; things are what they are and nothing more; and that to add my judgment to them causes me suffering; when I forget “this too” and allow my behavior to external events (stimuli) become reactions rather than responses, there can be frustration, impatience, incomprehension, and disappointment. Burnout begins. And on THOSE days, I know I impact Dad; and not for the better.

I just never know how deeply.

The other day was such a day. The day followed a night that found Dad particularly in need—night terrors, a call to reorganize himself (to shift his body in the chair, to adjust pillow and blanket), a call to go to the toilet.

Attending to each call:

— Night terrors are what they are and although they disrupt sleep (his and ours), there isn’t much that can be done other than to ride them out and to reassure, when needed, that he is safe.

— His blanket and pillow were fine so only a slight adjustment of the recliner was all I could offer. “Please go back to sleep now Dad.”

— When placed on the toilet, he couldn’t go. So back to bed. Hopefully for a few more hours before Kristin starts work. Or before Sammy gets up himself to “have to go to the bathroom.” [Ugh] No words exchanged this time.

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Exhaustion setting in; frustration simmering. The thought of what the coming day might entail begins to surface even while I lay in our pre-dawn bed.

Waking early the next morning.

Dad: [over the monitor] Kert.

Me: [still in bed but responding by monitor] Yes Dad?

D: I need to go to the bathroom.

M: I’ll be right down.

D: [When I arrive, these are his next words] “I don’t think I’m going to make it, Kert.”

I hear this a couple of times a month—always in the morning when mornings are tough. Mornings are actually always tough—some just tougher than others. Trevor and Clary have heard this as well—we figure we’re going on year four of “I’m not going to make it.” Not even Dad knows what he means when he says this—he’s just reacting to how his body feels in that liminal moment between sleep and full wakefulness. So, those words can be placed in the proper perspective—hence, the reason I answered the way I did:

M: [These are my next words because I sensed a familiar tinge of Eeyore-like self pity—please trust me that this is not a callous response; you had to have been here and you have to know our relationship]: You’re not going to make it? What does that mean? Yes you will, Dad. Stop that thinking. Unless today is dying day. Are you going to die today? You’re not fully awake Dad. C’mon, let’s go to the bathroom. You’ve got this.

D: [No response. Snaps him out of it. Brings him to wakefulness.]

[Ugh]

M: [His morning ablutions done and now sitting in his chair to pass time before the dawn breaks and the morning latte is delivered]: Dad, you have to trust me to know what is happening for you. I don’t like that negative talk. That only adds to your suffering. We don’t think that way here at Club Med Lenseigne in Lake Stevens. [I’ve never done “self-pity” and I refuse to start.]

***Note: when it IS time, there will be a difference that will be recognizable. And even though that seemingly harsh response can seem otherwise, it was a compassionate act. Compassion can sometimes be abrupt. And when it will be time, compassion and heart and soul will lead all actions and responses. And he won’t need to say anything then; because his body knows—there is wisdom in the human body. At THAT time, my response will be very different. He has to trust me with that—its how we’re walking each other home here. I have to trust MYSELF with that too! It’s why he’s here with us afterall.

All that day, his body is sluggish. Not wanting to go for a walk—so I don’t force him. Close to a dozen trips to the toilet not all producing a meaningful relief.  A couple times of having to go back to the toilet, after having already tried and when he was almost back in his chair, only to produce the same non-result.

Frustration simmering.

Multiple accidents in his underwear when he didn’t call for help; or didn’t feel it coming; or did and didn’t want to bother me; or did and his saying he tried calling me over and over (but he didn’t—my monitor is working just fine). I go more silent but I know the energy in my body is communicating louder.

Dinner time and we just sit down to get situated to eat then him needing to get up to use the toilet again. Dinner has to wait, again. Sometimes this happens in the middle of dinner. [Ugh].

As dusk approaches, I go out to water some plants. He calls for me needing to go to the bathroom.

Is this new emotion brewing, disgust?

I feel sorry for myself. In the moment, I don’t think he can feel this energy coming from me. (But I forget that he can—because I know this is how mirror neurons work between brains in close proximity to each other).

I forget that he can feel the difference in my touch as I try to hurry him along—to move his walker, to grab for the handlebar, to direct his body. To get him to move faster ‘cuz I got to get back to MY stuff.

I forget that he can sense everything. Brains and bodies have this sixth sense of intuition. This is what bodies and brains can do when the potential to feel is still there. When the potential of awareness is still there.

His potential is still there.

So, I think he felt it all. And I wasn’t feeling so good about it. There’s a nasty word in the English language for THAT feeling:

Ashamed.

All of the above was in one day. The world I was seeing was getting dim.

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The Seven Words:

Same day but bedtime.

9:30ish. Our target time.

We go through our normal routine to end the day. I’m looking forward to laying down. No, can’t WAIT to lay down and hoping to God he has a full night’s sleep.

Please have a full night sleep! Code for: please let ME get a full night’s sleep.

He sits in his electronic recliner, the chair he sleeps in—I insure he always starts the auto-recline so that he retains some level of control over his world. Sometimes, more often of late, he fumbles with the remote forgetting which large button to push. I typically finish the recline to get his body in a comfortable position. Two pillows supporting his back, neck, and head. Blanket placed on his body; I tuck him in. I reach to turn off the light.

Pause: and really, join me now in taking a deep breath:

Can you recall a moment in your life where something so deeply profound happened that snapped you out of a fog; that crystalized that moment into a “never forget”; that shifted time; that even recalibrated your life to maybe even change its immediate course? In other words, have you ever had a moment…

…that changed the way you look AT EVERYTHING?

This isn’t hyperbole. I mean this.

Two more from Ram Dass and Paul Gorman:

Text grab p. 210 from “How Can I Help?”

We can do more than simply struggle to stay afloat; we can discover a more reliable source of continuous buoyancy. We can do more than cope. We can see now that burnout need not always be an enemy. If not a best friend, it can at least be a catalyst, even a guide, for the inner work, the work on ourselves, which is the foundation of all true service, and the only way, finally to maintain energy and inspiration. If we can view the places where we encounter fatigue and doubt as clues and signposts for that inner work, our journey will not only go more lightly but go futher, deeper. We will not simply survive. We will grow. (p. 211).

Some of us just need seven words.

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Back in his bedroom.

We are both very tired. The nightlight on the bed stand is turned off—the only light illuminating the room now comes from the blue light of a small digital clock and a little nightlight we have plugged into the hallway outlet for those nighttime trips to the bathroom. We keep the door to Dad’s room cracked open so that this light filter’s into the room at floor level.

I kiss his forehead (always), squeeze his arm, and we exchange, as we now always end our days with, our “Love you’s.”

Except he added something more.

After making sure he had my attention by using my name, he added seven words:

“Kert.”

Yeah Dad.

“Thank you for being patient with me.”

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T plus 75 days…and counting; and with those seven words reverberating in my bones each and every day now, I am so grateful. For I continue to grow.

Prescription for the Disillusioned 
by Rebecca del Rio

Come new to this day.
Remove the rigid overcoat of experience,
the notion of knowing,
the beliefs that cloud your vision.

Leave behind the stories of your life.
Spit out the sour taste of unmet expectation.
Let the stale scent of what-ifs waft back into the swamp
of your useless fears.

Arrive curious, without the armor of certainty,
the plans and planned results of the life you’ve imagined.
Live the life that chooses you,
new every breath, every blink of your astonished eyes.

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Here’s to living the lives that choose us…in patience and through astonished eyes.