I took a little blogging break there for a while. There was some stuff going on that I couldn't blog about and it's hard for me to blog when there's stuff going on that I can't blog about. It turned out alright for now, but I was pretty distracted for a bit.
I've been thinking a lot lately about what's okay to blog about and what isn't, and while I don't have water-tight criteria, for the most part I stay away from telling other people's stories. Not everyone wants their stuff out there on the internet, and I get it; it's kind of scary to expose yourself, even when the exposure is controlled. And really, even the nosiest person probably has a limit for Too Much Information. Truthfully, I kind of panicked a little after I put up my NFP blog. I think it's still ingrained in my subconscious that talking about sex, even NOT having it, is taboo. So I panicked, but I put it up anyway because I thought about how grateful I would have been to have known that information when Jack was three months old, and someone else in a similar position might be grateful to find it.
I had another reason for putting up the NFP blog. In recent years a number of things have come up that I wished had been a conversation earlier. For example, no one ever once heard my brother Karoly say that he wanted to kill himself. He didn't talk about it. My guess is, like a lot of the other stuff he didn't talk about, he was ashamed. It can be tricky, growing up Catholic and emerging without a strong sense of shame. I once heard the difference between guilt and shame defined like this: guilt is directed at the action, shame is directed at the person. Guilt lets you know when you've made a poor choice, shame makes you feel worthless. I know the traditional phrase is "Catholic guilt," but I think shame is really more accurate. That phrase has always irritated me but I didn't really understand why until I'd done a few things that I was ashamed of. I know now that it irritates me because it's a distortion of the way things really are, of the way they ought to be. If a person is really and truly Catholic in an authentic sense, they would know that shame has no place in the Church. To feel shame is to believe God doesn't have the power to forgive you. I was standing in the back of a church with Jack once when he caught sight of the confessional and asked me what it was. He was three years old and we'd never really discussed Confession before, so I wanted to choose my words very carefully because I know how lasting first impressions can be. I said "That's a confessional. If someone has made some poor choices, that's a special place where they can go and talk to a priest about their choices, and the priest will help them make some better choices."
"Oh," said Jack, totally unfazed.
I still struggle with my attitude towards Confession. On the one hand, no one really wants to rattle off a list of their shortcomings in a public forum for all to hear. On the other hand, it tends to impart an illicit quality to something you do in a dark little room with the door closed, your voice barely louder than a whisper so that the people waiting outside won't hear you. You don't want them to know. It might change how they feel about you if they knew. But the fact of the matter is, it doesn't change
you.
I'm all for discretion. I don't think that personal disclosure should be done in a way that is focused on scandal or generates gossip. I think it should be done in a way that is open and honest and authentic, in a way that says "I'm a real person with real struggles, just like everyone else." I once heard a priest say "You think you're original sinners; I've been listening to your confessions for 20 years and I've got news for you: you're all the same."
I know people who have carried dark secrets to their graves, and after they're gone and the truth comes out the reaction is mostly: big deal. I can't imagine keeping a secret about myself because I'm afraid my family will disown me if they know. I don't want that kind of weight. Aaron and I have both made choices we're not proud of, and we've told each other about those choices. We accept each other in totality, no exceptions. It's an amazing feeling, to know that someone knows absolutely everything about you, strengths and weaknesses, joys and fears, and loves you unconditionally anyway. I wouldn't know what that felt like if I held back. I don't want to live my life holding back; it's a waste of time and it leads to relationships that aren't authentic. It also saddens me to think that some people are so insecure in their relationships that they think someone might stop loving them if they really knew everything about them.
That being said, I'm not going to start posting everything I've ever done on my blog. I don't recommend that for anyone. Spewing all your flaws to anyone who will listen isn't real honesty anyway, and the people I know who do that sort of thing use it as a way to keep from changing, to keep playing and replaying the messages they tell themselves about who they are. It's a voluntary abdication of power: I am this person who screwed up this and that way and that's just who I am.
What I do recommend is, if there's something you don't want to talk about, ask yourself
why you don't want to talk about it. The answer is probably that you want to avoid judgment. The interesting thing is, perfect people are boring. And they're not real; no one is perfect. I find it much more comforting to read about other moms who struggle to be good wives and mothers than the moms who appear not to struggle at all. Not struggle doesn't help me, I can't learn anything from that. In my experience anyway,
not talking about things has done far more damage than too much talking.
That's why lately, I've found the hard parts of my life comforting. If I'm struggling it means I'm working, that I'm actively and consciously engaging what is challenging to me. It means I'm not keeping the hard parts out of the conversation, that the trouble spots are talked about, addressed, not passed over or swept under the rug to fester for years. This is the sentiment I was trying to get at when I named my blog "Body of Work," a term usually used to refer to a bunch of lovely finished products produced by an artist. I want my life to be both: lovely finished products, and ongoing work. I want my kids to feel like they can tell me and Aaron anything, no matter how awful it seems to them, so they will know they really and truly are loved no matter what. I expect a lot of those conversations will be hard, but they will be real. I'll take hard and real over easy and false any day.
And in the spirit of authenticity, I thought I should let you see my kitchen. Sure I make a lot of beautiful food, but I also make a lot of mess while doing it. And in the spirit of engaging life's challenges, I'm going to get off the computer and go clean the kitchen. It's good to be able to talk about the problem areas, but it's not terribly helpful unless you're willing to do something about them.
I took a little blogging break there for a while. There was some stuff going on that I couldn't blog about and it's hard for me to blog when there's stuff going on that I can't blog about. It turned out alright for now, but I was pretty distracted for a bit.
I've been thinking a lot lately about what's okay to blog about and what isn't, and while I don't have water-tight criteria, for the most part I stay away from telling other people's stories. Not everyone wants their stuff out there on the internet, and I get it; it's kind of scary to expose yourself, even when the exposure is controlled. And really, even the nosiest person probably has a limit for Too Much Information. Truthfully, I kind of panicked a little after I put up my NFP blog. I think it's still ingrained in my subconscious that talking about sex, even NOT having it, is taboo. So I panicked, but I put it up anyway because I thought about how grateful I would have been to have known that information when Jack was three months old, and someone else in a similar position might be grateful to find it.
I had another reason for putting up the NFP blog. In recent years a number of things have come up that I wished had been a conversation earlier. For example, no one ever once heard my brother Karoly say that he wanted to kill himself. He didn't talk about it. My guess is, like a lot of the other stuff he didn't talk about, he was ashamed. It can be tricky, growing up Catholic and emerging without a strong sense of shame. I once heard the difference between guilt and shame defined like this: guilt is directed at the action, shame is directed at the person. Guilt lets you know when you've made a poor choice, shame makes you feel worthless. I know the traditional phrase is "Catholic guilt," but I think shame is really more accurate. That phrase has always irritated me but I didn't really understand why until I'd done a few things that I was ashamed of. I know now that it irritates me because it's a distortion of the way things really are, of the way they ought to be. If a person is really and truly Catholic in an authentic sense, they would know that shame has no place in the Church. To feel shame is to believe God doesn't have the power to forgive you. I was standing in the back of a church with Jack once when he caught sight of the confessional and asked me what it was. He was three years old and we'd never really discussed Confession before, so I wanted to choose my words very carefully because I know how lasting first impressions can be. I said "That's a confessional. If someone has made some poor choices, that's a special place where they can go and talk to a priest about their choices, and the priest will help them make some better choices."
"Oh," said Jack, totally unfazed.
I still struggle with my attitude towards Confession. On the one hand, no one really wants to rattle off a list of their shortcomings in a public forum for all to hear. On the other hand, it tends to impart an illicit quality to something you do in a dark little room with the door closed, your voice barely louder than a whisper so that the people waiting outside won't hear you. You don't want them to know. It might change how they feel about you if they knew. But the fact of the matter is, it doesn't change you.
I'm all for discretion. I don't think that personal disclosure should be done in a way that is focused on scandal or generates gossip. I think it should be done in a way that is open and honest and authentic, in a way that says "I'm a real person with real struggles, just like everyone else." I once heard a priest say "You think you're original sinners; I've been listening to your confessions for 20 years and I've got news for you: you're all the same."
I know people who have carried dark secrets to their graves, and after they're gone and the truth comes out the reaction is mostly: big deal. I can't imagine keeping a secret about myself because I'm afraid my family will disown me if they know. I don't want that kind of weight. Aaron and I have both made choices we're not proud of, and we've told each other about those choices. We accept each other in totality, no exceptions. It's an amazing feeling, to know that someone knows absolutely everything about you, strengths and weaknesses, joys and fears, and loves you unconditionally anyway. I wouldn't know what that felt like if I held back. I don't want to live my life holding back; it's a waste of time and it leads to relationships that aren't authentic. It also saddens me to think that some people are so insecure in their relationships that they think someone might stop loving them if they really knew everything about them.
That being said, I'm not going to start posting everything I've ever done on my blog. I don't recommend that for anyone. Spewing all your flaws to anyone who will listen isn't real honesty anyway, and the people I know who do that sort of thing use it as a way to keep from changing, to keep playing and replaying the messages they tell themselves about who they are. It's a voluntary abdication of power: I am this person who screwed up this and that way and that's just who I am.
What I do recommend is, if there's something you don't want to talk about, ask yourself why you don't want to talk about it. The answer is probably that you want to avoid judgment. The interesting thing is, perfect people are boring. And they're not real; no one is perfect. I find it much more comforting to read about other moms who struggle to be good wives and mothers than the moms who appear not to struggle at all. Not struggle doesn't help me, I can't learn anything from that. In my experience anyway, not talking about things has done far more damage than too much talking.
That's why lately, I've found the hard parts of my life comforting. If I'm struggling it means I'm working, that I'm actively and consciously engaging what is challenging to me. It means I'm not keeping the hard parts out of the conversation, that the trouble spots are talked about, addressed, not passed over or swept under the rug to fester for years. This is the sentiment I was trying to get at when I named my blog "Body of Work," a term usually used to refer to a bunch of lovely finished products produced by an artist. I want my life to be both: lovely finished products, and ongoing work. I want my kids to feel like they can tell me and Aaron anything, no matter how awful it seems to them, so they will know they really and truly are loved no matter what. I expect a lot of those conversations will be hard, but they will be real. I'll take hard and real over easy and false any day.
And in the spirit of authenticity, I thought I should let you see my kitchen. Sure I make a lot of beautiful food, but I also make a lot of mess while doing it. And in the spirit of engaging life's challenges, I'm going to get off the computer and go clean the kitchen. It's good to be able to talk about the problem areas, but it's not terribly helpful unless you're willing to do something about them.
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