Blessed are the Peacemakers

So much of my blogging here has been reactionary to pain in my relationships--mainly with Todd. But I feel a new birth coming on. The emergence of a more fully integrated me. The reemergence of joy that has always been there, even if it's been squelched.

As I experience renewed freedom, I am able to be myself... and I realize that

I'm weird.

Like today, after dropping my daughter off at her morning class... I pulled into the driveway and looked up at the splashes of light playing as if the leaves and the branches of the trees were a jungle gym. It made me so happy that I had to just sit there for a spell. I thought about Emily's monologue in Thornton Wilder's play, Our Town, in which she declares, "Oh, earth, you are too wonderful for anybody to realize you!"

How often I feel that wonder, that awe, and love, too... and then I want to share it with someone, but I realize I'm just being --

weird.

The Emily character felt that frustration when she was allowed a brief visit among the living after her death:

                     EMILY
Oh, Mama, look at me one minute as though you really saw me. Mama, fourteen years have gone by. I'm dead. You're a grandmother, Mama! Wally's dead, too. His appendix burst on a camping trip to North Conway. We felt just terrible about it - don't you remember? But, just for a moment now we're all together. Mama, just for a moment we're happy. Let's really look at one another!

But Mama doesn't look. She is in a different dimension. Emily cries out to the Stage Manager (and launches into the part of the monologue most often made fun of for it's melodramatic delivery by high school actresses pretending to understand such depth of emotion just by putting a little quiver in their voices)...

                     EMILY
...I can't. I can't go on. It goes so fast. We don't have time to look at one another. I didn't realize. So all that was going on and we never noticed. Take me back -- up the hill -- to my grave. But first: Wait! One more look. Good-bye. Good-bye world. Good-bye Grover's Corners....Mama and Papa. Good-bye to clocks ticking....and Mama's sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new ironed dresses and hot baths....and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth, you are too wonderful for anybody to realize you. Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it--every, every minute?

The dead-pan stage manager replies:

                  STAGE MANAGER
No.
             (pause)
The saints and poets, maybe they do some.

Okay, I've been in with the mockers, parodying Emily's quivering words... but there is something to that sentiment--if you're weird, like me. What makes "the saints and poets" so different? Maybe that's part of what makes me feel like such a misfit. I was raised by poets -- I thought that was normal.

And who are the "saints"?

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God."

Matthew 5:9

Peacemakers. Hmm, "sons of God" ...sounds pretty saintly to me.

Saints and poets and peacemakers understand the importance of looking--really looking. That is odd in our society of disposable everything (including friendships). I've been chided and told I'm weird (or I'm setting myself up to be hurt) when I try to make peace with the playground bully who used to cause my knees to be skinned. Maybe I'm naive, but I was taught to believe in redemption--to believe that the bully's got to have some pretty deep pain issues to go around tripping little girls in dresses. Kind of like the little girl in the movie Hook said to the big bad pirate: "You need a mommy really bad."

Life has taught me that they are right, though--the naysayers, the critics who try to warn me that I'm going to get burned. They are right. A book I was just reading tells me that such an upbringing produces prime targets for "Dangerous Men." But the naysayers are also wrong--because some people do respond to peace-making. Maybe it's a gamble. Or maybe it's an endeavor that you just have to approach with caution and eyes wide open. Looking. Really looking.

I got to thinking about how normal people are so caught up in forward momentum... always moving in a linear manner. "Don't look back!" they cry in fear. "Forget about it; move on." That wiring doesn't feel right to me. My poet parents were also always good letter-writers. We moved a lot, but they didn't leave people behind, so our lives were rich with people from all different places and phases of life. It seemed that everyone liked my parents, and I grew up wanting everyone to like me. I know that's not possible, but I do think some people give up too easily.

Like so many things in life, I think it boils down to finding the right balance.

"Listen! I am sending you out just like sheep to a pack of wolves. 

You must be as cautious as snakes and as gentle as doves."

Matthew 10:16 (Good News)

I put emphasis on the word "and" because I think an awful lot of people ignore it. They look at this as an either/or proposition.

Caution is good. It can keep me away from dangerous situations. But caution also kept me from going up to the lady at the post office who I saw commit a random act of kindness, and telling her how much her kindness to a stranger blessed me as an observer. The poet in me wanted to celebrate the act, but I didn't want to be too weird.

How many times do I walk past a sad person and catch his or her eyes, and I'm stuck by the extraordinary color or shape that makes that person's eyes like no one else's... yet I don't take even a few seconds to pause and point out the beauty? To boost someone's self image.

Sometimes the beauty in the texture and variety of people around me in a public place makes me want to cry for joy. How can we ignore the splendor? How can these people not know how beautiful they are? Could it be because no on looks long enough to realize and tell them?

I've been on a peacemaking journey this year. I've seen it work, and I've seen it backfire. But I don't ever want to forget those times it works just because it sometimes backfires. And I don't want to let those times it works cause me to become careless around dangerous wolves.

Balance in weirdness. And weirdness in balance.

Stepping Outside of Myself

I found a new movie to love. A friend recommended that I watch The Prizewinner of Defiance, Ohio because elements of the storyline reminded her of Todd and me. 


It is a true story of a woman who chose not to allow her circumstances to rob her of happiness, and managed to raise ten children to healthy, well-adjusted adulthood (in spite of an alcoholic husband whose irresponsible behavior often sabotaged her greatest efforts). 


Julianne Moore's portrayal of Evelyn Ryan embodied what director Jane Anderson referred to as a certain "Midwestern Zen" -- that unshakable belief that good can come out of even the most tragic situations. 

Evelyn Ryan is my new hero. Not because of what she lived through or put up with, but rather because of how valiantly she fought to keep Kelly (her husband) from pulling her down to his level of negativity and hopelessness.

It was painful to watch the husband in the film destroy his own home when he was drunk, and it was even worse to see him pathetically attempting to make up for it with a cup of tea when he sobered up. No amount of tea could cover for the weight of the expectations Kelly Ryan heaped on his wife. He was heart-breakingly pathetic -- like a poster child for impotency.

The codependent in me felt badly for Todd as we watched the film, because I wondered if he would think I knew what it was about ahead of time and was playing the film merely as a way of pointing a finger at him. How could he possibly not see himself in the character of Kelly Ryan?

And yet Evelyn stayed. 'Til death finally parted them in their old age. 

Whether or not she did it because of her faith, "for the kids," or simply because that was what people did back then is beside the point. The way in which she stayed was definitely beneficial for the kids, and possibly even for Evelyn herself. Evelyn's life embodied the beauty of how forgiveness sets free the one who forgives. I still don't believe forgiveness means having to stay in an abusive situation, but because she was so strong and was able to be that joyful example, Evelyn made an indelible positive mark on the lives of her children . . . and although they were children of an alcoholic, they didn't end up needing years of therapy.

I love this exchange Evelyn has with her daughter, Tuff (who incidentally grows up to become the writer who wrote the memoir about her)

TUFF: Do you ever wish you’d never married Dad?
EVELYN: Gosh, Tuff.
TUFF: Do you?
EVELYN: No. I don’t have any regrets.
TUFF: Come on mom, you’ve been stuck in the house for 20 years cooking and cleaning and taking care of a bunch of crappy kids.
EVELYN: Don’t use that word -- Especially in regards to yourself.
TUFF: But you could be living in a city, writing for a newspaper, having an interesting life.
EVELYN: I do have an interesting life.
TUFF: Your life stinks. Gosh, Mom. Just look at today. You finally get a chance to go somewhere and the lousy car breaks down.
(Evelyn laughs)
TUFF: It’s not fair. If I were you, I’d be angry all the time.
EVELYN: Well, that wouldn’t do me any good now, would it?
TUFF: Gosh sakes, Mom. You’re only human.
EVELYN: Oh Sweetheart. Maybe I’m meant to make it to the [meeting]. Maybe I’m not. But right now I’m sitting in the shade having a conversation with my wonderfully feisty daughter....

"Well, that wouldn't do me any good now, would it?" Oh, that I could be more like Evelyn Ryan! 

Although I've managed to stay with Todd of a quarter of a century, I'm about as far as you can get from heroic... because I've allowed myself to sink down into the dark quagmire with him. I've allowed myself to entertain self-pity and anger . . . and what good has that done me or my children? I'm so far from having this figured out. Even without anger, there is a sort of inequality in the type of relationship Todd and I have that precludes intimacy. I can view him sympathetically, like Kelly in the movie, but that only leads to pitying him -- not trusting or desiring him.

The writer/director, Jane Anderson, made an interesting choice in how to present the Ryan family's story on screen. Studying the advertisements of the era, she found that they often utilized perky housewives stepping out of domestic scenes and talking directly to the camera. That Anderson chose to use this device as a way of narrating the Ryan family story is significant to me as more than just a creative way to tie the film to a very specific time in history. I think it also allows a visible picture of a psychological survival tactic Evelyn Ryan must have employed:

STEPPING OUTSIDE OF HERSELF.

Evelyn was not a Stepford Wife. She was not a suffering doormat for Kelly to walk all over. She maintained strength and dignity in the midst of what many would see as unbearable circumstances. She cried very little in the film (which by all accounts is very faithful to the memoir upon which it is based); however, frequently -- at those moments when most of us (or me at least) would be likely to cry or get mad -- we see Julianne Moore step outside of the scene and talk directly to the camera. I believe Evelyn was able to do the same in a sense . . . and that is probably why she was able to see the humor in situations that were also hurtful. She learned to focus on the positive and kick the rest to the curb.

Evelyn didn't merely survive, she taught her children how to thrive. What a wonderful legacy.

Can I be more like Evelyn Ryan?

I've been trying to step back and disconnect at those times when I feel like I'm going to burst. 

That helps. It's not something that becomes automatic, though. I think that even a strong woman like Evelyn has to step away and recharge.

She was real. She managed this beautiful balance that included being both positive and honest.




Lately I've been feeling a lot like Evelyn in this scene:

Maybe it's okay to withdraw at times like this. To sort things out without a lot of voices cluttering my head.

Here's my latest theory: Denying a dream doesn't make it go away; it only crams it down into some hidden space where it can easily turn into a nightmare. I think you need to allow yourself to grieve a little. A little. Then look for the joy. It's there. Somewhere. Maybe the vehicle you've been banking on won't get you there. Maybe it's time to get out and walk.

“Life is always going to hand you something miserable, but you don’t need to define yourself by either your failure or your pain or by whatever terrible thing someone has done to you.... No matter where you come from, what is done to you, you have the option to thrive." 

(Jane Anderson)