This morning on my drive into work, I happened upon an interview with scientist Stephen S. Hall. In talking about his new book Wisdom: From Philosophy to Science he used the term “emotional suppleness.” I didn’t hear much of what he said after that, because I just kept repeating those two words over and over to myself. Emotional suppleness. Emotional suppleness.
I’ve written about my struggles for time, about wanting to be mindful of my children’s childhoods while also preparing them for adulthood, about the challenges of getting kids into bed, of keeping calm, of not wanting to be judged or judgmental. And what lies beneath these and much of my writing is a desire to be emotionally stronger.
It is easier, I think, to define physical strength. We can run a race, lift weights, do an increasing number of push ups or hold a yoga pose. And we can measure progress or lack thereof in all of these pursuits. But emotional strength? How is that measured? If I raise my voice with my kids out of frustration, how does this reflect my emotional control? I know, of course, that there are sometimes good reasons to raise my voice. So, how do I become more supple in my reactions to things, both outwardly and inwardly? How do I know that I am getting stronger in the ways that I emotionally handle things? How do I measure my progress–or my need for progress?
For the past year, I’ve been feeling my way along in this world of blogging and becoming a writer again, both in practice and–more important–in identity. Writing for me is all about emotions. And growth. It’s about practice and getting better at something that I love to do. I write to find my own strength. I write to work things through. I write because getting thoughts out of my head makes it clearer to me what I really believe. How I really feel. Writing connects my brain and my heart.
And this morning, finding myself transfixed by two seemingly unrelated words strung together, I felt at peace almost. Unified. As if in putting into words what I want to achieve–emotional suppleness–I will have a better chance at success. In mothering. In writing. In other pursuits as yet unknown.
I have some reading to do to figure out if my interpretation of emotional suppleness is anywhere close to what Stephen Hall’s is. I haven’t read any of his books, and he used the term to describe a facet of wisdom. But I’m intrigued enough to explore deeper the way I define my emotions. The ways in which I react to them and express them. A brief look at Hall’s website led me to words such as “humility” and “compassion.” I like the sound of both. Perhaps I’ve found a window that will let a little light into my own emotional development. That will allow me more flexibility. More confidence.
I believe strongly that emotional mothering is something that I will always do, and that I will always strive to do better. And although emotional suppleness is a topic so far beyond my reach that I fear I am even writing about it too soon, I know that if I don’t start writing now, I won’t come to know how I really feel about it. So, bear with me.
Emotional suppleness. Emotional suppleness. Emotional suppleness.
by Sarah on March 29, 2010
play me
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a rainbow bridges over my life
i see myself beneath it
i stand tall in the middle
looking up
and back
and forth
side to side
the smile of my first-born son at one end
the beginning of it all
this life
my existence
my motherhood
my heart
pulled and pushed and twisted
torn
tattered
tattooed
i heave and sigh. so many thoughts and emotions. so much to do. even more to feel. i breathe quick and slow. heavy and hard. sometimes i forget i am breathing at all. and think my children are doing it for me. living the moments. laughing. tackling one another. grabbing for dirt and air and food and breath. grabbing for life. with me. all the time.
i often wish life were simpler
that i could fill my days with photo shoots
coo over tiny, blue onesies
kiss perfect fingers and toes
marvel at my first-born
linger in the newness of motherhood
and then i look up
and back
and forth
side to side
i feel the colors of my children bursting all around me
soaring on by even when i’m stuck
and i watch them grabbing for dirt
and air
and food
and breath
and life
with me
life with me
all the time
and i remember to breathe
and i whisper i love you
over and over again
to the photos that remind me of where it began
to the boys who run barefoot in my home
to the arc of the rainbow
gliding over all of us, together
by Sarah on March 27, 2010
I have a tattoo. Here’s a little visual for you. A photograph taken on my wedding day. In my white dress. In front of a lighthouse altar. My arm gently folded around my man’s broad hand. It was a sunny Cape Cod day full of promise, and new beginnings.
Despite life’s fresh starts, we all are branded by the past. I am branded. This tattoo is the most obvious of examples. I cannot hide it. I cannot remove it. It drops beneath shirt sleeves, and peeks through pale, woven sweaters. It is boldly displayed in a tank top or (gasp!) a swimsuit. But apart from its physical appearance, my abstract armband is a daily reminder of youth and tenacity. Of my tendency toward quick, confident decisions.
Recently, this emblem of my carefree days has become the impetus of a train of thought that goes something like this:
“How much of my past will I share with my kids?” or “Will all the mistakes I have made in my life help me or hurt me as a mother?”
My past, you see, is filled with what I would characterize as an inordinate amount of misstep. Choices that have sent me spiraling into unsafe unknowns, but choices that I have eventually come to accept. Although the argument of Destiny has its place, I truly believe I would not be running in these same sneakers if I had not fallen and fumbled like I did fifteen or so years ago.
One of my dearest friends has several tattoos. During a visit to our home when he was three, Jamis inquired about the black designs on Aunt Jane’s skin. Aunt Jane, with quick wit, called them stamps. I’m not sure if it was to avoid describing the permanence of a tattoo, or to relate to the toddler mind, but this code name seemed appropriate at the time. My son was satisfied and the conversation ended.
And so it was for many years that Jamis fingered the lines of my black designs and muttered the word: stamp. He is 7 now, and of course knows that the stamp is a tattoo and something that will forever mark me. Like the ink upon my skin, time and mistakes have colored pieces of me that will never go blank again.
I think about the day my son comes to me and asks to get his own tattoo–or more likely, shares that he has already been inked–and I wonder what I’ll say. Will I be angry? Will I just nod my head, remembering back to my days of youth and how nobody, nowhere, was going to tell me what to do or try to teach me something about life before I’d experienced it for myself.
I imagine that I will learn how to share bits and pieces of my good times and my bad, giving things a code name until my children are old enough to fully comprehend the nature of my truths. I don’t really worry about what to do, what is right or wrong, as I think it will become another piece of the mother I am, a woman who is guided by instinct and does a lot of thinking on her feet. I do wonder, however, if I’ll one day be as confident in the decisions I make as a parent as the ones I made in my youth. And I wonder if my children will be as lucky as I have been, living lives that seemingly surrender to a path that, although circumstance and mistakes cast shadows, always manage to make it to the light.
