Levity *because* Gravity, pt. 1

My parents and me

This series of posts have been more difficult for me to write.

First, I’m not into click-bait, vulnerability porn, sensationalizing, pity-seeking, or shit-comparing. Attention is precious; everybody shares their vulnerable moments for different reasons, no judgment here; my shit hasn’t felt exceptional, and it’s certainly not “more/less” or “better/worse” than anyone else’s. And I love my life. I wouldn’t trade a moment. (My deepest apologies to those I’ve hurt, and I’ve hurt many.)

There are lyrics that speak to this perfectly:

I’ve been down, I’ve seen the sun.

I’ve broke some hearts, but I loved every one.

I’ve been high, and I’ve seen the low.

I’ve broke some hearts, but it was mostly my own.

~Song by Sean Lucy called Tower Climber

Second, *I* am not better than anyone because of my experiences, or because of where I am for having had them.

Third, my stories of my parents are just stories. When I was young, I only knew them as a child knows an adult. As a young adult I came to know them differently, with more depth, as individuals. And now, as a parent myself, I know them on a different level, having tasted the continual heartbreak that comes with loving and being responsible for another human, a tiny one who cannot take care of their own needs, selflessly. Resentment has been replaced with forgiveness; bitterness has been replaced with sweetness; understanding and confabulation and memories (which are living things, adapting as we grow) have been reshaped countless times.

All that to say, part of me struggles with the light-hearted content of the “bites” I share. Given the political climate, the meta-crisis, the cognition crisis, the state of the planet as a living being crawling with living creatures, my posts could come off as tone deaf. Arrogant. Out of context and context-less. In fact, in a way, they just do– it’s the nature of bites.

But I wanted to share some of how I got here, to this light-hearted playfulness, where I am, why I’m sharing levity, inviting giggles, smirks, and chuckles (as well as pushback, pokiness, and every other emotion and experience that is part of your path) – each path matters, each pather matters. Mattering. Gravity.

Without justifying or being apologetic for it – I’d never expect that from someone else.

It’s levity *because* gravity, not despite it.

The experiences in these articles have punctuated my life, to an extent. They’re something more like semi-colons than commas. There have been many commas. When the time comes for my full stop, may I have contributed positively to this enchanted game of life, to the planet that feeds me *and* catapults me into wonder through beauty; to the people who have graced my presence with theirs, both tangibly and virtually; to the creatures, the energy, the unknown. May I have contributed to love.

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Childhood – My parents and me

I feel very lucky to have had the parents I did. Maybe I chose them, I haven’t landed on a “truth” there and don’t feel a need to; regardless, they shaped my childhood and my values – both implicitly and explicitly. Those values included metacognition [thinking about thinking/thinking about the process/system in which we exist, participate & observe]; both critical and constructive thinking; consideration and understanding.

my dad and me

My dad seems to have had a very Stoic philosophy, but definitely cherry-picked from a wide variety of faith traditions and seemed to touch magic; my mom was definitely influenced by Stoic philosophy; she loved learning and laughing and people, and she seemed comfortable in her agnosticism. Both of them loved people, to be honest. I can’t go through all of the relevant lessons they imparted to me. Suffice it to say, from a very young age, I knew the sound of deep, sustained laughter, the sound of people’s banter over the notes of a guitar playing familiar songs – songs requested by shouting, demanding children, requests filled with yes after yes after yes…

I knew what it was like to play our favorite dinner game (10 Faces at the Table, where we each had to make a different silly face, no repeats!), what it was to enjoy *playing* board games more than *winning* them. (I found out as an adult that my mom hated playing games because she was so competitive and lost so much, and it particularly stung that she lost to children - but we never saw that. She truly taught us to love the game and her genuine love of spending time with us shone through.)

In fact, my mom taught us that everything was a game, and there were games within games. This particular lesson has been invaluable to me – it became explicit when my brother needed remedial handwriting training in grade school. She told him (I’m paraphrasing):

“It’s a game. School is a game, and it has rules. One of the rules of the game is legible handwriting. Play the game until you don’t have to. If you play well the first time, you don’t have to play it again and again, during recess and lunch. And if you decide when you’re older you want to change the rules of the game, you can. But for now, play the handwriting game.”

I can’t say I played “well” but I can say I often recognized games at play. And I became more proficient at recognizing them. When I joined the Army, I saw Basic Training as a game, and would laugh at all the silly rules – which were actually on some level important, but which still could seem… unnecessary. I played well. I tried to share the silliness with some of my buddies, but most didn’t get it. Many took everything so personally; challenges were existential; they resisted, complained, did just enough to get by.

I was shocked – why not try your hardest? Even if you don’t like this game, you’re going to learn something that you can use later! I might not love holding my rifle over my head for 15 minutes straight, but I loved the obstacle course, and I knew if I was stronger from holding the rifle I’d do better at the obstacle course. Sometimes I’d get frustrated, like, “Just play the fucking game!”-- which would end up being a perfect opportunity to laugh at myself for getting frustrated!

my mama and me

My mom and I had a volatile relationship through my early 20’s. Only in hindsight could I understand that she was doing her best. Only in hindsight could I see the tremendous effort she made to parent my brothers and me differently than she’d been parented. She didn’t know her mother’s love; I never questioned mine. She had no siblings (and didn’t learn how to lose!); I grew up with three younger brothers and excelled at losing.

She surrounded herself with parents she respected and she emulated them as best she could. And she did a damn good job. Parenting differently than you’ve been parented is incredibly difficult. And I was so contemptuous of her…

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My dad and I had a different relationship. I was the only girl, and the oldest. When I was young, sometimes I got special time with just him (like going to Detroit to buy paint in bulk). He named me. Not really, but kinda. My real name is Kimela, which is Kimberly (my mom’s pick) and Pamela (my mom’s name and my dad’s pick) smashed together - it’s also the name of my mom’s best friend from college, my fairy godmother. But when I was a baby, my mom worked away from home and my dad stayed home with me. And I cried. A lot. He was afraid to hold babies, so I mostly was in a laundry basket with blankets. But he would play guitar and sing made-up songs to me, and I’d stop crying for a particular song he sang, one in which he called me Mariquizzenbop. He shortened it to Mari, and it stuck.

Only in hindsight could I see that his drinking was coping, that it was probably a good thing he wasn’t carrying me around in his regularly intoxicated state. Only after years of grieving could I come to terms with the cognitive dissonance I felt, knowing he loved me but didn’t hold me, knowing how much he loved people even as I knew how little he contributed to supporting our well-being financially. Only after I had children could I truly hold that he loved us; and no amount of loving means conformity, fitting into “the system” or society easily, making money and paying bills. His eccentricity, the very thing which people found charming, was also his shadow.

Even when I couldn’t stand my mom and didn’t trust my dad, I never doubted their love for me. “All you need is love” was a phrase I heard a lot, and one my brothers and I used with each other. More than love is needed, actually, to make a home. I trip up, and I’m going to trip up more. But I hope my actions allow my kids to never doubt my love for them, no matter how many times I fall. I try to continually orient actions to my conviction of love. Love as a verb, not just a feeling. It’s easy to love them; it sure as heck ain’t easy to make it obvious in times of frustration.

My dad was charming and charismatic, a fantastic (and fantastical) storyteller; he always aimed for the stars… and he loved to drink. He loved to laugh, he enjoyed people, he enjoyed moments and partying, and he had wings.

My mom (mostly silently) suffered from depression; she struggled with moments as such, but she loved people. Our house was *the* hang-out house. Everyone was welcome. There was always another chair, another bowl. She joyfully anticipated regular old friends coming over, and she also actively planned block parties and brought together people to celebrate. She enjoyed observing, facilitating opportunities for others to play; she enjoyed discovering what made people tick, what lit them up, and she grew roots for us.

Dad and Ma. Wings and roots. Moving around and staying put. Nomad and homemaker. Being your home where you go and finding home in a place. These are concepts I’ve wrestled with for much of my life. I’ve said since high school “If home is where your heart is, then I’m home everywhere I go, because I bring my heart with me everywhere.”

More on home in other posts… here, this part fades, lingering in the interstitial spaces.

I’m open to feedback, personal commentary, anything. Feel free to leave a comment if you’re moved.