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Inner Space

A child and adolescent curriculum writer devoted to the exploration of inner, and individually driven spirituality that strengthens world wide inclusivity. My curriculum comes from Life's inner story. This is a record of my Life's inner space.

Month

October 2017

Hate, Intellect, Humility and Pot Roast.

Hate doesn’t appear to be precarious, yet it needs no certain foundation. Hate floats and flickers in no certain space; somewhere between an experience and a choice. Hate in its highest degree is a huge choice, with permanent consequences. To consider an alternative to hate is sapping and severe, but I wonder if the emotional drain has a purpose. I often wonder if there is a place for hate, a good reason to hate or an experience where hate would be immanent.

I hate pot roast.

I hate to bother people.

I hate feeling hurt.

I hate broken cell phone screens.

I hate knowing I hurt someone.

I hate math.

Or do I? Is it hate? A degree of hate? A context of hate? In some instances am I utilizing hate in a way I can stand for?

I really hate pot roast, it literally disgusts me and it’s offended me all of my life, or all of it I can remember.

I may just use the word hate to describe how intolerant and nauseated I am of the smell, image and flavor of a soaking pot roast. However, I don’t think about pot roast very often and my hate of it really has only called out two actions, and that’s avoidance and communicating to my mother that I need to know when it is being prepared so I can find somewhere else to be. She’s kindly (although flabbergasted) always followed my pot roast boundaries.

But at a surface level pot roast isn’t hurting anyone- however I do recognize there is an animal cruelty aspect, but do you understand what I mean by that? Pot Roast isn’t hurting anyone (but me)?

In some ways I could argue that this hate I have for pot roast is imminent and serves a pretty good purpose- keeping me AWAY from pot roast.

What about hate for people, ideologies, races etcetera?

In an intellectual comparison to my hate of pot roast, I recognize I wasn’t born hating pot roast. Or perhaps I was? I suppose I could have a genetic DNA structure that is pre-wired to disdain the smell and image of pot roast….. Perhaps it is linked to my dental structure? I was born missing molars. It’s always been a dental anomaly. My son was also born without the said molars. Perhaps all of these things are linked in some cosmic reasoning that I can’t quite compute, but can certainly intellectualize until my hair falls out.

Are we born hating people? Smells? Foods? Places?

A little bit I’d suppose… babies are often abhorrent to deep, masculine voices. Again a biological trait. We could intellectualize an infant’s ability to hate, but would it really matter?

What we know for certain is we are born with fear.

We can intellectualize our fear, or we can meet it with humility.

Intellectualism has its place, certainly. But to be frank it’s quite circular… often self-absorbed and quite competitive and combative. Have you read any of the Facebook comments intellectualizing Trump’s presidency, racism, vaccinations, nazis, abortion, circumcision, Joel Osteen, Parenting styles, animal rights…..

I mean I’ve certainly been in the thick of these dialogues myself, or are they dialogues? When I’m outraged by someone’s perspective and organize a perfect paragraph of points and patronizations….. Am I connecting with the person or am I talking to myself?

And what a funny word…. Patronize. To exude kindness and support toward someone you believe to be inferior. This is how I feel when I choose intellect over humility, patronizing.

I have three things that I believe have developed my personhood, none of which come from my 12 years in college. One is taking care of my grandmother at home until she died in her bed. Crushing pills, getting straws, cleaning colostomy bags, putting shakes in a feeding tube, singing songs, praying, crying, screaming, kissing on the forehead, and fear. The second is giving birth to my son and raising him. Pain, Love, intuition, sleep deprivation, laughter, screaming, crying, reading, smiling, fear and joy. Last is being a preschool teacher. One of the questions a preschool teacher has to think about is how they see the child. Is the child a blank slate, to be filled with knowledge? Am I of superior knowledge? What is my role with this child? My answer to that question is I am supporting the child in uncovering their knowledge. When a child says, “I don’t know how to do it!” I say, “you do know how to do it, you just have to practice doing it.” The child and I are equally intelligent in every circumstance. Am I more well-read than the child, most would argue yes. When I interact with a child my intellectualism is completely meaningless, it’s still mine, I can utilize it… but it does nothing for the connection I have with that child. The same for when I cared for my grandmother, and raising my son.
Intellectualism is for you, it is a tool you can use to explore your own mind, your own experiences and your own ideas. Sure, you can even intellectualize the experiences, ideas, and minds of others. But to connect with another person’s ideas, mind and experiences we must use another tool, the tool of humility. For me, it is important to remember that my intellect is not who I am, but a tool in exploring who I am. My intellect is short lived, and so is yours.

What if we refer to humility above intellect?

 

 

Birth Story 

It was October 14th, I was madly nesting. My house had been scrubbed top to bottom, just like it had been daily for the past, well every day. I found myself at Walmart with my mom, buying candles for his first night home and all kinds of things I found extremely important at the time. 

We were out all day. I remember having to stop so many times, I was getting these pains, nothing major. 

We ended up at Macyos, where I got two meals because I was starving and couldn’t choose. I was stuffed and went home. 

4 days before my midwife told me she would be out of town from October 14-16th. She assured me she’s never missed a delivery in her 30 years of practice… and Gavin’s due date was October 31st, so I didn’t feel entirely worried. 

When I got home I took a long shower, 11:45pm suddenly I felt cold water… I couldn’t figure it out until I realized my own water might have broken. After some frantic investigation I figured out it had.

I called my mom, grabbed my bag, and headed to the hospital. 

On the way I listened to “Bowl of Oranges” by Bright Eyes. I got in an elevator, my entire life waiting a few floors up. I was silently breathing, shaking. 

When I arrived I was 6 almost 7 centimeters dialated. The dinner I had I not so gracefully left on the triage floor, and those pains I had all day were actually contractions. 

They tried to give me an epidural emediately upon arrival and I vehemently declined. 

My midwife was gone, her backup was birthing another baby and I was simply waiting for a staff doctor or student. 

They hooked me up with tape and needles and wires, and I was stuck to the bed, breathing. I asked to walk, but it was too hard to get undone. I asked for a wet wash cloth, which I layed over my eyes. 

I saw nothing but the wet white, I paid careful attention to every feeling I had, but I could both feel it intensely or not at all if I chose. 

I asked that everyone in the room be quiet, and I asked my mom to request the same of the nurses. 

It was time. They asked me to push. 

Sometimes I could push and sometimes I was too tired. The Dr. would say, “can’t you feel the contraction?” I’d lie and say I couldn’t, I just needed a moment. I pretended like nothing happened, laying still, but I could feel it. 

I gave birth silently. I never screamed or made any other sound beside the energy it took to push.

He was here.

I took the washcloth off and my doctor had frosted tips on his hair. I imagined he looked like John Kerry, but he didn’t. It was 6:23am

They took Gavin away from my view. He only cried for a second that I could hear.

My entire body reverberated such joy. While they were sewing together parts of my body, I was smiling. 

During this time Gavin was blue, but they hid it, even my mom hid it. 

He finally took his second breath and I soon had him in my arms. I smiled with my entire body.

They took him quickly because they didn’t realize I was o- blood type and didn’t take proper precautions.

I went into a full room of mothers who just gave birth, some with epiderals who couldn’t move, some with c-sections,some  asleep… me, just trying to stand up and use the restroom so I could get out of there. Easier said than done. It took 4 hours.

I was in a room, with another mom. October 15th. My son was in another room and I couldn’t stand up. 

I was alone. 

My friend Ashlie walked in, I had cold outmeal on the table. The mother next to me spoke Spanish. 

I cried when I saw her. She was so excited.

I told her I couldn’t walk, and they had Gavin. She talked to me about life, she made me laugh, and smile.. and walk. 

They brought Gavin back. We loved him.

Ashlie went home and I sat up straight. I picked up Gavin and laid him on me. I looked at him and cried. I told him I loved him. We were alone, it was very quiet and he said the same thing. 

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