I have been doing a little geneology with the help of DNA tests with the ultimate goal of finding Maya's genetic siblings and donors. In the process, I tested myself, my dad, and Alex, just to get my feet wet before we figured out how to collect Maya's saliva, and to get a little used to all the jargon and navigation of the various websites.
Two things I've learned that have sort of put on its head everything we think we know about family relations. I've long held to the belief that blood is NOT thicker than water. That circumstantial relationships are in now way inherently more valuable than those we forge out of our own free will (ie. family vs friends).
Likewise, I've never doubted that if we adopted a child, it would be our child through and through, no questions asked. Adoption was actually our plan A. When we were pursuing open adoption, I likened incorporating the birth family the same way one incorporates one's in-laws - you inherit them with the spouse or child that you gain. You may not like them or get along, but they are important to your spouse (or child), so they're important to you. End of discussion.
But nonetheless, I still believed that these were philosophical interpretations of family relations, and that in the end, if push came to shove, genetics were still important and still defined the basic, natural (as in based in nature, not to be confused with "normal"), idealized definition of what it means to be a family, to be related to someone, to know one's roots.
Ah, one's roots. And this is where things start to get interesting. As it turns out, our DNA, our genetics, is not the be-all-end-all of our heritage the way we might think. For instance, one might accept that if someone is related to one of my parents, then automatically, that person is related to me. Right? Not necessarily, if your definition is based on pure genetics. You see, we don't inherit all of the genes of both of our parents, as this would mean a doubling of genes with every generation since the dawn of time. So we lose many of those genetic markers that would tell us that we are related to someone because we share the same genes.
One can have two siblings with the same two parents come up related to different people based on DNA test results. There's not even a generational gap to blame here! It's just that which genes we inherit are completely random. Granted, this generally happens as you start to move a bit away from the nuclear family and get into cousin territory, but the point is that when looking at a physical drawing of a family tree, there likely wouldn't be hard core genetic evidence to prove each person on that tree is related to each other person in that same line!
So what makes us related to the relatives we don't share genes with? Social convention! Not even the fact of growing up together, as would be the case with an adoptive family. Not even knowing each other intimately, as in the case of spouses. There are people in your family tree whom you've never met, never even heard of, with whom you may or may not share a single gene, and yet they're "family".
Or are they?
And this is where I think defining family becomes of utmost importance. I grew up in my own biological family. My immediate family is small by most standards. I know my grandparents (4), aunts (3), and first cousins (5), which add up to 13 people (I also knew my maternal great-grandmother). I have never seen all of them together in one spot. We were never very close. So to have a DNA test suggest that people with last names I've never heard of, from areas of the world I've never been to, are my "family" is completely ludicrous. I don't know anything about my parent's cousins, much less their kids, or the siblings of my grandparents (with the exception of my maternal grandmother, who was an only child). We share relatively close family members, and yet if you put us in a room together, we would be complete strangers to each other.
Another interesting layer is the fact that gene loss over generations in families that have mixed between ethnicities (I'd venture to say this means all of our families if you look back far enough), this means that not only that we have relatives of ethnicites different from our own (which in modern times is a very common occurrence), but more surprisingly, that depending on who procreated with whom, our own ethnicity could have been totally different from what we accept it to be.
With mixed race individuals, whose relatives intermingled recently enough to be aware of it, some people claim one race over the other (often the one that they most stereotypically resemble as far as their phenotype goes, but other times the one of the parent who had the biggest influence on their upbringing, regardless of shared phenotype), while others insist on membership in both. (I say "both" rather than "all" because it is most common to have each parent strongly identify with one race or ethnicity, even if they themselves are mixed, resulting in two main competing racial identities for the offspring.)
But what about several generations into the future to our modern day mixed race individuals? They are not a new phenomenon. So what about that mixed race individual in our own family tree, say a hundred years ago? For instance, I am Polish, of two Polish parents, born in Poland. Until I took my DNA test, I thought of myself as "100% Polish", at least genetically speaking. (Socially, I went back and forth between Polish, American, and Polish-American.) My DNA test revealed mixing among most of the European peoples over the years, with only 75% "Eastern European" (so not even 75% Polish - this could include modern day Ukraine, Lithuania, Slovakia, Belarus, the Czech Republic, and Russia (countries that currently border Poland), as well as more than a dozen other countries considered part of the eastern bloc. Believe me, we differentiate between each other! So who knows how much of that 75% is "truly" Polish.
But these are still all white nationalities, albeit with some phenotypical variation among the northern versus southern countries. What about that interesting 0.2% West African and 0.1% North African ancestry that may be small percentage-wise but nonetheless was enough to come up on my chromosomes. I also tested my father, and I got these genes from my dad - his mom, to be exact, as they're only on my X chromosome that corresponds to my dad, and only on his X chromosome. But he also has 0.4% South Asian and 0.2% East Asian that was not passed on to me. At what point did his ancestors stop being African and Asian? Had they procreated with other Africans and Asians instead of Europeans, we'd be seeing very different results.
Am I supposed to identify only with my most recent ancestors' race/ethnicity? What if the percentages had been much higher, and I'd be much closer to my African and Asian ancestors? (Are my dad's Asian ancestors my ancestors too? Because I didn't inherit any of those traits.) This is what mixed race individuals with recently mixed relatives (parents, grandparents) are forced to decide, because society sees us as belonging to whatever race or ethnicity we happen to resemble, completely regardless of what our genetics say, or in what culture we were raised.
Perhaps that is the problem - that we allow others to label our racial and ethnic identities, and that we think we can do likewise for others. This is what is wrong with our modern American racial categorization system. It's not based on science. It's not based on people's lived experiences. It's based on looks.
And yet.... what about the now infamous Rachel Dolezal? That controversy proved that while we may like to label people based on what they look like, we don't like it when people once labeled a certain way take it upon themselves to try to change that. It's not enough to be labeled by others based on one's looks. Those looks have to also conform to our preconceived notions of what people with certain recent ancestors are supposed to look like. Confused?
I'm not saying Rachel Dolezal had a right to claim membership in the Black community. But let's be honest, if her DNA test happened to reveal a previously unknown 6% African ancestry, even though she had two "white" parents and "looked white" herself, would she then have a right to that part of her ancestry? Or would it have to be more recent? 25% (one grandparent)? Where would the acceptable claim to African heritage change over for her? At 12%? And why that number and not 50%? So really, the idea that someone can label someone else based on something as fickle as DNA or - even worse - as unreliable as phenotype is highly unscientific and subjective, not to mention seemingly a waste of time.
In summary, we may claim membership in an ethnicity of a more recent ancestor even if we didn't actually inherit any of their genes. But someone else with a more distant ancestor of a different ethnicity who passed on mere trace amounts of that ethnicity may not have a right to claim membership in that ethnicity. Kind of blows your mind, doesn't it? I know for me, it makes me question everything we think we know about what makes a family and what constitutes one's ethnic or racial identity.
When I first shared my DNA results with some friends, mentioning my 0.3% African heritage, the immediate question-in-jest was, "So now you're Black?" But it's a valid question. Remember the "one drop rule"? A person with 50% Black parentage was marked as Black on their birth certificate, and if they went on to procreate with a white person, even though their child would technically be 25% Black, their birth certificate would state Black. And then that child could grow up to procreate with another white person, but still their technically 12% Black/88% white child would be marked as Black on their birth certificate. All because of a social convention that allowed outsiders to label people according to the mere presence - however small - of Black ancestry. According to this reasoning, yes, I would be Black!
But does that actually make sense? No, you say? How is this any different from any of the racial labeling that we do? There's not really a good solution, is there? We can't exactly say that people can label themselves whatever race they feel like it, because racial labels would lose all meaning that way.... Or, wait, maybe that's exactly what we need to do to forge into a post-racial society? Then again, that sounds too much like a color-blind society, which would be pretty dull and also divorced from reality. We do have differences based on cultural upbringing and physical features, and these should be celebrated. We shouldn't fight over who is the biggest victim or whose culture or features should determine the standard. I don't have the answers, just more questions. But I've definitely become a stronger racial skeptic through considering these questions.
Wednesday, June 29, 2016
Tuesday, May 31, 2016
Religion, Emotion, Community
This may be obvious to some, but I've been thinking how being religious is essentially being emotionally-driven. At least that's what it means to me. When I think about the time of my life when I was most religious, I was on an ongoing emotional ride. I don't mean that I was moody, but rather that I saw the world through a series of feelings. I interpreted everything around me according to how it made me feel. Actually, I think I still do, in general.
What's changed is the feelings that now arise when it comes to religious topics are no longer what they used to be. They're not passionate, mysterious, encouraging, even interesting or interested feelings. Overall, religion stirs in me a feeling of ambivalence. There are aspects of religion that actually make me feel slightly disappointed, repulsed even.
And yet, I know I still have it in me to experience feelings of awe, gratitude, beauty, enormity, peace, joy around religion. It has to be a particular scenario. It looks like this.
I'm alone, and it's quiet. I'm surrounded by beauty - either of nature (which I hardly think I need to explain), or traditional church art: stained glass letting the sun's rays sparkle as they sneak in. Statues of figures expressing their own emotions, of piety, wisdom, compassion, sorrow, peace.
Given enough time alone with my thoughts, I'm able to allow my surroundings to penetrate past the outer layer of my earthly identity, and resonate deep inside, reminding me of my spiritual self. I feel - yes, feel - a part of something bigger, something that isn't limited by religious explanations or human labels. I'm reassured of life being something far beyond mere earthly existence. It's vague, yes, but familiar and certain.
Religion, the religion of my upbringing, is likewise familiar, but neither vague nor certain. Organized religion is very specific as to how the world around us ought to be explained, and how each of us ought to live our lives. And yet, there is only flimsy evidence, at best, to support any of their claims. It's the familiarity that keeps me coming back. It's the link I have to my personal spirituality.
The two used to go hand in hand so well. At first, because I was ignorant of what the Church actually taught, so I was free to run with whatever interpretation happened to occur to me. Also, because I was surrounded by family who likewise had their own interpretations, and those are the ones I went with. Finally, because I was convinced of the Church's own explanations and fully believed what was taught.
Over time, I lost a sense of community I didn't even realize I had. I no longer believed what the Church taught, so I was at odds with other church members. And I didn't maintain relationships with relatives nor form new ones with others who had similar views. It's hard to find people with my same views on spiritual matters because they are so eclectic. (That's why Alex and I get along so well.)
So here I am, with no religious or spiritual community in spite of regular church attendance. And no personal spiritual practice that I blame on the business of motherhood. And all that's left is complaints and guesses as to when exactly my exodus from the faith began, and if there's any hope of ever returning.
I don't care about being "right" or even knowing "truth", which so many religions claim to provide, but which I don't believe can be explained, only experienced. I only miss the emotions that gave me a consistent spiritual high from my religiosity.
Pious people will say this is the wrong reason to seek religion. That one shouldn't expect religion to make us feel good. These are the people who believe their religion is "the truth", so we can't really find common ground.
Secular folks will tell me to find fulfillment in other areas of my life. But this is dismissive of the very real grief that I feel for having lost something that was once very dear to me. I don't expect them to understand, either.
There's probably others like me who just muddle through, keeping their disappointments - in themselves, circumstances, their religion, or all three - to themselves. They put on a happy face, pretend that nothing has changed, and just find other passions to occupy the empty space inside that was once fulfilled by their faith.
I find it hard to believe that that's the best I can do. That that's what God wants for my life. Yes, that's right, just because I'm not religious doesn't mean I don't believe in God. I most certainly do. I do not know the nature of God, other than that God is creative and awe-inspiring and eternal. I don't know if God is personal, in that I can talk to Him or that He has a personalized interest in my life. I used to believe this, but I just don't know anymore.
Perhaps the problem really is just with having to reset my expectations. Religion has always been a big part of my life in one way or another. I turned to it for comfort and explanations and community. Maybe I just need to find these elsewhere in order to be satisfied with the diminished role that religion now plays in my life. I may need to split these up - comfort from one thing, explanations from elsewhere, community somewhere unrelated to either one.
What's changed is the feelings that now arise when it comes to religious topics are no longer what they used to be. They're not passionate, mysterious, encouraging, even interesting or interested feelings. Overall, religion stirs in me a feeling of ambivalence. There are aspects of religion that actually make me feel slightly disappointed, repulsed even.
And yet, I know I still have it in me to experience feelings of awe, gratitude, beauty, enormity, peace, joy around religion. It has to be a particular scenario. It looks like this.
I'm alone, and it's quiet. I'm surrounded by beauty - either of nature (which I hardly think I need to explain), or traditional church art: stained glass letting the sun's rays sparkle as they sneak in. Statues of figures expressing their own emotions, of piety, wisdom, compassion, sorrow, peace.
Given enough time alone with my thoughts, I'm able to allow my surroundings to penetrate past the outer layer of my earthly identity, and resonate deep inside, reminding me of my spiritual self. I feel - yes, feel - a part of something bigger, something that isn't limited by religious explanations or human labels. I'm reassured of life being something far beyond mere earthly existence. It's vague, yes, but familiar and certain.
Religion, the religion of my upbringing, is likewise familiar, but neither vague nor certain. Organized religion is very specific as to how the world around us ought to be explained, and how each of us ought to live our lives. And yet, there is only flimsy evidence, at best, to support any of their claims. It's the familiarity that keeps me coming back. It's the link I have to my personal spirituality.
The two used to go hand in hand so well. At first, because I was ignorant of what the Church actually taught, so I was free to run with whatever interpretation happened to occur to me. Also, because I was surrounded by family who likewise had their own interpretations, and those are the ones I went with. Finally, because I was convinced of the Church's own explanations and fully believed what was taught.
Over time, I lost a sense of community I didn't even realize I had. I no longer believed what the Church taught, so I was at odds with other church members. And I didn't maintain relationships with relatives nor form new ones with others who had similar views. It's hard to find people with my same views on spiritual matters because they are so eclectic. (That's why Alex and I get along so well.)
So here I am, with no religious or spiritual community in spite of regular church attendance. And no personal spiritual practice that I blame on the business of motherhood. And all that's left is complaints and guesses as to when exactly my exodus from the faith began, and if there's any hope of ever returning.
I don't care about being "right" or even knowing "truth", which so many religions claim to provide, but which I don't believe can be explained, only experienced. I only miss the emotions that gave me a consistent spiritual high from my religiosity.
Pious people will say this is the wrong reason to seek religion. That one shouldn't expect religion to make us feel good. These are the people who believe their religion is "the truth", so we can't really find common ground.
Secular folks will tell me to find fulfillment in other areas of my life. But this is dismissive of the very real grief that I feel for having lost something that was once very dear to me. I don't expect them to understand, either.
There's probably others like me who just muddle through, keeping their disappointments - in themselves, circumstances, their religion, or all three - to themselves. They put on a happy face, pretend that nothing has changed, and just find other passions to occupy the empty space inside that was once fulfilled by their faith.
I find it hard to believe that that's the best I can do. That that's what God wants for my life. Yes, that's right, just because I'm not religious doesn't mean I don't believe in God. I most certainly do. I do not know the nature of God, other than that God is creative and awe-inspiring and eternal. I don't know if God is personal, in that I can talk to Him or that He has a personalized interest in my life. I used to believe this, but I just don't know anymore.
Perhaps the problem really is just with having to reset my expectations. Religion has always been a big part of my life in one way or another. I turned to it for comfort and explanations and community. Maybe I just need to find these elsewhere in order to be satisfied with the diminished role that religion now plays in my life. I may need to split these up - comfort from one thing, explanations from elsewhere, community somewhere unrelated to either one.
Wednesday, May 11, 2016
Birth Options Ambivalence
Feeling majorly blah. About this pregnancy and the inevitable birth options. About my plateaued spiritual life. About life in general, really. But here I want to focus on the birth options aspect.
My daughter was born at home. It was a planned homebirth, and all things considering, it went well. 13 hours of early labor that really was nothing to write home about, and I see zero reason for having any need to be in a hospital during that time. Five hours of active labor which commenced with my waters breaking, and the first two of them spent alone, as Alex was stuck in traffic coming home from work. He had to make the hour and a half commute because our daughter came two weeks early, and he had to tie up loose ends to start his family leave earlier than expected. By the time midwife and birth assistant arrived, I was in the zone, butt naked without a care in the world. I've never felt so in the moment as I did during labor. Neither the past nor the future existed for those several hours. I pushed for a mere 15 minutes, and voila!
However, our birth tub never got filled, I didn't really utilize the hypno babies techniques because I felt confused as to what I was supposed to do when on D-day. Hypnosis and water were the two comfort measures I was counting on, so it sucked not having either. I needed several interventions after delivery (stitches, IV, pitocin to stop blood loss). Our nursing relationship was off to a rough start from the word go, taking nearly three months to finally regulate. And I suffered postpartum anxiety (probably depression too) for over six months. I didn't hold my daughter skin-to-skin immediately after birth because she was wrapped in a blanket, probably bc we wanted to discover the baby's sex on our own. I took meticulous notes of sleep, diaper changes, and nursings, and I didn't put Maya to the breast until a full hour after birth, right around the time we found out we had a girl.
Then I felt drained and sleep deprived, as I suppose is to be expected, wearing disposable underwear to soak up my lochia (sexy, I know), and had to drag my tiny, under 6 pounds baby in what looked like an abnormally humongous car seat to the pediatrician three days post birth, which felt sort of counterproductive to having gone through all the trouble of having her at home.
We waited to tell people to avoid having masses of visitors when we were trying to bond, which proved to be sort of unnecessary and backfired a bit with some people.
All in all, I planned the birth I thought I wanted if it was going to be the only such experience I would have, which I didn't know would not be the case until recently. I made decisions based on the ideals I read about - much like I generally do in other areas of my life. I wanted to avoid a hospital bc I didn't think I could advocate for myself as a first time mom, shy to start, against hospital bullies. And considering the hospital that we were closest to, that was probably a pretty spot-on consideration.
But birthing at home meant a lot more responsibility shouldered by us, from arrangements, to purchase of supplies, to clean up.
To be fair, I have nothing to compare my experience to, but trying to be objective, I'd probably give it a B+. Apparently, shortly after birth, I had two conversations, with Alex and my mom, stating that I felt I've accomplished what I wanted - I could say I had a homebirth, and that should there be another baby, I don't feel as strongly about it anymore.
And that brings us to today. I'm pregnant a second time, and I'm having to realize that I cannot - nor should I - try to do everything the same way I did with my daughter. The siblings will be two separate individuals, with different needs etc.
But I don't have a great alternative in mind. I mainly feel disappointed that I didn't use hydrotherapy or hypnotherapy during my first birth, and I wonder if it really would've made a difference. I'd like the opportunity to find out, and I'm trying to decide if another homebirth is the best scenario to do so. I sort of know what to expect, we have better circumstances that should allow us to prevent some of the pitfalls of our first experience. It's not so much that our homebirth was such an amazing experience. It wasn't. It's just that I'm concerned about the policies of the hospital being imposed on me, my baby, my family, my birthing time.
I'm concerned that in spite of agreement to the opposite, my birth plan will be ignored.
That I will be put on the clock from the moment I show up, and that my labor will stall due to unnecessary interventions such as fetal monitoring, IV, or just the stress of being in a strange environment.
That I will be told what I can and cannot eat or drink. (Granted, I had no desire to eat during active labor, but it was amazing to have graham crackers with nutella as my first mom meal, courtesy Alex.)
That I will inadvertently feel pressured to deliver on someone else's schedule.
That I will be encouraged to get an epidural.
That I will be discouraged from freely moving about and assuming various positions.
That I will be separated from my husband or my baby at any time.
That I will be rushed to let my baby go through routine checks so they can check me off their list, instead of letting us bond immediately afterwards.
That I will be put in a situation where I will have to deliver my baby in a way I don't want to - outside the tub, or worse, on my back.
That I will be yelled at to push. I actually want to try not to push at all this time around!
That I won't be allowed to leave with the placenta. Therefore I won't be able to get it encapsulated, something I hope will help keep ppd/a at bay this time around.
Ok, so really, I don't really see the appeal of going to the hospital to deliver my baby. I'm just thinking I want it to go differently than the first time. But that can and will happen with another homebirth. We have debriefed, we know what went "wrong" and what can be done differently this time around. Weather I deliver at home or in the hospital, neither choice is the "easy" way. Either way, I still have to "go through it".
I should count my blessings that I have the full support of my husband, and that I have a dedicated person (my sister in law) willing to come up to watch Maya so that I don't have to worry about her and she can still be nearby, arbitrary policies be darned.
So my conclusion is that switching to the hospital may seem like a quick fix, but in reality it would be a disaster to opt for that option barring any real medical reason. I already know how it can go, and even if it's not ideal or the way other women have described their experiences, it wouldn't be so bad if my other birth experience were as good as the first. Even if not better.
Ok, so what remains is to make the commitment to the midwives from before, which includes $300 out of pocket, always a good incentive for me ;)
My daughter was born at home. It was a planned homebirth, and all things considering, it went well. 13 hours of early labor that really was nothing to write home about, and I see zero reason for having any need to be in a hospital during that time. Five hours of active labor which commenced with my waters breaking, and the first two of them spent alone, as Alex was stuck in traffic coming home from work. He had to make the hour and a half commute because our daughter came two weeks early, and he had to tie up loose ends to start his family leave earlier than expected. By the time midwife and birth assistant arrived, I was in the zone, butt naked without a care in the world. I've never felt so in the moment as I did during labor. Neither the past nor the future existed for those several hours. I pushed for a mere 15 minutes, and voila!
However, our birth tub never got filled, I didn't really utilize the hypno babies techniques because I felt confused as to what I was supposed to do when on D-day. Hypnosis and water were the two comfort measures I was counting on, so it sucked not having either. I needed several interventions after delivery (stitches, IV, pitocin to stop blood loss). Our nursing relationship was off to a rough start from the word go, taking nearly three months to finally regulate. And I suffered postpartum anxiety (probably depression too) for over six months. I didn't hold my daughter skin-to-skin immediately after birth because she was wrapped in a blanket, probably bc we wanted to discover the baby's sex on our own. I took meticulous notes of sleep, diaper changes, and nursings, and I didn't put Maya to the breast until a full hour after birth, right around the time we found out we had a girl.
Then I felt drained and sleep deprived, as I suppose is to be expected, wearing disposable underwear to soak up my lochia (sexy, I know), and had to drag my tiny, under 6 pounds baby in what looked like an abnormally humongous car seat to the pediatrician three days post birth, which felt sort of counterproductive to having gone through all the trouble of having her at home.
We waited to tell people to avoid having masses of visitors when we were trying to bond, which proved to be sort of unnecessary and backfired a bit with some people.
All in all, I planned the birth I thought I wanted if it was going to be the only such experience I would have, which I didn't know would not be the case until recently. I made decisions based on the ideals I read about - much like I generally do in other areas of my life. I wanted to avoid a hospital bc I didn't think I could advocate for myself as a first time mom, shy to start, against hospital bullies. And considering the hospital that we were closest to, that was probably a pretty spot-on consideration.
But birthing at home meant a lot more responsibility shouldered by us, from arrangements, to purchase of supplies, to clean up.
To be fair, I have nothing to compare my experience to, but trying to be objective, I'd probably give it a B+. Apparently, shortly after birth, I had two conversations, with Alex and my mom, stating that I felt I've accomplished what I wanted - I could say I had a homebirth, and that should there be another baby, I don't feel as strongly about it anymore.
And that brings us to today. I'm pregnant a second time, and I'm having to realize that I cannot - nor should I - try to do everything the same way I did with my daughter. The siblings will be two separate individuals, with different needs etc.
But I don't have a great alternative in mind. I mainly feel disappointed that I didn't use hydrotherapy or hypnotherapy during my first birth, and I wonder if it really would've made a difference. I'd like the opportunity to find out, and I'm trying to decide if another homebirth is the best scenario to do so. I sort of know what to expect, we have better circumstances that should allow us to prevent some of the pitfalls of our first experience. It's not so much that our homebirth was such an amazing experience. It wasn't. It's just that I'm concerned about the policies of the hospital being imposed on me, my baby, my family, my birthing time.
I'm concerned that in spite of agreement to the opposite, my birth plan will be ignored.
That I will be put on the clock from the moment I show up, and that my labor will stall due to unnecessary interventions such as fetal monitoring, IV, or just the stress of being in a strange environment.
That I will be told what I can and cannot eat or drink. (Granted, I had no desire to eat during active labor, but it was amazing to have graham crackers with nutella as my first mom meal, courtesy Alex.)
That I will inadvertently feel pressured to deliver on someone else's schedule.
That I will be encouraged to get an epidural.
That I will be discouraged from freely moving about and assuming various positions.
That I will be separated from my husband or my baby at any time.
That I will be rushed to let my baby go through routine checks so they can check me off their list, instead of letting us bond immediately afterwards.
That I will be put in a situation where I will have to deliver my baby in a way I don't want to - outside the tub, or worse, on my back.
That I will be yelled at to push. I actually want to try not to push at all this time around!
That I won't be allowed to leave with the placenta. Therefore I won't be able to get it encapsulated, something I hope will help keep ppd/a at bay this time around.
Ok, so really, I don't really see the appeal of going to the hospital to deliver my baby. I'm just thinking I want it to go differently than the first time. But that can and will happen with another homebirth. We have debriefed, we know what went "wrong" and what can be done differently this time around. Weather I deliver at home or in the hospital, neither choice is the "easy" way. Either way, I still have to "go through it".
I should count my blessings that I have the full support of my husband, and that I have a dedicated person (my sister in law) willing to come up to watch Maya so that I don't have to worry about her and she can still be nearby, arbitrary policies be darned.
So my conclusion is that switching to the hospital may seem like a quick fix, but in reality it would be a disaster to opt for that option barring any real medical reason. I already know how it can go, and even if it's not ideal or the way other women have described their experiences, it wouldn't be so bad if my other birth experience were as good as the first. Even if not better.
Ok, so what remains is to make the commitment to the midwives from before, which includes $300 out of pocket, always a good incentive for me ;)
Tuesday, May 3, 2016
How to Grow Up
For years I have reflected on not feeling like an adult, mulling over theories as to why that was. Sheltered upbringing, shy disposition, internalized negative views about myself. Now that I am in my late (argh!) 30s, I know what I need to do to shake this nonesense once and for all. Basically, I cannot care what others - my mother in particular - think of me. I cannot go through life trying to please someone else.
It doesn't matter if my mom approves of what I eat, how I raise my daughter, or who my friends are. It doesn't matter what she thinks about my decisions or preferences. She has her own opinion, but I have mine, which is equally valid. I am not her. If she takes it personally that I make different decisions from ones she would make, that is frankly not my problem.
Of course I hate to see my mom upset or disappointed, but I cannot keep thinking that these reactions can in any way be mitigated by me. I do not control her - and she does not control me. I say this, I believe it, now I wonder how long it will take before I internalize it and start living as though I'm my own person, regardless if I have my mom's approval or not. Her approval doesn't make my decisions ok. My decisions need to be ok on their own. Only I am responsible for my decisions, whether she likes them or not.
It's going to be hard to try to overhaul 30+ years of trying to please my mom though. Still, it's the only way to go forward.
It doesn't matter if my mom approves of what I eat, how I raise my daughter, or who my friends are. It doesn't matter what she thinks about my decisions or preferences. She has her own opinion, but I have mine, which is equally valid. I am not her. If she takes it personally that I make different decisions from ones she would make, that is frankly not my problem.
Of course I hate to see my mom upset or disappointed, but I cannot keep thinking that these reactions can in any way be mitigated by me. I do not control her - and she does not control me. I say this, I believe it, now I wonder how long it will take before I internalize it and start living as though I'm my own person, regardless if I have my mom's approval or not. Her approval doesn't make my decisions ok. My decisions need to be ok on their own. Only I am responsible for my decisions, whether she likes them or not.
It's going to be hard to try to overhaul 30+ years of trying to please my mom though. Still, it's the only way to go forward.
Friday, April 29, 2016
Hot Spiritual Mess
Reclaiming my faith hasn't been easy. (Well, neither was early pregnancy, or moving in the midst of the worst nausea I could've imagined.) I joined a Catholic young adult book club and just finished reading the book that we are starting to discuss on Tuesday (I can't seem to pace myself.) Made for More by Curtis Martin. When I first read about this book study, I hadn't yet made the leap back home to the RCC. I actually asked if this book would be a good fit for someone who didn't quite believe at all. By the time I ordered the book, I had technically come back home, and was eager to read about how I was made for more.
As I read the book, I realized that my mind found absolutely no objections to what was being discussed. And yet, to say I believed, in the same way that I believe in a creator God and eternal life, that would not be accurate. I believe in eternal life and a creator God with every fiber of my being, not so much as a matter of faith, but rather as a matter of fact. I'm ok not knowing all the details, but those two things I simply cannot phathom not being true.
But as far as the Christian bend on spiritual reality, it's more a work in progress. I'm making my mind up that I want to believe, I'm purposefully ignoring the thoughts and influences that in the past I've allowed to carry me away from the possibility of believing in Christ. I'm trusting that God will meet me where I am, which, to be honest, isn't very close to where I'd like to be. It's sort of like trying to convince myself that Santa Clause is real. Sort of.
As I was reading, it occurred to me that one of my obstacles is the violence that is at the center of the storyline. I have sworn off tv shows I used to love, such as the NCIS series, after postpartum anxiety got the better of me and my imagination would take off on its own with violent thoughts at random points in the day. I have never gone - nor do I ever intend to go - to the Holocaust Museum, because I don't need the visual evidence to understand the enormity of the evil that took place. It happened to my family, in my country, I grew up hearing first hand accounts of World War II. It's as real as it needs to be for me.
Which interestingly reminds me of how there are actually people who continue to deny that the Holocaust actually took place. Or American slavery. These are the people who need to go to these museums, to watch the documentaries, to be faced with the reality head on. But these are the people that I'm afraid I'm like when it comes to my faith. Is the horror of the Crucifixion so great that my overly sensitive spirit simply cannot take it all in? Is it too much for me to be able to form a life-giving faith around such a violent event?
You see, in the heyday of my faith, I actually did meditate on the Stations of the Cross. I actually did enter into the Way of the Cross. I physically would get weak from the mere thought of what Jesus had to endure. I ached at the sights of the blows, thorns, nails.... It became very real to me, and now I wonder if it was too real for me to handle.
Am I simply in denial? Is the reality of Jesus's suffering too much for me to handle, so I'm just blocking it out? Does the thought of martyrdom as evidence of the convincing faith of the early (and later) Christians force me to realize that I can't sit on the fence, just observing my Catholic Christian faith as if it were an entertaining movie that I didn't actually have to get my hands dirty for?
I may want my religion, my faith, my spirituality to be minimalist, simple, clean, but being a true Catholic Christian does not allow for the easy route. And so I am immediately faced with the choice - am I with Jesus, or not? Am I a follower or just a fan of his work?
You see, cultural or not, I grew up Catholic. I believe in Purgatory. I believe God desires salvation for all of us, and that even after death, we have the opportunity to return to Our Father. So hellfire and damnation doesn't work on me. I am not scared of hell, because I don't believe I'm going there. I don't believe Scriptures prove hell, just post-death torment for those who didn't get right with God in time. But I believe this is not eternal. As I write this, I find it ridiculous. Does it matter if the torment lasts a day or eternity? As weary as I am of pain and suffering in my earthly life, you'd think I'd be highly motivated to avoid even a little bit of "cleansing by fire" (Malachi 3:3).
I am taking God's goodness and mercy for granted, I know. I expect Him to be all-loving and therefore to understand my struggles and shortcomings and forgive me. But I am not ignorant of what Jesus said when tempted by Satan: "You shall not put the Lord your God to the test" (Luke 4:12).
I still have a long way to go.
As I read the book, I realized that my mind found absolutely no objections to what was being discussed. And yet, to say I believed, in the same way that I believe in a creator God and eternal life, that would not be accurate. I believe in eternal life and a creator God with every fiber of my being, not so much as a matter of faith, but rather as a matter of fact. I'm ok not knowing all the details, but those two things I simply cannot phathom not being true.
But as far as the Christian bend on spiritual reality, it's more a work in progress. I'm making my mind up that I want to believe, I'm purposefully ignoring the thoughts and influences that in the past I've allowed to carry me away from the possibility of believing in Christ. I'm trusting that God will meet me where I am, which, to be honest, isn't very close to where I'd like to be. It's sort of like trying to convince myself that Santa Clause is real. Sort of.
As I was reading, it occurred to me that one of my obstacles is the violence that is at the center of the storyline. I have sworn off tv shows I used to love, such as the NCIS series, after postpartum anxiety got the better of me and my imagination would take off on its own with violent thoughts at random points in the day. I have never gone - nor do I ever intend to go - to the Holocaust Museum, because I don't need the visual evidence to understand the enormity of the evil that took place. It happened to my family, in my country, I grew up hearing first hand accounts of World War II. It's as real as it needs to be for me.
Which interestingly reminds me of how there are actually people who continue to deny that the Holocaust actually took place. Or American slavery. These are the people who need to go to these museums, to watch the documentaries, to be faced with the reality head on. But these are the people that I'm afraid I'm like when it comes to my faith. Is the horror of the Crucifixion so great that my overly sensitive spirit simply cannot take it all in? Is it too much for me to be able to form a life-giving faith around such a violent event?
You see, in the heyday of my faith, I actually did meditate on the Stations of the Cross. I actually did enter into the Way of the Cross. I physically would get weak from the mere thought of what Jesus had to endure. I ached at the sights of the blows, thorns, nails.... It became very real to me, and now I wonder if it was too real for me to handle.
Am I simply in denial? Is the reality of Jesus's suffering too much for me to handle, so I'm just blocking it out? Does the thought of martyrdom as evidence of the convincing faith of the early (and later) Christians force me to realize that I can't sit on the fence, just observing my Catholic Christian faith as if it were an entertaining movie that I didn't actually have to get my hands dirty for?
I may want my religion, my faith, my spirituality to be minimalist, simple, clean, but being a true Catholic Christian does not allow for the easy route. And so I am immediately faced with the choice - am I with Jesus, or not? Am I a follower or just a fan of his work?
You see, cultural or not, I grew up Catholic. I believe in Purgatory. I believe God desires salvation for all of us, and that even after death, we have the opportunity to return to Our Father. So hellfire and damnation doesn't work on me. I am not scared of hell, because I don't believe I'm going there. I don't believe Scriptures prove hell, just post-death torment for those who didn't get right with God in time. But I believe this is not eternal. As I write this, I find it ridiculous. Does it matter if the torment lasts a day or eternity? As weary as I am of pain and suffering in my earthly life, you'd think I'd be highly motivated to avoid even a little bit of "cleansing by fire" (Malachi 3:3).
I am taking God's goodness and mercy for granted, I know. I expect Him to be all-loving and therefore to understand my struggles and shortcomings and forgive me. But I am not ignorant of what Jesus said when tempted by Satan: "You shall not put the Lord your God to the test" (Luke 4:12).
I still have a long way to go.
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
A Few Random Thoughts: I'm Pregnant, Moving, Reclaiming My Faith
So I am pregnant. It was interesting that one of the first thoughts I had after learning that the embryo implanted was that this is my third pregnancy. Up until recently, I kept thinking, do I count my very first, chemical pregnancy? After all, it was only a week, and had I not been doing fertility treatments, I wouldn't have even thought anything of it, just a very heavy, slightly late period. And what about the other time when the embryos just didn't implant? Some people consider pregnancy to start with conception, at least natural pregnancy. I once had an argument with a lady who claimed a petri dish was pregnant with IVF-conceived kids, until they were transferred into their mother's womb. I did a lot of eye rolling during that argument. Just because I was aware of there having been a couple of embryos in my womb for 10 days before learning that they didn't implant doesn't mean I was pregnant with them. Yes, I lost those embryos, but I lost an embryo this last cycle too, in the thawing process. I was no more pregnant with this one than with the others. I guess I think of pregnancy as a give-and-take. The kid's got to show an interest and effort in sticking around!
At any rate, I am remaining tentative as I wait for next week's ultrasound to confirm that all is going according to plan. I've already shared the news with a few close folks, much sooner than I did with our daughter. I think I'm just more resigned to the alternative, and I feel bad about that. I desperately wanted each of the first three FETs to work because it meant the difference between being a mom and not being a mom. This time, I'm a mom no matter what, and I'm not looking forward to doing the whole childbirth and newborn thing again. But what I am looking forward to is our entire lives after these next two years. When my kids can bond and grow close and share something neither I nor their dad can give them, and that's a genetic relative and someone who knows what it's like to not know one's genetic ancestors.
I keep feeling bad about not being as excited about this new baby, but if I'm being honest, I didn't bond with Maya either, until a while after birth. But once I did, oh boy! She's the center of my universe! So I know it'll be the same with the new guy. Of course, I also realize that no child, no person ought to be the center of my universe. That only if I center my life on God will I experience an authentically rewarding life. And I'm working on that.
As I become reacquainted with my faith again, I continue to be amazed at how God used this second baby to turn me back to Him. I still have thoughts of doubt, but I remind myself that my faith isn't cut and dry. I don't believe verbatim what my religion teaches. I believe there is truth to be found in it, but I believe it requires discernment.
On a related thought, I've also thought about how I've been guilty of exoticising groups I don't belong to, both cultural and religious. I'm trying to look at my own religious heritage with fresh eyes, and not as if only other religions can hold my attention.
We close on our house this week. We start moving this week. By the end of next month, my parents may already be moving in with us. Life will never be the same again. But then again, that's how you know you're living. Life is not about standing in place, but about change. That's why it's so important to try to live in the moment. Appreciate each moment as it comes, but don't place too much importance on it, because it, too, shall eventually pass. Only God remains the same. Only the promises we have in Christ. And I say Christ not from an exclusionary perspective, as in non-Christians don't have access to these promises. That's just the way I am choosing to make sense of the world around me.
At any rate, I am remaining tentative as I wait for next week's ultrasound to confirm that all is going according to plan. I've already shared the news with a few close folks, much sooner than I did with our daughter. I think I'm just more resigned to the alternative, and I feel bad about that. I desperately wanted each of the first three FETs to work because it meant the difference between being a mom and not being a mom. This time, I'm a mom no matter what, and I'm not looking forward to doing the whole childbirth and newborn thing again. But what I am looking forward to is our entire lives after these next two years. When my kids can bond and grow close and share something neither I nor their dad can give them, and that's a genetic relative and someone who knows what it's like to not know one's genetic ancestors.
I keep feeling bad about not being as excited about this new baby, but if I'm being honest, I didn't bond with Maya either, until a while after birth. But once I did, oh boy! She's the center of my universe! So I know it'll be the same with the new guy. Of course, I also realize that no child, no person ought to be the center of my universe. That only if I center my life on God will I experience an authentically rewarding life. And I'm working on that.
As I become reacquainted with my faith again, I continue to be amazed at how God used this second baby to turn me back to Him. I still have thoughts of doubt, but I remind myself that my faith isn't cut and dry. I don't believe verbatim what my religion teaches. I believe there is truth to be found in it, but I believe it requires discernment.
On a related thought, I've also thought about how I've been guilty of exoticising groups I don't belong to, both cultural and religious. I'm trying to look at my own religious heritage with fresh eyes, and not as if only other religions can hold my attention.
We close on our house this week. We start moving this week. By the end of next month, my parents may already be moving in with us. Life will never be the same again. But then again, that's how you know you're living. Life is not about standing in place, but about change. That's why it's so important to try to live in the moment. Appreciate each moment as it comes, but don't place too much importance on it, because it, too, shall eventually pass. Only God remains the same. Only the promises we have in Christ. And I say Christ not from an exclusionary perspective, as in non-Christians don't have access to these promises. That's just the way I am choosing to make sense of the world around me.
Sunday, March 20, 2016
Spring is in the Air!
And with it, it brings new life! Today marks the third anniversary of Maya's homecoming (ie. the day we transferred her embryo). Tomorrow we will find out if our last FET will give her a sibling or not. And over the weekend, yesterday in particular, there has been a resurrection of a different kind in my life.
For about the past two years, since after Maya's baptism and our move to Maryland, I have struggled with my faith. At first it was just not a priority, then as I tried to get back into it, I realized I didn't feel it was a good fit and considered other faith traditions (yet again), and finally, I tried to makes sense of the label of spiritual independent and/or Deist. Last August, I attended a women's retreat through my Catholic church as a last ditch effort to remain Catholic. The advice I was given on that retreat was to not only keep attending mass, but to go back to receiving Communion, even if I didn't believe in the Real Presence or the creed, because God would meet me where I was.
So I decided that I still had a birthright to the label Catholic, even if others might call me "lapsed". I tried to grow in the faith again by attending a Discovering Christ series with Alex (and Maya!), which went OK but didn't convince me of anything. This was all of fall. This spring we attended the follow-up to it, Following Christ, and it was even worse. I was bored out of my mind and I might as well have been attending an atheist convention, because I didn't share any of the beliefs or assumptions that were being presented. I had pretty much given up hope on truly being Catholic again, and made my peace with being a Deist. I joined a couple of online Deist groups, which actually haven't been very active, and that was that.
But I wasn't happy. This weekend I got an incredible urge to want to believe again. I researched "making yourself believe something you don't" and "what's the harm in believing something that isn't true" and I read with great interest what a bunch of skeptics/atheists/Deists had to say on the subject. At the end of their arguments, I was left with a singular observation.
I have long held at my core that the meaning of life is to find happiness, and to help others find contentment. And my current spiritual trajectory just wasn't bringing me happiness. I thought I was quite rational, believing only what the objective evidence (nature) would allow for, and simply didn't believe in the concept of God revealing Himself through a prophet or holy book. But in the end, what good does it do me even if I do only believe in evidence-based facts, if this doesn't bring me joy? Is truth only the sum of rational facts?
Upon further reflection, I realized that truth is relative. Truth, beauty, love - these are not experienced equally by every individual. One person can love another when others do not. One person can find something beautiful when others do not. One experience can be true for someone when it isn't true for someone else. So while religion doesn't agree that truth is relative, and neither do atheists apparently (who reveal themselves to be just as religious as theists in that sense), my personal conviction is that truth and fact are not interchangeable.
There may not be facts to back up everything taught by my religion, but I can find universal truth in the interpretation, in the metaphorical meaning. My problem has always been that I have been too literal. I assume what I hear and read is literal unless and until proven otherwise. I've tried to accept Catholic teaching on a non-literal level before, but yesterday, I think I was finally granted the grace to do so!
I started praying again. Praying in the sense of speaking my heart to God. Not just in lifting an intention in my mind's eye and envisioning it being immersed and enveloped in God's purifying light. I still think I'll treat intercessory prayer that way, at least for now. But I actually spoke to God, to Jesus, to be specific. I called Him Lord and it didn't make my stomach churn. I think I have distanced myself from my previous literal understanding of God long enough that it is no longer a conflict for me to think of Jesus as Lord. In the interim, God has become very distant, abstract, impersonal, unapproachable, unknowable. Jesus is the opposite of all of those things. And I do not feel like I'm betraying God-the-Father by lifting my heart to God-the-Son, bc I now consider the way God-the-Father operates is more from a distance, by delegating - if you will - to Jesus. As I was praying in front of our Divine Mercy image of Jesus, I felt God's approval - all of God, including God-the-Father. And I thought about the Trinity, a concept that gave me so much trouble before, and realized that it's not literal. The Trinity is simply a Christian koan, a riddle that is meant to make us realize that we are never going to be able to comprehend the full nature of God, so we really should stop trying!
The timing couldn't have been much better. I didn't even realize we were entering Holy Week. We have a secular calendar hanging in the kitchen, and I have missed mass the last few weeks, so I had no idea where we were in the liturgical year. And then yesterday at mass, I looked around at all the familiar rituals, objects, words, and I found comfort in them, and realized they were "true" all along, I just kept interpreting them too literally.
I give myself permission to disagree with certain interpretations and teachings of the Church, following the advice of the priest from my last retreat, namely that God would meet me where I'm at. I don't feel the need to be in agreement with other Catholics, or the Catechism, or the Vatican, in order to reap the rewards of Catholicism. I give myself permission to be a part of an imperfect church, even as the church denies being wrong on such issues as gay rights. I believe it will come around, though perhaps not in my lifetime. But instead of trying to find a perfect place of worship, which I think had become a scapegoat for my own personal imperfections, I am embracing an imperfect church. And by extension, I am accepting myself as an imperfect being.
I don't like the term "sin" and "sinner", but synonyms such as missing the mark, being broken, veering off the path, having shortcomings... these are all undeniable and essentially all that "sinning" really means. It's funny, I don't like to think of myself as a sinner. It bothered me to no end how much focus there seems to be in Christianity on all the wrong we do, all of our mistakes, instead of focusing on how we can improve. But if I'm being honest, how can I know what to aim for if I don't know where I'm coming from? The message of Jesus is that my mistakes do not define me. It's critical to be honest with myself and realize that I'm not perfect, but that it's ok. It's my own fault if I focus on the mistake and not on the remedy. The church has opportunities for both.
Later today I will be leaving the two Deist online groups. I will continue focusing all of my attention on finding meaning within the religious tradition that was given to me as a tool as part of my birthright. Yes, there is truth to be found in other religions, but that doesn't lessen the value of my own religion. The other religions are not there for me to convert to, but to learn from. My task is to work on my spirituality within the context of Catholicism. There will be challenges and disagreements, but I know from exploring other faith traditions that this was going to happen no matter what, in every conceivable tradition. The lesson is that we are not perfect, and neither are our human institutions (say, organized religion), but that's ok. The challenge is to learn to live within an imperfect world. To embrace acceptance. To be content with what is. To stop striving for a future time, a different place, and to get into the habit of perfecting every present moment, wherever we find ourselves.
Tomorrow I find out if we will have another baby. I'm leaning towards yes, that he's a boy, and that he will become a priest. And that he's the reason I have fully returned to the Church. I can't explain it any other way, except that today, I feel like fully Catholic again. And I thank God for that.
For about the past two years, since after Maya's baptism and our move to Maryland, I have struggled with my faith. At first it was just not a priority, then as I tried to get back into it, I realized I didn't feel it was a good fit and considered other faith traditions (yet again), and finally, I tried to makes sense of the label of spiritual independent and/or Deist. Last August, I attended a women's retreat through my Catholic church as a last ditch effort to remain Catholic. The advice I was given on that retreat was to not only keep attending mass, but to go back to receiving Communion, even if I didn't believe in the Real Presence or the creed, because God would meet me where I was.
So I decided that I still had a birthright to the label Catholic, even if others might call me "lapsed". I tried to grow in the faith again by attending a Discovering Christ series with Alex (and Maya!), which went OK but didn't convince me of anything. This was all of fall. This spring we attended the follow-up to it, Following Christ, and it was even worse. I was bored out of my mind and I might as well have been attending an atheist convention, because I didn't share any of the beliefs or assumptions that were being presented. I had pretty much given up hope on truly being Catholic again, and made my peace with being a Deist. I joined a couple of online Deist groups, which actually haven't been very active, and that was that.
But I wasn't happy. This weekend I got an incredible urge to want to believe again. I researched "making yourself believe something you don't" and "what's the harm in believing something that isn't true" and I read with great interest what a bunch of skeptics/atheists/Deists had to say on the subject. At the end of their arguments, I was left with a singular observation.
I have long held at my core that the meaning of life is to find happiness, and to help others find contentment. And my current spiritual trajectory just wasn't bringing me happiness. I thought I was quite rational, believing only what the objective evidence (nature) would allow for, and simply didn't believe in the concept of God revealing Himself through a prophet or holy book. But in the end, what good does it do me even if I do only believe in evidence-based facts, if this doesn't bring me joy? Is truth only the sum of rational facts?
Upon further reflection, I realized that truth is relative. Truth, beauty, love - these are not experienced equally by every individual. One person can love another when others do not. One person can find something beautiful when others do not. One experience can be true for someone when it isn't true for someone else. So while religion doesn't agree that truth is relative, and neither do atheists apparently (who reveal themselves to be just as religious as theists in that sense), my personal conviction is that truth and fact are not interchangeable.
There may not be facts to back up everything taught by my religion, but I can find universal truth in the interpretation, in the metaphorical meaning. My problem has always been that I have been too literal. I assume what I hear and read is literal unless and until proven otherwise. I've tried to accept Catholic teaching on a non-literal level before, but yesterday, I think I was finally granted the grace to do so!
I started praying again. Praying in the sense of speaking my heart to God. Not just in lifting an intention in my mind's eye and envisioning it being immersed and enveloped in God's purifying light. I still think I'll treat intercessory prayer that way, at least for now. But I actually spoke to God, to Jesus, to be specific. I called Him Lord and it didn't make my stomach churn. I think I have distanced myself from my previous literal understanding of God long enough that it is no longer a conflict for me to think of Jesus as Lord. In the interim, God has become very distant, abstract, impersonal, unapproachable, unknowable. Jesus is the opposite of all of those things. And I do not feel like I'm betraying God-the-Father by lifting my heart to God-the-Son, bc I now consider the way God-the-Father operates is more from a distance, by delegating - if you will - to Jesus. As I was praying in front of our Divine Mercy image of Jesus, I felt God's approval - all of God, including God-the-Father. And I thought about the Trinity, a concept that gave me so much trouble before, and realized that it's not literal. The Trinity is simply a Christian koan, a riddle that is meant to make us realize that we are never going to be able to comprehend the full nature of God, so we really should stop trying!
The timing couldn't have been much better. I didn't even realize we were entering Holy Week. We have a secular calendar hanging in the kitchen, and I have missed mass the last few weeks, so I had no idea where we were in the liturgical year. And then yesterday at mass, I looked around at all the familiar rituals, objects, words, and I found comfort in them, and realized they were "true" all along, I just kept interpreting them too literally.
I give myself permission to disagree with certain interpretations and teachings of the Church, following the advice of the priest from my last retreat, namely that God would meet me where I'm at. I don't feel the need to be in agreement with other Catholics, or the Catechism, or the Vatican, in order to reap the rewards of Catholicism. I give myself permission to be a part of an imperfect church, even as the church denies being wrong on such issues as gay rights. I believe it will come around, though perhaps not in my lifetime. But instead of trying to find a perfect place of worship, which I think had become a scapegoat for my own personal imperfections, I am embracing an imperfect church. And by extension, I am accepting myself as an imperfect being.
I don't like the term "sin" and "sinner", but synonyms such as missing the mark, being broken, veering off the path, having shortcomings... these are all undeniable and essentially all that "sinning" really means. It's funny, I don't like to think of myself as a sinner. It bothered me to no end how much focus there seems to be in Christianity on all the wrong we do, all of our mistakes, instead of focusing on how we can improve. But if I'm being honest, how can I know what to aim for if I don't know where I'm coming from? The message of Jesus is that my mistakes do not define me. It's critical to be honest with myself and realize that I'm not perfect, but that it's ok. It's my own fault if I focus on the mistake and not on the remedy. The church has opportunities for both.
Later today I will be leaving the two Deist online groups. I will continue focusing all of my attention on finding meaning within the religious tradition that was given to me as a tool as part of my birthright. Yes, there is truth to be found in other religions, but that doesn't lessen the value of my own religion. The other religions are not there for me to convert to, but to learn from. My task is to work on my spirituality within the context of Catholicism. There will be challenges and disagreements, but I know from exploring other faith traditions that this was going to happen no matter what, in every conceivable tradition. The lesson is that we are not perfect, and neither are our human institutions (say, organized religion), but that's ok. The challenge is to learn to live within an imperfect world. To embrace acceptance. To be content with what is. To stop striving for a future time, a different place, and to get into the habit of perfecting every present moment, wherever we find ourselves.
Tomorrow I find out if we will have another baby. I'm leaning towards yes, that he's a boy, and that he will become a priest. And that he's the reason I have fully returned to the Church. I can't explain it any other way, except that today, I feel like fully Catholic again. And I thank God for that.
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