LyricalEchoes (
lyricalechoes) wrote2011-01-22 06:27 pm
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Each Step, Each Breath
Our first journey isn't taken on our feet but on our head. But every journey, even this first one, begins with the same problem:
"How do I breathe? Why do I feel only wind instead of the fluid I know and love?" Why, on every trail, do we find the familiar changed?
In a way that is always our first problem, on each new trail we encounter. "How do I breathe?" "Is this air safe?"
I know I have faced that problem many times through my life, besides, of course, that first time.
My first day of Kindergarten was a shock. How do I breathe here in this world I have never known? Why does it take Mom so long to come get me again? What if I don't remember which turns take me back to my classroom?
I knew one boy already named Andrew but he wasn't at my table. The walls were covered in posters and I couldn't read yet. Was that OK? Or was I already behind?
I wondered if I had brought the right lunch. I was so proud of my Strawberry Shortcake lunch box and thermos but could the other kids tell it was bought at a yard sale? What if no one would play with me on the playground?
Eventually, I found friends and grew to love kindergarten but first grade was new all over again. For first grade, I had not just changed schools but also countries. I started first grade at St. Anne's Catholic school in Brussels, Belgium. I really felt I couldn't breathe there! None of the other children spoke English and I didn't know French! My teacher knew a few words of English but I really wanted to speak to the other kids at recess.
St. Anne's was Catholic so there were different rituals, crossing ourselves as we sung a prayer before lunch for example, that I didn't know how to do. Desperate to fit in, I copied the other children but felt painfully obvious of being one move behind the others.
Second grade meant a new country but this time at home. Home this time, however, meant a home in Africa. How do I breathe when, yet again, I did not know the language? Home-schooling was isolating too, as all the other white children my age were sent away to boarding school. I met one African girl, Bebe, who knew some French and she taught me some of the local dialect(which was called Lingala.) I often wonder how Bebe's life turned out after our trails diverged. Does she remember me?
Every trail we face is different. The texture of each path is different. Some paths are muddy, some are dry sand. Some trails we remember for the isolation and some for the people we met on our journey. Every trail is a new adventure. Often I feel I just can't face more change but I have found, if I will pause and breathe, usually I can gather the strength to plod on.
When I first went to physical therapy at 18, the pain was tremendous. How can I continue the repetitions? They wanted me to do how many? Were they serious?
"Breathe," my therapist, Heather, said. "You can do this but you can't if you don't breathe." I passed out one day, right there by the pool after water therapy. After I woke and she saw I was OK, Heather scolded me. "See, what have I told you. To stay aware, to keep from falling, you must breathe!"
I remember, years later, wondering, "Now that I started this parenting trail, how do I breathe? How can I promise to protect my son from all the dangers in this world?" This trail seemed full of dangers: his circumcision might become infected, he might catch RSV, he might roll off the changing table to the floor. So much responsibility, a new life in my arms, how do I breathe? I was ready but not ready. My husband had lost his job just a month before my son was born. With uncertainty and little money, how do I breathe? And yet I did. I breathed for him. As long as I could breathe, I could keep him safe, or at least try to. I needed a clear head to counter my full heart.
Breathing seems so simple and yet sometimes so hard to do. During my third pregnancy, when I learned the baby within me had died, I cried so hard I just ... I couldn't breathe. I couldn't stop my grief enough but self-preservation took over, even when I did not care. A ragged breath in, out. But even if I stopped breathing, nothing could make my baby breathe. He would never feel that life-giving wind. I left him by the trail and somehow, in time, walked away. There are no graves for miscarriages but his loss is close and never quite forgotten.
Breathing is a choice. Mostly involuntary, we will all have times when we can't breathe ... or don't want to. I've traveled many trails, some very unwillingly. But, no matter what we face, we must draw the wind of life inside our lungs. In, out. In, out.
We do not know where our current trail ends or what dangers we will meet along the way. But, forgetting the sorrows of the past, we must remember our infancy ... and breathe.
"How do I breathe? Why do I feel only wind instead of the fluid I know and love?" Why, on every trail, do we find the familiar changed?
In a way that is always our first problem, on each new trail we encounter. "How do I breathe?" "Is this air safe?"
I know I have faced that problem many times through my life, besides, of course, that first time.
My first day of Kindergarten was a shock. How do I breathe here in this world I have never known? Why does it take Mom so long to come get me again? What if I don't remember which turns take me back to my classroom?
I knew one boy already named Andrew but he wasn't at my table. The walls were covered in posters and I couldn't read yet. Was that OK? Or was I already behind?
I wondered if I had brought the right lunch. I was so proud of my Strawberry Shortcake lunch box and thermos but could the other kids tell it was bought at a yard sale? What if no one would play with me on the playground?
Eventually, I found friends and grew to love kindergarten but first grade was new all over again. For first grade, I had not just changed schools but also countries. I started first grade at St. Anne's Catholic school in Brussels, Belgium. I really felt I couldn't breathe there! None of the other children spoke English and I didn't know French! My teacher knew a few words of English but I really wanted to speak to the other kids at recess.
St. Anne's was Catholic so there were different rituals, crossing ourselves as we sung a prayer before lunch for example, that I didn't know how to do. Desperate to fit in, I copied the other children but felt painfully obvious of being one move behind the others.
Second grade meant a new country but this time at home. Home this time, however, meant a home in Africa. How do I breathe when, yet again, I did not know the language? Home-schooling was isolating too, as all the other white children my age were sent away to boarding school. I met one African girl, Bebe, who knew some French and she taught me some of the local dialect(which was called Lingala.) I often wonder how Bebe's life turned out after our trails diverged. Does she remember me?
Every trail we face is different. The texture of each path is different. Some paths are muddy, some are dry sand. Some trails we remember for the isolation and some for the people we met on our journey. Every trail is a new adventure. Often I feel I just can't face more change but I have found, if I will pause and breathe, usually I can gather the strength to plod on.
When I first went to physical therapy at 18, the pain was tremendous. How can I continue the repetitions? They wanted me to do how many? Were they serious?
"Breathe," my therapist, Heather, said. "You can do this but you can't if you don't breathe." I passed out one day, right there by the pool after water therapy. After I woke and she saw I was OK, Heather scolded me. "See, what have I told you. To stay aware, to keep from falling, you must breathe!"
I remember, years later, wondering, "Now that I started this parenting trail, how do I breathe? How can I promise to protect my son from all the dangers in this world?" This trail seemed full of dangers: his circumcision might become infected, he might catch RSV, he might roll off the changing table to the floor. So much responsibility, a new life in my arms, how do I breathe? I was ready but not ready. My husband had lost his job just a month before my son was born. With uncertainty and little money, how do I breathe? And yet I did. I breathed for him. As long as I could breathe, I could keep him safe, or at least try to. I needed a clear head to counter my full heart.
Breathing seems so simple and yet sometimes so hard to do. During my third pregnancy, when I learned the baby within me had died, I cried so hard I just ... I couldn't breathe. I couldn't stop my grief enough but self-preservation took over, even when I did not care. A ragged breath in, out. But even if I stopped breathing, nothing could make my baby breathe. He would never feel that life-giving wind. I left him by the trail and somehow, in time, walked away. There are no graves for miscarriages but his loss is close and never quite forgotten.
Breathing is a choice. Mostly involuntary, we will all have times when we can't breathe ... or don't want to. I've traveled many trails, some very unwillingly. But, no matter what we face, we must draw the wind of life inside our lungs. In, out. In, out.
We do not know where our current trail ends or what dangers we will meet along the way. But, forgetting the sorrows of the past, we must remember our infancy ... and breathe.
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Thanks for your encouragement!:)
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I'm glad you think it "worked" instead of being distracting or confusing.
Thanks for commenting!
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Also I hope somewhere you still have a Stawberry Shortcake luncbox. :)
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I wish I did still have that lunch box but, with 4 younger sisters, I'm not sure how it "died." Ah well. I have bought a strawberry shortcake backpack and the Lemon Meringue doll I coveted (and never got) as a child. As a child, I only had Strawberry Shortcake and Huckleberry Fin. My mother thought those names were horrible ("naming children after food!") so officially my Strawberry Shortcake was named Nancy.
It's funny how some details of childhood stay with you...
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My dad was a doctor in Africa for a couple years so that was why we lived there. One of the main languages apart from the tribal dialects was French so before we went to Africa, he went to a language school in Belgium.
I am glad for my experiences in different places but I appreciate them more now that I am older. As a child, I REALLY hated moving so often:( But that is a child for you, preferring what is familiar. I would not trade the perspective all the moving gave to me.
Have you traveled much?
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I have lived in the same place all my life--Missouri. I have travled though. All over the US, Canada, Mexico, and I went to Germany for an exchange trip after my senior year in high school. I want to go back to Germany some day because I know the language pretty well, and the food is amazing! I don't know about Africa, but I would love to go to Belgium. I don't know French though. Lol!
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It was in 2005 and we did go on to have another child. That helped some but I do think of that baby we lost sometimes.
Thanks for commenting.
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I don't know. Finding the approach seemed hard (for me.)
Thanks for commenting!
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Did you move a lot?
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I'm not good at having long lasting friends in some ways. And I'm not sure if that was from moving around or other issues.
And you don't have to reply (that is kind of personal) but if you moved around a lot too...I was just wondering if you had/have the same...if you have noticed this about yourself too. At all.
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Which now, they probably will. But...it's like I'm afraid to trust them?
I'm working on it. I'm better than I was in high school. But..I don't really have many close friends. I do try (sometimes) but yes, reaching out...so many..either rejections or close friends that had to be left behind.
I wonder if we ever grow past that? My best friends are my journals and my books. And then I feel selfish or something...we're all supposed to risk being friends with people right? I don't know. I get very conflicted on this subject.
Thanks for answering though. And I hope you...either enjoy who you are or find out how to reach out if that is something you want. I don't have answers here on how to do that, really though.
Oh well, like you said. We're at least creative, I guess:)
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As for it getting "better", I don't think it will for me. I'm pretty comfortable with my anti-social self though I'll admit it took me a long time to get there.
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...and I'm so sorry about your lost child. I can't imagine that pain.
Thanks for writing.
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When I told Bebe I had to move back to the US, she crocheted me a little round decoration like one would put on a table. So I have that to remember her.
I would guess she may remember me but we were in Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of the Congo) and that area has a lot of problems with widespread AIDS. Sometimes I wonder if she is still alive. So many died in childbirth there too...
I still have my other children. But...even with other children...I did love that baby already. And it did...it was hard to let go of. Against reason, it is hard not to...one feels like..one has failed in protecting the child within your womb. There was nothing to be done but it just..it felt like..I had not protected him somehow.
I guess everything is for a reason but yes, it was hard.
Thanks for your kind words.
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I always wonder that too, about others I knew when I was very small.
I loved this and its message. I found it really fascinating to imagine as well - all that moving and change!
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But looking back, all trails led to where we are now and I appreciate the perspective living overseas gave me. So many natives had SO little in Africa. I am more grateful for all the good things we have in the USA.
Thanks for your comment.
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I really love this line.
Thanks for sharing the stuff about your schooling. It's interesting for me to consider since I am living in a foreign country and have just started my eldest son at the equivalent of pre-kindergarten, I believe. Luckily their classes are in English!
This was a very powerful entry, thank you for sharing!
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I am glad his classes are in English. The sister after me was in K4 and her teacher spoke no English at all. I hardly knew any French but I remember several times being called down to translate to my sister what her teacher was trying to say. She hated school. Too confusing when you are young and don't know the language.
She quit when my mom had my fourth sibling.
I loved Brussels in some ways. I would love to return. My favorite friend there was named Sophie. It was the "style" to have autograph books then and she wrote in mine. I wonder how her life turned out.
I've thought of her a lot recently as she came over for my 7th birthday. My middle child turned 7 yesterday.
Thanks for commenting!
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You're very sweet to say you would want to know me. Sometimes I feel so..."boring and old" LOL:)
Your comment made my day!
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