"if you can practice, even when distracted, you are well trained."
Lojong training slogan for today.
Yesterday: Mom goes into bathroom. Mom comes out hysterical. "The toilet's broken, again!"
She rushes downstairs, screaming, to my walker-bound father, who is watching an early football game on the t.v.
(It is the day after Christmas. For two weeks, there have been countless guests in and out of our house; some relatives; some friends; some staying for longer than a few hours. All have used the fifty-year old toilet we grew up with--the only toilet in this large house.)
"You should have let the kids buy a new toilet, like they wanted to do, Jim! You are so stubborn!" Bev's yelling comes clearly into my consciousness, through my closed door, up the stairwell even as she continues her tirade.
(I, too, have used this toilet, often. I, too, have contributed to this broken handle. I, too, have offered to help pay for a new toilet, several times. I, too, am frustrated by the increasing "control" issues these aging parentals exert on anything around them--especially the lives of their children AND mundane, household issues. I understand the "why", but it does not lessen the manic impact. Now, Jim, who remains seated in his special recliner most of his waking hours, because his balance is off, and his arthritic back, spine and legs don't want to hold him up, anymore, struggles to stand, find his walker, and come UP the stairs. HE WILL FIX THE TOILET!)
"It's the damned handle, again. The plumber told me that if it breaks one more time we will have to buy a new one! " Bev is still screaming. She follows behind Dad, up the stairs, bumping into him and causing him to begin to respond, angrily, back at her.
(As all of us who have rented apartments know, the chain on the inner lever of the toilet tank often comes loose or rusts off, etc. and must be replaced. No big deal. This happens at least once a month at our home, because Jim "gerry-rigs" from the most absurd bits and pieces of his "junk metal collection" down cellar. Whereas a simple chain link would suffice, and could be easily bought at the local hardware store (or Wal-Mart...) for coins, he insists on going through every piece of scrap metal he has hoarded and sorted, and chooses a ball chain.
This is the single worst choice to try to wrap a paperclip or piece of wire around and re-attach to the lever, inside the tank. His hands are palsied; he won't put on his reading glasses to see up close, and can't get the wire wrapped between the miniscule balls that make up the chain; when we stand behind him, so he won't lose his balance between the front of the toilet and the sliding glass doors of the shower, he gets furious. When he asks for one of us to hold the flashlight over the tank, he bangs his head, innumerable times, against it, as he crookedly straightens up, and then lets loose with gusts of internal flatulence--whether on purpose or by accident, one can't be sure. Finally, between Bev screaming that he will kill himself ,and his yelling at me because I am trying to do what he cannot (winding the wire between the little balls on the chain and then threading the wire through the miniscule holes on the lever), I get angry. I tell him he is a "Crabby old man and if he doesn't want my help then he can do it alone...period."
I leave him, standing over the tank, bent and swearing. Bev stomps into her own room, cursing too. Jim, ever obstinate, and now, with "a job to do", grunts and mutters and continues to work, alone. In my bedroom, I try to go back to reading, but am listening for his yelp and thud. I am also waiting for the sound of broken glass shower doors, or a broken porcelain toilet bowl...
When my brother and niece arrive, by sheer chance, five minutes later, he will allow ONLY my brother to assist him. They remain in the toilet for another hour, because Dad demands overseeing the operation with the chain--and my brother is dealing with his own eye issues. (It is the myopic leading the Cyclops...)
Another sister arrives with the dog. Dad yells at her, because she comes upstairs and begins reminding him of the fact that we wanted to buy them another toilet and he ordered us not to--bad timing on her part. She, too, is banished from the bath. Mom, sister, niece, dog and I go downstairs, all of us alert that an ER visit may be imminent--for either Kev or Dad. A 911 ambulance may need to be summoned, as it has been, often, in the last year, precisely because of these kinds of silly situations where no control can be given up on either side.
Screaming is the first response--usually initiated by a hysterical mother insuring she is "the warning system"--and the utmost urgency is given to whatever mundane appliance breakdown or common chore immediacy has been deigned "CRITICAL" by either parent. This applies to snow removal; trash take-out and removal; dishwashers; dryers; flooding basements from snow-melt or rainstorm; toilets; bathroom drains, etc. Whatever small tempest arises, it becomes a Tsunami, with untold layers of melodrama.)
When Kevin finally attaches the chain to the lever, and talks Dad back downstairs, Brenda and Mer and the dog distract Beverly with holiday gossip and on-going weekend plans. I can retreat to my books and writing.
However, now I am upset; still stinging from the sharp words and early screaming, when all I was trying to do was allow Dad the fantasy of his being able to fix the toilet, alone, while "assisting".(He did not speak to my brother that way.) What if my brother had not shown up at that moment? Dad would not allow me to work on the toilet and would not leave the bathroom until it was fixed. He would not allow Bev to call the plumber.
Dad doesn't 'get' that when he endangers himself in these situations, thinking he's solving a problem and damned anyone who tells him not to do it, he also engages everyone, every single one of us, in the drama. He doesn't care if he hits his head again, or has another seizure, or becomes stroked out, or dead.
"Bury me in the backyard" is his ongoing joke. However, it isn't easy as that. It isn't clean and clear cut. It's hospital trips every day, twice a day, with Bev, and multi phone calls to all the rest of the family, and doctor interventions, and rehab and driving and arguing about driving and who went the most to visit and who stayed the longest and who can miss work to get them up and back and who is the best child and the guilt of never doing enough and doing it right or correctly or with perfect attitude. It is a lifetime of being raised to believe "we are not enough"--inside, or outside, ourselves.
It is Dad sitting up in a hospital bed, with tubes and machines and nurses surrounding him, and a slack johnny and his white and blue and mottled Irish skin exposed in ways we don't need to see, grinning, like he's on vacation. (Maybe he is.)
I get it.
Hourly.
The control and power these people have exerted on their families, and in their communities, is waning. (Even their beloved Catholic Church has shut its doors, thanks to the Bishop, when they need the support, most.) So, they retaliate, in their way. They cling, even if they fight, to each other. They cling, even as they spout horrible things, and later insist,"Well, you should know, we don't really mean it, you're too sensitive", etc.
This tempest in- an- eight- room- teapot burns my spirit and boils my soul--especially because-- I lose it, too.
When this is pointed out to me, often, by a sibling: "I thought you were so Buddhist--so peace-loving! Hah!", it is particularly painful. It is true. I have lost it. Even as I try to work out issues of self and self-deceit; of impatience (still) and harshness and anger.
The mirror up to the face, and the snide comments in the midst of vulnerability one is already feeling guilty about, is almost too much.
Then, I realize: this is one of those "ghosts".
This is the "don". The thing that wakes you up. The thing that keeps you mindful.
Admit. Confess. Refrain. (Begin again.)
Forgive everyone, including yourself.
Realize: you have much to attend to.
Then, "let it be".
Sit down.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Thank the protectors and the ghosts for pointing out these places in need of investigation, still, inside you.
Breathe and let them go.
Sit and let them rise.
Do not push them down.
Do not obsess about your failure.
Let them visit for as long as they need to.
See them, understand them for what they are.
Let them be.
The parents will continue to put themselves at risk. The siblings will continue to show up, and to help where they can, and to criticize when they can't. The nieces will avoid all confrontations and fall back to their I-Phones. Everyone will do what they have always done and what they feel compelled to do.
Mindfulness is realizing: you are in this alone.
Mindfulness is realizing: you have a choice.
Lojong training slogan for today.
Yesterday: Mom goes into bathroom. Mom comes out hysterical. "The toilet's broken, again!"
She rushes downstairs, screaming, to my walker-bound father, who is watching an early football game on the t.v.
(It is the day after Christmas. For two weeks, there have been countless guests in and out of our house; some relatives; some friends; some staying for longer than a few hours. All have used the fifty-year old toilet we grew up with--the only toilet in this large house.)
"You should have let the kids buy a new toilet, like they wanted to do, Jim! You are so stubborn!" Bev's yelling comes clearly into my consciousness, through my closed door, up the stairwell even as she continues her tirade.
(I, too, have used this toilet, often. I, too, have contributed to this broken handle. I, too, have offered to help pay for a new toilet, several times. I, too, am frustrated by the increasing "control" issues these aging parentals exert on anything around them--especially the lives of their children AND mundane, household issues. I understand the "why", but it does not lessen the manic impact. Now, Jim, who remains seated in his special recliner most of his waking hours, because his balance is off, and his arthritic back, spine and legs don't want to hold him up, anymore, struggles to stand, find his walker, and come UP the stairs. HE WILL FIX THE TOILET!)
"It's the damned handle, again. The plumber told me that if it breaks one more time we will have to buy a new one! " Bev is still screaming. She follows behind Dad, up the stairs, bumping into him and causing him to begin to respond, angrily, back at her.
(As all of us who have rented apartments know, the chain on the inner lever of the toilet tank often comes loose or rusts off, etc. and must be replaced. No big deal. This happens at least once a month at our home, because Jim "gerry-rigs" from the most absurd bits and pieces of his "junk metal collection" down cellar. Whereas a simple chain link would suffice, and could be easily bought at the local hardware store (or Wal-Mart...) for coins, he insists on going through every piece of scrap metal he has hoarded and sorted, and chooses a ball chain.
This is the single worst choice to try to wrap a paperclip or piece of wire around and re-attach to the lever, inside the tank. His hands are palsied; he won't put on his reading glasses to see up close, and can't get the wire wrapped between the miniscule balls that make up the chain; when we stand behind him, so he won't lose his balance between the front of the toilet and the sliding glass doors of the shower, he gets furious. When he asks for one of us to hold the flashlight over the tank, he bangs his head, innumerable times, against it, as he crookedly straightens up, and then lets loose with gusts of internal flatulence--whether on purpose or by accident, one can't be sure. Finally, between Bev screaming that he will kill himself ,and his yelling at me because I am trying to do what he cannot (winding the wire between the little balls on the chain and then threading the wire through the miniscule holes on the lever), I get angry. I tell him he is a "Crabby old man and if he doesn't want my help then he can do it alone...period."
I leave him, standing over the tank, bent and swearing. Bev stomps into her own room, cursing too. Jim, ever obstinate, and now, with "a job to do", grunts and mutters and continues to work, alone. In my bedroom, I try to go back to reading, but am listening for his yelp and thud. I am also waiting for the sound of broken glass shower doors, or a broken porcelain toilet bowl...
When my brother and niece arrive, by sheer chance, five minutes later, he will allow ONLY my brother to assist him. They remain in the toilet for another hour, because Dad demands overseeing the operation with the chain--and my brother is dealing with his own eye issues. (It is the myopic leading the Cyclops...)
Another sister arrives with the dog. Dad yells at her, because she comes upstairs and begins reminding him of the fact that we wanted to buy them another toilet and he ordered us not to--bad timing on her part. She, too, is banished from the bath. Mom, sister, niece, dog and I go downstairs, all of us alert that an ER visit may be imminent--for either Kev or Dad. A 911 ambulance may need to be summoned, as it has been, often, in the last year, precisely because of these kinds of silly situations where no control can be given up on either side.
Screaming is the first response--usually initiated by a hysterical mother insuring she is "the warning system"--and the utmost urgency is given to whatever mundane appliance breakdown or common chore immediacy has been deigned "CRITICAL" by either parent. This applies to snow removal; trash take-out and removal; dishwashers; dryers; flooding basements from snow-melt or rainstorm; toilets; bathroom drains, etc. Whatever small tempest arises, it becomes a Tsunami, with untold layers of melodrama.)
When Kevin finally attaches the chain to the lever, and talks Dad back downstairs, Brenda and Mer and the dog distract Beverly with holiday gossip and on-going weekend plans. I can retreat to my books and writing.
However, now I am upset; still stinging from the sharp words and early screaming, when all I was trying to do was allow Dad the fantasy of his being able to fix the toilet, alone, while "assisting".(He did not speak to my brother that way.) What if my brother had not shown up at that moment? Dad would not allow me to work on the toilet and would not leave the bathroom until it was fixed. He would not allow Bev to call the plumber.
Dad doesn't 'get' that when he endangers himself in these situations, thinking he's solving a problem and damned anyone who tells him not to do it, he also engages everyone, every single one of us, in the drama. He doesn't care if he hits his head again, or has another seizure, or becomes stroked out, or dead.
"Bury me in the backyard" is his ongoing joke. However, it isn't easy as that. It isn't clean and clear cut. It's hospital trips every day, twice a day, with Bev, and multi phone calls to all the rest of the family, and doctor interventions, and rehab and driving and arguing about driving and who went the most to visit and who stayed the longest and who can miss work to get them up and back and who is the best child and the guilt of never doing enough and doing it right or correctly or with perfect attitude. It is a lifetime of being raised to believe "we are not enough"--inside, or outside, ourselves.
It is Dad sitting up in a hospital bed, with tubes and machines and nurses surrounding him, and a slack johnny and his white and blue and mottled Irish skin exposed in ways we don't need to see, grinning, like he's on vacation. (Maybe he is.)
I get it.
Hourly.
The control and power these people have exerted on their families, and in their communities, is waning. (Even their beloved Catholic Church has shut its doors, thanks to the Bishop, when they need the support, most.) So, they retaliate, in their way. They cling, even if they fight, to each other. They cling, even as they spout horrible things, and later insist,"Well, you should know, we don't really mean it, you're too sensitive", etc.
This tempest in- an- eight- room- teapot burns my spirit and boils my soul--especially because-- I lose it, too.
When this is pointed out to me, often, by a sibling: "I thought you were so Buddhist--so peace-loving! Hah!", it is particularly painful. It is true. I have lost it. Even as I try to work out issues of self and self-deceit; of impatience (still) and harshness and anger.
The mirror up to the face, and the snide comments in the midst of vulnerability one is already feeling guilty about, is almost too much.
Then, I realize: this is one of those "ghosts".
This is the "don". The thing that wakes you up. The thing that keeps you mindful.
Admit. Confess. Refrain. (Begin again.)
Forgive everyone, including yourself.
Realize: you have much to attend to.
Then, "let it be".
Sit down.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Thank the protectors and the ghosts for pointing out these places in need of investigation, still, inside you.
Breathe and let them go.
Sit and let them rise.
Do not push them down.
Do not obsess about your failure.
Let them visit for as long as they need to.
See them, understand them for what they are.
Let them be.
The parents will continue to put themselves at risk. The siblings will continue to show up, and to help where they can, and to criticize when they can't. The nieces will avoid all confrontations and fall back to their I-Phones. Everyone will do what they have always done and what they feel compelled to do.
Mindfulness is realizing: you are in this alone.
Mindfulness is realizing: you have a choice.
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