Happy Families? How do you do summer?

So I was talking to a friend (well, emailing) and she was feeling guilty.

‘The holidays are nearly over and I don’t feel I’ve done anything with the children.  I mean, what will they remember when they’re older?  Sitting in front of the TV all summer?’

I reassured her. I made the right noises. About how I feel we are under too much pressure to provide these perfect experiences for our children. About how I don’t feel a bit of boredom hurts a child.  But even so, I know what she means. 

This summer it’s been okay – I haven’t had the annual attack of the guilts.  James and I went to Morocco (however unsuccessful it was on the activity front, we got to hang out a lot together and that was plain lovely) and, right now, he’s in Berlin with Adrian.  In between he’s been working – seriously hard – at the local shop-cum-café and volunteering at the local retirement home.  He’s done a bit of cricket, seen a few mates, and, yes (we’re now coming to the dregs of it) spent many an hour shooting things (goals and zombies) on Xbox and stayed up hideously late to watch Family Guy.  But hey…

And it did make me think, again, how little we do as a family.  It’s always been like that and I’ve always felt bad about it.  Because some families just seem to manage it – they’re always popping off to the beach, or heading out for picnics or barbecues or camping or kayaking or biking or whatever.  And we…don’t.  

James' toes for a change.  :)

The problem is that we just don’t like doing the same thing.  Or at least, not in the same way.  Adrian isn’t exactly allergic to the beach but he’s never really enjoyed it.  When James was small he would occasionally make an effort and would sit, on a rock, in jeans, combat boots, bomber jacket, reading a book on the War, looking pained.   On the other hand, he loves seriously long hikes.  I see walking as a kind of contemplation; he sees it as an endurance challenge.  He loves pubs – he’s sociable, loves chatting to people, any people, about anything.  And he absolutely adores cooking, eating, drinking.  His eyes come alive if he hears the words ‘street food’ and if anyone says  ‘pulled pork’, he starts to salivate.  Whereas I can’t be doing with small talk, get bored rigid in pubs and would happily live on oats and grapefruit.   

But it’s not really that, is it?  I wonder if we learn this togetherness or solitude from our own childhoods.  When I think back, I can’t remember our family doing anything together really.  We didn’t have a car so there was no opportunity for day trips or picnics or trips to the sea.  Once a year we went on holiday to the beach but it never seemed a particularly joyous occasion.  Dad would sit in the pub or go for long walks while the rest of us would sit in the beach hut listening to the rain.  My memories of childhood are predominantly solitary.  It never bothered me, not one bit.  Maybe some of us are wired for family communality; some not so much.

But anyhow, what do you do?  Compromise?  Take it in turns to do whatever turns you on?  Or just accept that you’ve got different tastes and split up for activities?  Usually we opt for the latter but this summer we’ve notched up two exceptions.  We made it to the beach one day (well, for a few hours) and Adrian even admitted he quite enjoyed it.  It wasn’t the long lazy day of flopping in and out of the water for which I'd hoped.  In my head, I see a campfire and clinking glasses and laughter as the sun goes down.  I hear a guitar playing maybe, quietly against the bass beat of the soft waves.  There’s no angst, no watching the clock, no anxiety about what other people are or aren’t doing.  What a dreamer, huh?  But hey, let's not grumble. It was nice. 

And likewise, the other day when Adrian said he was going for a walk, I said I’d go with him.  ‘Really?’ he said.  ‘Are you sure?’  And we walked up into the woods and did a long circuit, crouching like commandos through the undergrowth, clambering up rocks, sliding down steep hillsides.  ‘Don’t you want to go to your tree and meditate or something?’ he said but I shook my head.  But it was nice he thought of it.  And we came back down into town and I said, ‘Do you want a drink?’ and we sat outside the pub and he had a few pints while I had a couple of decaf coffees and that was fine too. 

Maybe we just have to make a bit more effort.  Maybe we have to put aside our own selfish desires sometimes and fit in with what other people want?  Maybe we have to meet halfway. 

I don’t know.  How do you do it?  

Vulnerability

I never did tell you about the third thing, did I?  And I should, I really should.  Because I feel it’s important.  So, there’s this guy I chat to on Twitter – Keith Jones (@KeithJonesDaman).  We don’t talk a lot but he’s one of those people I just like. He thinks deeply about stuff; he doesn’t just toss out his opinion left, right and centre; he doesn’t do kneejerk.  And he’s not scared of saying what he thinks – he quite often disagrees with me, which is great.  But, then again, he’s equally not scared of looking at something again, with fresh eyes, and coming back and saying ‘Okay, I was wrong.’  And that’s really unusual, don’t you think?

Anyhow, a short time back, he sent me a link asking for my opinion on something or other.  I confess, my mind was elsewhere and I clean forgot to click.  Then, a few days later, it popped into my head and I apologised for not getting back to him and asked him if he could resend it.  He did.  And it was a talk by a woman called Brené Brown entitled The power of vulnerability.

I’d never heard of this woman and I don’t usually like watching clips of speakers but Keith had asked so I listened.  And I laughed because she’s a very good speaker.  And yeah, it chimed with me because she encapsulated a lot of what I’ve been feeling over the last year.

In a nutshell, she researched connection. For six years. She was looking to discover what makes some people feel loved and connected and ‘belonging’ while others feel loss, loneliness and disconnection. 

‘When you ask people about love, they tell you about heartbreak,’ she said. ‘When you ask people about belonging, they'll tell you their most excruciating experiences of being excluded. And when you ask people about connection, the stories they told me were about disconnection.’

So she asked what stopped the majority of people allowing love and connection and she found shame. The fear that if people know the truth about you, they won't feel you're worthy. 'Shame is universal.' insisted Brown. 'The only people who don't experience shame have no capacity for human empathy or connection.’

She talked about the ‘not good enough’ syndrome – not being young enough, thin enough, smart enough, rich enough, beautiful enough. Cue hollow laughter from me. And then she said the cruncher: ‘The thing that underpinned this was excruciating vulnerability, this idea of, in order for connection to happen, we have to allow ourselves to be seen, really seen.’ Oh hellfire...how scary is that? 

Yet she found that some people did allow themselves to be seen; they did allow love and belonging to flow through them. And so she asked those with ‘the knack’ how they did it.  And found they felt they were worthy of love and belonging. Hmm. Kinda obvious really. Good self-esteem?  But not just that. She analysed it further, broke it down smaller and found that they shared other characteristics.

-       

              They had  courage. The courage to be imperfect.

       They had compassion – first to themselves and then to other people.

       They were authentic – willing to let go of who they thought they should be in order to be who they were.

       They embraced vulnerability. Totally.

‘They talked about the willingness to say, "I love you" first,’ said Brown. ‘The willingness to do something where there are no guarantees, the willingness to breathe through waiting for the doctor to call after your mammogram. They're willing to invest in a relationship that may or may not work out. They thought this was fundamental.’

They didn’t find being vulnerable comfortable – it isn’t. Yet they didn’t find it excruciating (as those who felt shame did). They just found it was necessary. And I agree, though I battle with it.

And Brown went on to say that, when we fear vulnerability, we numb ourselves.  In one way or another – with alcohol, food, drugs, spending, television, gaming, work, whatever.  And the problem is you can’t selectively numb emotions – so if you numb out fear and shame and grief and vulnerability; you also numb out joy and love and gratitude and happiness.

And she made another point which chimed:  when we feel uncertain and vulnerable, we seek to make everything that is uncertain certain. Religion. Politics. I’m right; you’re wrong. Shut up. ‘Religion has gone from a belief in faith and mystery to certainty,’ she says. ‘In politics, there's no discourse anymore. There's no conversation. There's just blame.’

So. What’s the answer. This is what Brown says:

‘This is what I have found: to let ourselves be seen, deeply seen, vulnerably seen; to love with our whole hearts, even though there's no guarantee… To practice gratitude and joy in those moments of terror, when we're wondering, "Can I love you this much? Can I believe in this this passionately? Can I be this fierce about this?" just to be able to stop and, instead of catastrophizing what might happen, to say, "I'm just so grateful, because to feel this vulnerable means I'm alive."

And, you know, I agree with that. I’ve spent the majority of my life being petrified of vulnerability. I have always made damn sure I let nobody come close enough to hurt me.  Of course, having a child blows that clean out the water and I’m pretty sure that’s why I had such a tough time as a new mother.  But I figure now, at this stage in my life, it’s time to dump the fear and the shame.  And just be.  I am what I am. This is it.  It's hard; damn hard. But I'm trying. Because she's right, if you feel vulnerable, you do feel alive. If you close yourself off, if you numb yourself, you're halfway dead. 

If you want to listen to the whole talk, you can check it out here.