Joy, part 1 (new mother)

Posted on December 17, 2013 by harasprice

I don’t talk about my research much on my blog because I am keenly aware of all the human subjects protections that surround what my research participants share with me in the confidence of our interviews. But, there are some moments that stick with me not because of the research itself, but because of my own response to the situations I encounter. This is one of those stories, although the details have been altered to insure confidentiality.

I choose to conduct research in the homes of people who agree to participate. I wasn’t really trained that way; in fact, I was encouraged to collect data in an academic space, or what I was told was “neutral space.” But, there is nothing neutral about making people take a bus (or busses) to a space far from their own communities, and to walk into an unfamiliar building filled with unfamiliar faces, and then reveal details of their personal lives and emotional experiences in an academic conference room. When I put myself in their shoes, I wonder why anyone would agree to participate under those circumstances. So, I have gravitated to conducting interviews in homes, and I partner with community service providers who share a similar ethic.

I am always appreciative whenever someone answers the door and allows me to come into their space. I have respect (and verbally acknowledge) the gratitude I have to be in their personal space. I have no shortage of memories of spaces that have surprised me, or awed me, or saddened me. But this particular day I recall, I really wasn’t expecting anything out of the ordinary. I had called before the visit and the young woman said she was waiting for our visit. She lived in a low rent part of town with older homes that, while sometimes run down, had a good amount of space.

My notes from my partner agency said that I was seeing someone in her third trimester of her first pregnancy. She had been receiving community supports and had self-referred to participate in this interview with me. I rang her doorbell, and waited. I waited for several minutes and rang again. I heard movement and the inside door bolt slid open. The door opened slightly to check my identity, then I was allowed in.

There was a spacious but empty room with an old sofa, and an empty car seat. There was a young woman barely 80 pounds and who looked to be about 12 (although she was over 18). She wore sweat pants and a t-shirt and carried a small blanket wrapped bundle. She asked me in and quietly whispered, “this is Anthony…we just came home yesterday. You’re his first visitor!”

I barely knew this young woman, but she moved close to introduce me to this tiny, perfect baby. Tiny fingers, long eyelashes. He yawned and cried and she held him close, her adolescence melting into maternal instinct. He was a beautiful baby, and I told her so. She beamed. I told her to sit, and found a place next to her. I had to regroup, because she was not supposed to have delivered yet. She had no record on file with the community organization of having gone into labor, nor of having delivered. And yet, here we were. Life had moved her forward and brought us into each other’s midst. I quickly switched gears, and told her I was happy to stay and visit, but that we could wait and do the research another day. “No, it’s fine” she said, “I wanted you to come.” We proceeded through the interview. My questions were interspersed with her rising, and diaper checking, and nursing her baby. She was all new to this, quiet and nervous but rising to the occasion. In between questionnaires, she spoke to me about her son, about her life, and about how joyful she was for what she had: space, diapers, food in her cupboard, her mother coming to visit after work that day, her beautiful, healthy son. She sat, in that room that seemed so empty, filled with joy.

I didn’t leave until she was connected with resources, and having finished the interview I was able to offer her a gift card for completion as well. I knew this could have been what motivated her participation, but there was something more, too. Like so many women I work with, she knew her story was heard. She had been seen and heard and acknowledged. This life was hers, and it was real, and she could choose to let me in or keep me out.

She let me in.

I saw her joy. I saw her need as well. But her joy resounded through the emptiness of her surroundings. It was an incarnate joy, emerging from the depth of life itself.

I have been doing a lot of reading this advent, and have found myself drawn to St. John of the Cross. Not coincidentally, we did a brief meditation on a short poem by St. John of the Cross last night at my vestry meeting:

Pregnant with the holy
Word will come the Virgin
Walking down the road
If you will take her in.

I couldn’t stop thinking about that young woman, and how her joy had been so palpable in the midst of the most meager surroundings. Over time, I have come to hold in deep reverence the many women I have encountered in my daily life as a social worker and now as a researcher. Women pregnant with expectation, carrying joy along with their struggles. Women who give birth to love, and to loss, and sometimes to both. Their stories are as natural as life, and as divine as the holy stories of a homeless young mother and her betrothed seeking shelter in a barn and using a feeding trough for a crib. You just never know what will emerge with expectation, and it usually is multi-faceted: fear mixed with confidence, worry intertwining with relief, isolation melting into moments of deep connection.

I think of these things tonight as we move through advent, approaching Christmas with the young couple making their way to Bethlehem. We are not sure where we will find shelter or company. We don’t know which moments will provoke fear, and which will embody joy. We make our way because the time is near, and life will carry us onward. Our confidence may wax and wane. But we are carried forward with the plodding predictability of a donkey through the dry land and a light guiding our path from above, and within. In this space also resides the promise of joy incarnate, about to bring forth in us qualities we never knew we had. Yet there they are: intuitive response, deep love, gratitude for plenty in the moment.

I have been changed by these holy encounters, too. This is my own incarnate joy on this segment of my journey.

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Advent 3: Joy

Posted on December 15, 2013 by harasprice

There was a song in my heart that morning, driving into the city in the back of my parent’s little blue Datsun, immediately after church. I had spent several Saturdays boarding a bus and practicing, and now it was time to perform for the Erie County Chorus, where I was in my first year with the elementary group. I was in the sixth grade, and I was folder number 1. Folders were listed in height order. Strange to consider now, since I am notoriously short. But, since I did all my growing before I turned 12, I lumbered above many of the other young singers. This was the first and last time that ever happened, so I am guessing that is why it left such an impression.

This was one of many firsts: the first time I sang in a large choral group, the first time I ever went to Kleinhan’s Music Hall, the first time I had been conducted by anyone other than my school music teacher. It was also the first time I sang anything from Vivaldi’s Gloria. At that concert, we sang just the opening movement, “Gloria in Excelsis Deo” which had been written to be performed by the young voices for which Vivaldi so often directed and composed. I remember learning to say, “Egg-shell-seas” in perfect, timed unison before we were allowed to sing to words. I remember how amazing it was to be in a whole sea of voices, standing on risers in a concert hall with wonderful acoustics. Concerts in the gymnasium at school would never be the same. We also sang, “Tree Song” (“I saw a tree by the riverside, one day as I walked along…”), as well as a medley of African-American spirituals, and some Hungarian folk songs. There were probably other songs, too, but those three have stuck with me over time. I remember being filled with a sense of joyous wonder the whole day, feeling like I was immersed in an entirely different world. This love of classical music has remained with me throughout the years. I am sure this was a hope of those who organized these choral activities, and they should be pleased to know that it took. I am still filled with joy when I sing or hear these classical masterpieces…the Music of the Spheres.

I was filled with joy on this particular morning, too. I woke thinking about that long-ago All County chorus, even as I was humming the Domine Deus, Agnus Dei from the Vivaldi Gloria as I readied for church. My daughter was helping with the younger kids, telling them the story of Mr. Vivaldi and his work teaching orphan girls to sing. I was in my choir robe, surrounded by friends, accompanied by rich cello, strings, and oboe. I sang, both in my chorus and in my solo, and my heart was overflowing with joy. I had joy overflowing as I caught glimpses on the faces of those in the congregation who were taking in this offering of song, this gift of music in the midst of a season of hope. It was a glorious morning as we sang, and joy continued to fill my spirit as I slipped from my choir robe into a Eucharistic Minister robe so that I could assist at communion. This has also become my deep joy, to be in a role of offering the gifts of communion to my friends and community in faith. I experience deep joy and connection participating in this service, joy that is unexpected and intense at some moments. This is joy at a soul level. Like that young child on a stage, immersion into that joy feels like a welcome into a world of new experience and hopeful possibility.

There is deep meaning in these moments of joy which rests with me on this third Sunday of advent. I retain the joy of this music I first sang as a child, and today allowed that joy to take shape in the music that flowed from me. I also experienced deep, soul-filled joy today, sharing the sustenance of communion, the blessing, breaking, and sharing of divine love in community where all are welcome. This joy all flows from me on a day that marks one year from the time when I sat in the same exact seat, with tears flowing uncontrollably. My tears one year ago were in response to both the collective sorrow for the young lives ended tragically too soon at Sandy Hook Elementary School, but also in response to a moving in my spirit that overtook me and shook me from my status quo of how it seemed my life would be. On that day, one year ago, I first began to recognize and pay attention to this voice that had been with me throughout my journey, speaking to me and guiding my steps. I am still listening, responding, discerning.

And at the core of all this, as I wait and prepare, there is deep and lasting joy.

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Peace, part 3 (co-creation)

Posted on December 13, 2013 by harasprice

Today’s piece of art on the online advent calendar for my faith community is a co-created work that began in my solitude and was completed in community with the members of St. Thomas who gathered that day as I told the story of my journey. Even though I put together this calendar, I forgot which day of the calendar each piece landed on. When I logged on today to see what image and reading would greet my day, there was this image of Myth and Mystery together with the he lectionary passage that had reached out to me to join with it:

Myth and Mystery
Myth and Mystery

When I was asked to share my spiritual journey for my faith community last spring at a “coffee and conversation” between services, I wondered about how I could convey a bit of how much I had been changed and shaped by the people I have come to know as friends and colleagues on my journey of faith. My faith journey has meandered, and many years have been spent on more of a solitary journey. Solitude and stillness continue to be important parts of my spiritual life, but being immersed in a community that I have learned to trust has been equally powerful in its impact. So, I decided to mirror these experiences.

I had some solo time at a conference, and I used it to create some watercolors that reflected my experience of the divine. The three images I ended up with were music; social justice; and myth and mystery. The “myth and mystery” piece on its own was a somewhat abstract piece with the Celtic triquetra knot in the forefront. That image conveys so much to me: it is the trinity, it is the three faces of the feminine divine, it is the mind, body, spirit connection and it is the past, present, future intertwined into eternity. This image I carry with me always…it is literally tattooed on me. I brought all three of these pictures, as well as a set of multicolored markers, to my talk. I told my journey that day (you can read it here on my blog, too) and I passed around my paintings and supplies and told my friends to add to and embellish them as they saw fit. At first, people were nervous about that, but after some insistence, they began to add to it with words and doodles and phrases. I felt, as I sometimes do, the presence of spirit in that place as we expressed and experienced the divine in our midst.

The finished picture of “Myth and Mystery” is probably one of the most meaningful images I have ever seen. It speaks to me far, far more than the original image I created. I catch a glimpse of something different every time I look at it. And, I look at it often. I keep it very close to me, hanging in my office behind my desk. I center myself by looking at this co-creation of faith through art, and I realize how much more I have come to know about the experience of the divine by letting go of my own solo impressions and allowing others to make their additions, to modify and embellish from my original expressions. It becomes a rich, life-giving experience of continual insight and understanding, rather than a static set of beliefs or a self-selected view. To me, this is the true peace that comes from being in community, living out my faith by allowing others to co-create meaning with me. We embellish and give life to the works of art that are our respective journeys of faith.

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.

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Peace, part 2 (the song)

Posted on December 11, 2013 by harasprice

I find it ironic that while my soul longs for and celebrates the stillness and contemplative spirit of advent, my body is in constant motion these days. My semester is coming to a close, which means that there are papers to grade and projects to complete, and of course meetings with everyone who is trying to wrap things up before winter break. There are wonderful holiday gatherings to host, and to which I am invited. There are school concerts and work receptions, fun to be had and halls to be decked. Then, there are quiet days and advent services to nourish my soul, along with times for deep, soulful connection with friends who touch and guide my spirit. On top of this, on Sunday, I will perform the Vivaldi Gloria with my choir.

I love to sing. When I sing, my soul is at peace and my heart is happy. I am thrilled to sing, but I also get nervous when I perform. I wish I had better control over my vocal shakiness, or the fact that my mind goes blank when I am standing up in front of a room holding a piece of music. I am wrestling with this tonight because I am preparing to sing the beautiful and soulful Domine Deus, Agnus Dei with my choir, and I have not been successful in practicing as much as I would like to in order to sing this solo from the depths of my soul…without shaking…by Sunday.

Today, I had a break-through idea, though. I bought a CD of my favorite version of this majestic Baroque work and put it in my car, continually on repeat. I have been soulfully singing en route to work, home, meetings, school carpool, more meetings…you get the point. I can hear myself getting more confident, developing the vocal “muscle memory” that will keep my involuntary nervousness under control. I noticed a significant difference at rehearsal tonight, although I admittedly was still more nervous than I would like. But, what I noticed even more was how this constant singing has become a soulful prayer, an eternal echo of my soul’s longing to see and feel and experience the divine in all things.

Domine Deus, Agnus Dei, Filius Patris, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis

Lord God, Lamb of God, Son of the Father, Thou who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.

Today, as I drove through city streets and waited at traffic lights, my soul and voice reached out in longing for divine mercy. I sang as I passed impatient drivers, people standing on street corners, those begging for change and those lost in thought. This world is full of busy, full of fast-paced moving without deeply connecting. It is also full of longing, craving a genuine experience of divine grace to fill in the cracks of our human brokenness. I find these moments of peace and grace keeping me centered in the midst of my hectic days. And they will tomorrow, and the next, and the next. I am allowing these words to become me, to flow from me. They are my litany of advent activity, the song of my soul as I travel through my world. Perhaps that is where this song needs to be sung after all.

In this song, I find deep peace.

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Peace, part 1 (the image)

Posted on December 9, 2013 by harasprice

I have an image that has stayed with me over time, a simple but transformative moment of awareness. I have never tried to give it words, but it filled my mind tonight, so I will attempt to bring it to life in this space.

There was something about the snow that night that reached beyond my eyes and into my spirit. Perfectly formed snowflakes fell in patterns, landing on the wool of my coat. Their coupling formed intricate, miniature sculptures as they touched down, connecting with each other in crystalline combinations. These tiny, fragile flakes could evaporate at my touch, or in the heat of my breath. They were marvelously ornate yet utterly transient, forming and disappearing in an instant. I examined each perfect, individual flake in awe, then noticed the wide expanse of snow-white fields stretching out before me, glinting like heaps of diamonds as they caught the light of the moon and stars. Endless colors of light danced across the drifts, reflecting the radiance from those celestial companions that also guided my path that December evening.

No one was stirring. The only sound was an easy wind blowing flakes gently into piles of shimmering diamond dust. It was clear, cold, and silent as far as my eyes could see. The only other sound I could hear was the occasional crunching of snowy ground beneath my feet.

I pulled my scarf tightly around me, and breathed in the cold night air. I was taking in the mystery, the vastness of the Universe spread out before me. I was noticing for the first time just how small and fragile I was in a Universe so large. There were infinite possibilities lying before me in this life, as wide as the fields of snow that surrounded me. But life, it seems, was as fragile as these tiny flakes melting on my hand. I felt warm tears against my icy cheeks. I didn’t want to wipe them away. I wanted to feel each tear, to join my human grief with the melting snowflakes finding their way back to something greater, something capable of turning each drop of moisture into crystalline elegance.

There were many moments lived before that moment, and many moments to be lived after. But that one perfect moment of peaceful stillness lives as fragile and elegant as a snowflake in my mind. It was a moment when pure love and pure grief stood together in perfect harmony, calling to me, drawing me near to the moments of human existence that are so beautiful and yet so fragile. I could feel the mystery around me, and I was drawn in. I still am.

I am sill discovering the quiet mysteries of that landscape, the ebb and flow of grief work across my career, the complexity and elegance of love and loss in my life. As I stand in this image of stillness that fills my mind, I become aware of the vastness of time and space around me, the perfect peace of being present and aware in that very moment, and the realization that I have never been, nor will I ever be, alone.

Peace.

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Advent 2: Peace

Posted on December 8, 2013 by harasprice

Today ushers in the second Sunday of Advent. The lectionary readings this week focus on peace, introducing some of my favorite Old Testament imagery from Isaiah: “The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them. The cow and the bear shall graze, their young shall lie down together; and the lion shall eat straw like the ox. The nursing child shall play over the hole of the asp, and the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder’s den. They will not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain; for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the LORD as the waters cover the sea.” (Isaiah 11:6-9). This week’s readings also include a beautiful blessing from Paul’s letter to the Romans which always resonates deeply with me: “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.” (Romans 15:13).

So, not surprisingly, my reflections on my blog this week will focus on this idea of waiting for and experiencing peace. Peace may emerge in the transformation of the social order as we hear described in the passage from Isaiah. This recognition that higher level change is possible allows us to live and grow in newness of life, setting aside (or keeping in perspective) the fears which so often define our lives. This is the peace on earth we often await, which can feel so elusive in a large and sometimes chaotic world. But, peace can also be found when belief becomes palpable and real, abounding even in our daily lives and work, as we hear in the words from St. Paul. These personal echoes of divine peace enrich our human experience and immerse us in the hopeful expectation that peace is possible. Peace is real. Peace is possible not only in a yet-to-emerge future, but also in this very present moment.

This week, I caught glimpses of divine, socially transformative peace as I reflected on the life and works of Nelson Mandela. Through acts of radical advocacy, thriving amid imprisonment, and transformative political leadership he worked to change the very structure of the unjust world into which he was born. The life and work of Nelson Mandela restores my faith, my quest for justice, my sense of connection with those who work for change instead of passively accepting the status quo. But, this very day, I also experienced deep peace in the simplicity of stringing prayer beads together with members of my faith community during our advent prayer bead workshop and quiet day. I strung each bead with intention, saying a thought or prayer to sustain the people for whom I was making each set. This brought a very present, very real daily peace that took hold in my spirit. This daily peace restores my own belief that we are interconnected in our thoughts and in our community. The presence of the divine dwells in that peace that is found within our human connection, our genuine daily caring for one another.

May you experience peace in your present moments this week, as together we await the peace that surpasses our understanding and transforms this world in which we make our human home.

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Hope, part 6 (the tree)

Posted on December 7, 2013 by harasprice

In Virginia, trekking through the woods to find the perfect Christmas tree is a genuinely pleasant experience. On an early December day like today, the air is chilly and the sun is warm. Nature beckons me to the woods and I eagerly join with other city types as we drive the country back roads to find an out-of-the-way tree farm. At first, all the trees look beautiful and inviting from afar. Then, as the quest for the perfect tree moves on, it becomes clear when there are bare spots, or flat sides, or a trunk that leans considerably or twists like a candy cane. The tree that looks just right can be three feet taller than your ceiling or so wide that you cannot pass by without a squeeze. Sometimes, the loveliest needles turn out to be sharp like pins after a week or..in our worst adventure…the tree has poison oak growing up clandestinely through the middle. Still, none of these imperfections keeps us year after year from our hopeful quest to find the perfect tree.

Growing up in upstate New York, the quest for the perfect tree was a decidedly colder and snowier adventure. Many years, there was a pretty heavy amount of guess-work about what the tree would actually look like after all the snow melted away. It was cold, and we had less time to make a selection without risk of frost-bite. Once, my mother and I notoriously cut down the seemingly perfect tree only to realize that it was growing intertwined with two others. Our “1/3 of a tree” had to be propped up in a corner as if it was growing out from the wallpaper. There were other trees with similar character flaws, but in every case we knew like Charlie Brown that with a little bit of love, it wouldn’t be such a bad tree after all. It would inevitably turn out to be the perfect tree.

I was walking my way through the tree farm fields with my family today and thinking about this annual adventure. We set out in the hope for a perfect tree. When our daughter was small, we would put her on her dad’s shoulder and have her put her hand up to see the tree height limit that could keep us from out-sizing our expectations. In our last house, width was a serious problem. In our current house, the tree has a wide corner all it’s own and we can find one as stout as possible. Today, we stretched the limits of that by bringing home a tree nearly as wide as it is tall. And like always, we concluded that it is, indeed, the perfect tree.

As my path meandered between the rows and randomness of the trees, I began to think about hopeful waiting. There, in the tree fields, were dozens of “the perfect tree” just waiting and growing all around me. They were not all going to become our perfect tree for this year or this house, and it was likely that each one would be filled with imperfections. But, at one point all three of our family members would surround one tree and catch a glimpse of its potential addition to our festive holiday season. We would survey it, reach agreement, saw and topple the tree, tie it up, bring it into our home, and tend and water and decorate it with hopeful expectation. And, at some point we would stand with great satisfaction and say, “it really is the perfect tree.”

So, as we wait in hope this advent, maybe there is a lesson in all this for us, too. Every day, every hour, every present moment holds within it the capacity to be perfect, exactly as it is. That perfection isn’t dependent on freedom from flaws. It doesn’t look the same all the time, either. The perfect moments emerge because we bring to them all that we are, and see in them all that they are capable of becoming. I am not sure from year to year what makes one tree stand out from another. Truthfully, several trees could have made the final cut this year and it all would have turned out ok.

Today I thought: in all the vast Universe, how can it possibly be that I feel the divine moving and working in my own little imperfect, ordinary life? And, I thought about all these imperfect…yet perfect…trees, just waiting to be seen for their individual beauty. The hopeful expectation of divine grace that fills this season calls us, and raises our awareness to that potential. It awakens in us the perfect self longing to be set free in this very perfect, present moment.

And, in hopeful expectation, we await that transformation into all that we already are.

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Hope, part 5 (the work)

Posted on December 6, 2013 by harasprice

As unlikely as it may seem, I am blogging about advent hope in the midst of a statewide public health meeting (I am on lunch break…not multitasking!). The focus of my meeting is to create a united, statewide focus to actually move the needle and measure a significant reduction in infant mortality in four years. I am at this meeting today in my professional capacity as a researcher. I have been like a sponge absorbing epidemiological data all morning and, as I am trained to do, translating that into community level implementation strategies that can be carried out and evaluated. It is my professional mission to move data and talk to action, and then to derive data from those actions that can tell the story of change. It occurred to me today, while wrapped in the midst of this meeting, that this whole process is all about hope. Waiting…and working…in hope.

So, I started to think about that idea…waiting and working in hope. I want to refute the assumption that “waiting” is a passive state. In fact, there is a lot of activity that happens while waiting. Particularly when I am waiting in hope, I feel a push to do my part. I am challenged to enact what is in my authority and experience to change. I am constantly brainstorming with others who have different roles, and different expertise. New ideas emerge, and they require time to work through, money to implement, dedicated people to carry out. When I am engaged in something really innovative, it involves a fair amount of risk even when the project is in full swing. Will our efforts pay off in the ways hoped for? Will the data we collect reveal the difference that we are hoping to make?

There is a lot of hope there….and a lot of work, too. It takes an inner motivation to move forward without knowing for sure what the data will show. Michael Lu (a professional hero in my maternal and child health world) uses the term “unwarranted optimism” to describe the inner push to make a difference…in this case, to move the needle on disparities in fetal and infant mortality…even when we can’t yet see the ultimate impact of our efforts. In public health and social work, we have to share this unwarranted optimism in order to do what we do every day. We put people on our leadership and community teams who can keep that unwarranted optimism high. And we put data geeks on our teams to give us glimpses of accomplishment and progress markers that help us “tweak” our efforts and make the most impact we can. And, we need lots and lots of dedicated workers who are carrying out the mission every day.

The parallels between my professional mission and my faith journey are palpable to me today. In my own hopeful waiting, I am discerning how my vocational path and my faith journey intersect right here, right now and what this means as my future path emerges. That process is also an active one, where I work on my spiritual centering, and discern in my heart, my head, and my soul as well as within my community. I catch glimpses of inspiration and take steps forward with intention, all the while being open to the possibility of tweaking, changing, evolving my role in the world. I do all this while I engage my professional mission and weave my vocational threads together day by day, step by step.

I have unwarranted optimism…and faith…in the future that is emerging day by day.

This advent, I am waiting…and working…in hope.

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Hope, part 4 (the title)

Posted on December 4, 2013 by harasprice

In my current vocational life, I have the privilege of walking the path of scholarly development along with my doctoral student colleagues. I am writing this blog today as I proctor an exam for the students in my research methods seminar, so I am thinking about all the hopeful waiting that has been a part of my own professional journey. I have a favorite moment, though, so it seemed fitting to share here today as I reflect on waiting in hope.

The morning had been a blur. I vaguely recall that I made muffins, and brought a small token of thanks for each member of my dissertation committee. I know I had a well-rehearsed PowerPoint presentation, and that I was wearing an olive green suit with some fabulous looking matching heels which hurt like hell after about 15 minutes. Other than the foot pain, I was immune to most other feelings; instead I was operating on pure adrenaline. This was the morning of my dissertation defense.

When I had given my talk, responded to questions, and in all other ways emptied my brain of swirling knowledge and thoughts, I was ushered off to wait in a faculty member’s office while the dissertation committee reached a consensus on whether I would take on a new title and a new degree. It was surreal, really. I tried (unsuccessfully) to sit down. I paced, and pretended to read book titles on the shelves. I went over my questions and responses, looking for clues as to whether the facial expressions of my committee members suggested the outcome. I felt relieved and hopeful. I also didn’t have anything else in my world of experience to compare this to, so I worried that my hope was simply naïveté in disguise. I kicked myself on a couple points I wish I had made. I patted myself on the back for remaining scholarly but emotionally unflappable when critiqued. I paced some more. I waited and I hoped.

My advent reflection today pauses at that exact moment. If I could go back to that nervous but hopeful doctoral candidate, I would pose her a few questions:

Did you just change?
How do you now see yourself?
Will the title that others hopefully confer on you change who you are?
Could you ever, really, go back to a time before this?

What I have learned about hopeful waiting is this: when we are waiting in hopeful expectation, we are already changed. I was changed that day, and I would have been changed by the experience of my doctoral program no matter what news would have been delivered. Titles can be presented to me, others can evaluate me. But, when I wait in hopeful expectation it is likely I have already made a change in how I see myself. The rest is the validation, the social recognition, the icing on the proverbial cake.

Well, I have to tell the outcome of this story, because it is so much fun. My spouse and daughter (just a toddler then) had come in at the time when an announcement was supposed to be made. The logistics are a blur (see previous comments re: adrenaline) but what I most remember was seeing my dissertation chair walk out of the room smiling, and inviting me to come into the room. She called me by new title, but my daughter upstaged her and (with some obvious prior coaching) announced, “Dr. Mom-Mom!”

In my hopeful waiting, I had already changed.

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Hope, part 3 (the gift)

Posted on December 3, 2013 by harasprice

All I wanted for Christmas that year was a Rubik’s cube. Now, that sounds like a ridiculously cheap and easy holiday gift, compared with iPads and Xboxes dominating lists today. But, in 1981, it really was all I wanted. Purchasing a Rubik’s cube involved traveling out of the local town and toward the city, and they were getting snapped off the shelves. I had visions of becoming the world’s fastest cube solver, appearing on some variety show with my fast-handed talents. I wanted to make multi-color patterns of squares in contrasting colors on each side. I thought this was something at which I could excel, and it would somehow mark my quintessential nerdiness in a respectable way. I knew I could be queen. But first, I needed the cube.

I managed to find a tiny cube to hang off my purse, but it only turned one way because it was really just for decoration. I ordered a cube by collecting chex cereal box tops, but it came with stickers on each side that quickly peeled off. I was waiting for Christmas for the real deal.

My Dad came in a few days before Christmas and placed a small box under the tree, with a glimmer in his eye. I was overflowing with hope. Not just hope…I was 100% convinced that my future Guinness Book of World Records entry was being written up in advance, as soon as I could open the perfect little package.

“No shaking.” Dad said.

I waited until he was out of the room, and then I shook it. Perfect…I could hear it sliding slightly in the perfect sized package, and it was the right weight. I overflowed with hope and excitement, waiting for Christmas morning. Smug and snug in my bed, I knew I had exactly the gift I wanted, all wrapped up under the tree.

Christmas morning, we ritualistically opened stockings first, then we selected the first gift to open. I went right for the box I longed for with hopeful expectation. I gleefully ripped paper, saw the box, announced that I had knew all along that it was the Rubik’s cube I had hoped for. I opened the box and out rolled a gourd.

A gourd? A GOURD!!

Dad had even dutifully cut and colored squares of paper on each side to look like a Rubik’s cube, and boxed it in the perfect disguise. He laughed so hard he was choking and I sat there, fuming. It looked like what I hoped for, shook like what I hoped for, felt like what I hoped for. But, it wasn’t what I hoped for. It was a gourd.

I am sure I was the picture of pre-adolescent spite and angst that morning. True to my family’s wit, there was an actual Rubik’s cube awaiting me later that day, at my Gramma’s house. Not only was there a Rubik’s Cube, but a Missing Link awaited me, too. Everyone loved the joke, and eventually it even sunk in to me as funny. Eventually.

Now, it’s hysterical. It’s a favorite family story that keeps us entertained in retelling through the years. I would probably do the same thing to my daughter and she would be just as spiteful with me. Sometimes we hope so hard that we convince ourselves that we already have that which we await right within our grasp. And sometimes, we practically do…but we may find ourselves unmasking a hidden gourd first. When we wait in hope, we definitely need to keep our eyes open. We need to be awake, alert, to avoid the traps of our humanness as we so often hear about during advent.

And, I have learned, I need to keep a sense of humor, too.

I never made the cut of world’s fastest Rubik’s cube solver, and I moved on to more pragmatic ambitions with maturity. But, I enjoyed my toys, and I still enjoy hearing my Dad tell this story of his great cube prank. Maybe that was really the true gift after all.

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