Never Poor Enough

I didn't qualify for aid when I attended college.  Fortunately, my parents made enough money to buy me an education that introduced me to an intellectual life filled with book-reading, beer-swilling, poetry-slamming, tube-pulling, beach-combing, idea-sharing, and Dead-touring.  Along with the fun, I did do the academic work and though I did not emerge a true scholar, college vindicated what I had known all along: my suburban up-bringing was comfortable and soulless.  Thus, the genesis of the struggle between my material and spiritual self.  

My process of individuating from my parents and their perceived,  provincial life was extreme; while most just leave the nest for a job, an apartment and a sex life, I had to leave on a quest.  I hit the road to find a great tattoo artist, shack up at an intentional community, groove to a hot show, connect with a guru, or climb a sacred mountain  (Aren't they all sacred afterall?). Oh, and did I mention that I had to be contrary? 

After living "seasonally" for years, it was time to get responsible.  Graduate school beckoned. It was time to pay for school again, but this time my parents weren't paying. So I did the next (perceived) responsible thing: I took out a huge student loan. I nobly studied Environmental Education, a field that is not guaranteed to bring a return on one's scholastic investment.   

Upon graduation, I paid.  And paid, and paid.  I'm still paying, twelve years later.  After my daughter was born and I took a pay cut to have a maternity leave, I petitioned the loan company  for "economic hardship. "  (This is when you don't pay OR accrue interest--a good deal.) The representative asked me if I might be able to make less money as I was $25 over the qualifying income!?  Bitch.  And recently, my husband and I discovered that we are too broke to refinance our house but too rich to qualify for any of those nifty, new government programs.  Somehow, despite all of my adolescent effort to escape my middle-class background, I just can't seem to get poor enough. 

In this recession, many people are writing about the "involuntary simplicity" ideology they are forced to adopt. My husband and I were active in the voluntary simplicity movement years ago, which now seems humorous: only someone with resources or access to them would even consider such a notion as voluntary simplicity.  You wouldn't consider advising a single mom in the ghetto to "down-size", "simplify", or "right-size." Shit is pretty straight simple when you're broke. Not that I disregard spiritual asceticism; I would just prefer to pray dressed in organic cotton, fasting on raw organics and Pellegrino.  I have reconciled my membership in the ranks of the Bohemian Bourgeousie with my religious aspirations.  I understand that my preference to have a bio-diesel Airstream rather than an Escalade is really just a matter of taste and is a subjective, value judgment. 

 

Where I came from, you were "poor" or "wicked, fuckin' poor" or worse, you were from Lynn or Revere.  I do not confuse abundance with monetary wealth, nor do I confuse it with class.  I know that I am only cash poor.  Having the opportunity to acquire a student loan puts me out of the global, poverty spectrum. Most women in the world probably wish that some micro-lending European will enter their village and set up some arts cooperative just so their daughters have a shot at becoming literate.  I have two cars, two laptops, two healthy children, two bottles of wine in my kitchen.  An ark of abundance.  I have family. I have friends. I am smiling. I am grateful. I am happy.  I am not crying poormouth. I have angels.  

The Buddha would say that my desire creates my suffering. But really, it's my debt.  Every world religion admonishes against debt. One cannot attain realization trapped under a debt. But what if one's debt is for something necessary like food?  Or in my case, for schooling?I chose to borrow the money and my one regret is that I didn't borrow from the mob; they would have had a better interest rate.   Capitalism could be the easy target to blame here, but so what?  That doesn't feel helpful. I can't change which way the wind is blowing but I can change my sails. It seems my lessing for today is that "less is more" especially when it comes to student loans.  Until my loan balance is less, I'll just keep paying and I'll try to do it joyfully.  I'll be grateful that I attended graduate school at all  and I will refrain from writing, in the subject line of the check, "Kiss my fuckin grits, you asswipes. " which I am inspired to do every month because I know that the Buddha would advise against that, too. 

Dads Have More Fun

Do you remember that scene from "Mrs. Doubtfire", when the dutiful, full-time working mom, Sally Field, comes home with cake and balloons for her son's birthday, only to find hubby, Robin Williams', chaperoning a full-fledged birthday orgy with barnyard animals, couch jumping, and outrageous shenanigans?  Or perhaps you are familiar with the seemingly universal ritual of fathers getting kids all "keyed-up" with a serious session of horseplay at bedtime? It prompts me to ask, are dads really just more fun? 

There has been many a time when I've returned from my "me-time" (usually one hour spent deliberating over being productive or just being) to find my valiant husband mellowly playing with the still pajama-ed children, chores undone, house in disarray.  Everyone is happy; why am I so pissed? 

My relationships have often suffered because of my industriousness. I often choose utility over happiness and justify it with some sort of "work is love in action" philosophy.  There is the feeling that if I get one step behind of the to-do list, the work will become a tsunami---the wave insurmountable, the damage infinite. Fuck, that's debilitating.  

Confronted by this mental limitation, I decided to pull a Byron Katie and use her useful "reversal" technique.  Really, just Psych 101 "projection", but she has packaged it so folks can hear it and she has made millions on the trick.  So here I go; I shift the question: "Are dads really more fun?"  to "Why am I not more fun?" Ah...eureka!  Why aren't I more fun? 

I am not sure of the answer.  Am I just a product of my generation?  I was fed the 1960's feminist agenda and BELIEVED that I could do anything boys could do better.  And I BELIEVED that I could have it all---career, family, lovely *clean* home, vacations, satisfying creative life?  But I've done it; I "[brought] home the bacon, [fried] it up in a pan, and never let you forget you [were] a man." But what was the cost? What is the cost? Especially, when I relate more to Martha than I do to Gloria.  No one told us girls that to have time to do Martha's crafts you needed a paycheck and time on your hands (a.k.a. rich husband).  

I call for the next wave of feminism. What will it look like? Will motherhood be revered and women who work out of the home supported and single moms worshiped? I realized while watching "Mad Men" that the men, though they seem like they have it all, are ultimately trapped, because the women were not liberated. Emerson said it best, "If you put a chain around the neck of a slave,  the other end fastens itself around your own." Betty Draper should have had more fun and so will I. 

The Psychology of an Ant

Last night, there they were: ants.  They arrived as ants do, stereotypically.  They crawled on my floors and shelves like troops storming the beach at Normandy.  I had not seen an ant in the house previously and then one day, invasion.  

I watched these focused visitors and feared the worst, occupation.  There were multitudes, all of a sudden, where there had been none.  It was unsettling.  And grotesque.  Wood floors, white ceilings, and stocked shelves, were quickly speckled with healthy picnic-variety ants. These were not darling, diminutive sugar ants; these were big suckers, not quite a carpenter, but certainly the Carpenter Ants third string. 

It was 10 PM when they invaded and their arrival raised some questions.  Where did they come from?  Why now?  How do they mobilize their troops with such military precision?  What motivates them? I knew the answer to this last one. What motivates them? Food.  But really, were they simply motivated by the possibility of a meal? Or were they interested in world domination? 

I had some choices to make as to how to rid my house of these uninvited visitors, but I couldn't shake that last question: what motivates them? My friend, Vanessa, recently asked "What makes people tick?"  My immediate response was "Money. Sex. Power." I guess I was feeling cynical.  The Psych 101 answer to the question is acceptance and belonging, which is precisely what money, sex, and power can deliver. What is the spiritual answer?  Connectedness? Transcendence?  Ants and bees are admired for their efficiency and I dare say, dedication.  They do not seem dedicated only to the community or to finding food.  They appear to be dedicated to their purpose.   Ants: a perfect practice in purpose.  

This is not reassuring, especially to those of us who are perpetually purposeless.  I suppose we can be connected in our purposelessness and that may do the world some good or at least not do it any harm.  The ants and their purpose were gone by morning and I have not seen them since. Perhaps my lack of purpose can be as transient.  

What is a "lessing"?

"Lessing" is my portmanteau word for "lesson" and "blessing." My life lessons are rarely born from calamity. Death, fire, flood--humans are prepared for disaster; we usually respond valiantly. It is the tiresome demands of 21st century living that will drive a woman bananas. Daily Lessings is the record of events that really piss me off and of my attempt to transform these irritants into small life lessons and even into daily blessings. (Can one really be grateful for parking tickets, burnt lightbulbs, bank fees, vermin, clogged drains, stubbed toes, or dirty gutters? I don't know, but this girl aims to find out.) Forcing myself to recognize a "lessing" keeps me engaged in a reflective practice and in the great, ongoing spiritual conversation. Here's to any shred of wisdom I may gain in this process.