Poetry

I first entertained thoughts on God's gender when I took a required religion class at Loma Linda University, and the instructor told us that he always prayed "mother God."  He said God as a mother resonated with him and his upbringing as a child of a single mother.  I wasn't quite the feminist that I am now, so I didn't think much of it. I just figured it was an interesting concept that I didn't have much time for.  I was busy in grad school and although I enjoyed religious debate, I just wanted to pass the class without much thought. 
 But recently a friend of mine, who grew up in a nontraditional home, wrote this beautiful poem that expressed her need for God as mother.  It gave me chills.  I wanted to save it for myself and share it with my friends, so here it is.  



i dont want god the "Father"

i want god the "mother-i-never-had"

i dont want angry, ruthless war god

i want hold-me-while-I sob-in-the-dark god

i don't want kill-them-all-and-take-their-wives god

i want soft god, kiss-on-the-forehead god

i dont want dead-beat-daddy god

i want where-you-go-i-will-follow god

i want the moon at dawn in the gently haze 

not blaring sun in the blinding snow

i want god with the voice of maya angelou 

I don't want thunder-in-the-storm god

but  lata mangeshkar singing sweet ghazals 

i want,

i need,

have always needed

god who is female

la méré, maman, ma

Anjalica is a free spirit English honours and sociology student at UBC. She is a member of the Oakridge Adventist church in Vancouver. She is a frequent performer at local poetry slams and is the BEST BABYSITTER IN THE WORLD (because she always entertained my children and they thought of her as a big sister). She will always be a part of our extended family. 

She-ro

I’m raising a teenager.  She’s in that sweet spot, tall and thin, turning heads, looking older than her 13 years.  I remember that time, although I wasn’t half as confident. I remember having all of my choices and experiences in front of me, the infinite, incredible, unimaginable future in my unlined hands.  

She doesn’t read fashion magazines (unless I’m done with mine on a long car trip), but she does watch endless Instagram videos of makeup and hair styling techniques.  I hope she looks in the mirror and sees pretty, but I also hope she sees beyond that- smart, confident, kind, and capable.

In the other room, as I look the mirror, I fight constantly with hating the grey hairs that pop up on my head, and the new lines that show I’ve lived and laughed hard.  When I put on my makeup and get dressed up, I still want to see that Vogue magazine ideal Cindy Crawford beauty.  Just because I’m over 40, doesn’t mean I’ve stopped aspiring.  Ugh!  Twenty-five years of reading fashion magazines have done me no favors.  A compliment from my daughter these days is, “That looks pretty good for a mom.” I’ll take it.  It’s better than the typical teenage eye rolls and snarky, “You are really wearing those shoes?” She is judgey, just like me.  I see the Fashion Police commentary scroll across her face.  She will grow out of the meanness.  But when she grows out of the snark, she’ll probably grow out of her size 4 skinny jeans, dewy skin and long flowy hair.  She too will age.

So I’m trying to expand my ideal, love myself with the years I’ve live and the pounds I’ve gained.  Just because the world isn’t kind to middle aged women doesn’t mean that I can’t be kind to myself.  Every experience I’ve had, good and bad, makes me me.  Smart, confident, kind and capable.
 She told me the other day (when I was about to lose it), “Be the person you want your children to be.”  Silenced by my teenage daughter. She’s already inspiring. 

Change

Some things never change.

One of the weirdest things about moving away and moving back to Maryland (back to our same house in the same neighborhood in the same town) is that even in three short years, we’ve changed.  In some ways, it’s obvious… one set of neighbors did not even recognize our children, (who’ve they’ve seen in the yard since they were babies) and wondered who had moved in.  Jaelin, Eli and Wilo have each grown half a foot in the last three years.   I’ve grown too.  I am no longer a young mom, pushing a stroller to the playground and chilling at the library story time on Thursday mornings. I too, have changed.  I’m working full-time (and loving it), but I’m also worrying about boyfriends and high school grades and who stole the shoes from my closet. 

I always wanted to be a parent – partially because it’s what you do, partially because I saw it as my chance to create and mold something of my own, but I now I find myself surprised that my kids are creating and changing me.  In those first few weeks of parenthood, everyone exclaimed over how little baby Jaelin was, a new life, a 6-lb. malleable being that I would nurture with every word and decision that I made.  It was overwhelming.  I’m a book nerd, so I read everything I could on sleep, feeding, and potty training.  Soon after I had Eli, I had to start relying on less information from other sources and trust my instincts too.   

Now, after 13 years of experience, I know that reading is not the way to learn all the best ways to raise your child.  Even at a few hours old (and maybe even before birth), some aspects of a child’s personality, their strengths and weaknesses, are already set.   The next 18 years are not just about us raising them, but also about them raising us into capable, loving parents.  We have to change and GROW, together dealing with the differences between us.  Just because we are physically responsible for our children (for 18 years at least), doesn’t mean that we can mold them, like play dough, into what we want or think we want in a child.    At some point, those infants become people we chat with and listen to and THEY CHANGE US AS PARENTS.  The sooner we accept that, the better it is for our relationship.  I want them to become independent adults, and as a parent, I want to have loving, honest relationships with my kids. 

Both Kumar and I have changed by being a parent to Eli, our son.  Kumar had to learn all about football, not because he cared about it, but to relate to his sports’ minded son.  We both suffer through Jaelin’s Disney shows, like Backstage, because we don’t like the kids watching too much TV alone.  My parents have also changed by being a big part of my kids’ everyday life.  You haven’t lived (or laughed) until you’ve seen my dad playing Just Dance.  He actually practices while the kids are at school, so he won’t lose (He’s a bit competitive).  My 69-year-old Indian mom text messages and plays basketball with the kids regularly.  We all are well versed with Barbies, water bottle flipping, and crazy clowns.  We are all changing and growing, being pushed and molded by each other’s personalities and interests every day.   

Sometimes it’s slow, and sometimes there is a growth spurt – but I’m learning to consider others’ feelings before my own.  And as I grow as a parent, I grow as a person.  Through my experiences as a parent, I have become a better wife, daughter, friend, teacher, and co-worker. Doctor’s charts can’t measure this growth in adulthood.  I wish they could, cause if you could see me inside, I’m 6 feet tall.

Feeling Human

I’m one of those rare Indian people who actually turn red when I’m embarrassed.  And as a teenager, this was often.  I was an immigrant kid, who just wanted to fit in.  But it’s hard to fit in as a teenager when you coat smells like curry, your parents speak with accents, and you have to explain to all the kids at the Baptist school why you go to church on Saturday (The eighties were not a time of great cultural or religious diversity.  I was a double minority in high school).   

Somehow I didn’t die of embarrassment in my teens, but embarrassment continued to plague me through my 20s and 30s.  There was the time I got my period unexpectedly during step aerobics class, the time I threw up in the cycling studio at Lifetime Fitness, and every tear (sob) that I shed in the parking lot (hallway) when each of my kids went to kindergarten.   As an introvert, I think I feel embarrassment more than my extroverted friends.  It seems like extroverts relish publicity and smile when even their negative moments are on stage. When embarrassing moments come, I sink into a corner and wish the ground would swallow me up. 

I don’t know when it happened, but somehow after having three kids and all of the weird, embarrassing moments that come with that (the nudity required in the hospital alone is enough to make an introvert cringe), but now that I’m in my 40s, I try to lean into my embarrassment, and embrace the shame.  We all have embarrassing moments, and there is no reason that I feel like a loser or a bad parent when I occasionally forget to pick up my youngest at kids’ church, or someone wears two different shoes to the mall.   When I lean into the moments, sometimes I can laugh, or at the very least KNOW that I am not the first (or only) person to experience this feeling of shame.    

The other day, I was at a private doctor’s appt., when a teacher, Ms. K. *, from my new school comes in.  I was cringing (and texting Kumar), wishing I were not seen in this building.  Things got even worse, with a not-so-private exchange in the lobby, and I had to just lean into the conversation, without feeling anger or shame.  When I talked with Kumar later, tears fell, when I told him that I’m not made for these public displays of drama. I cannot prevent or avoid these moments.  They are just a   part of life.   The next morning I went in to work, wondering if I should acknowledge the awkward meeting with Ms. K or just hide in my office. Ms. K ended up dropping by my office, to tell me why she was at the doctor.  It turns out that she didn’t even notice my private/not private exchange because she was so worried about ME seeing HER! 

 Embarrassment and shame are part of all of our worlds.  We worry about what people think of us, when we live in our own heads rather than realize how these human moments and feelings are universal. The struggle, the pain, the mistakes are all part of a greater purpose, the universal experience of being HUMAN.  

*fake initial 

BEAUTY

Its not supposed to be important, but we all think about how we look. At times,  I obsess over how I look – Do these shoes match my outfit?  Do I look fat in this skirt?  Can anyone see that little pimple coming up on my chin?  A little self-care is good.  Sometimes tight pants are a reminder to skip the cookies while watching TV.  But other days, my tight pants affect my mood and my concentration.  When those thoughts swirl round and round my head, and make me scowl in the mirror they are probably not healthy.

A couple of years ago, I had a running buddy who was struggling with her self-image.  She was always asking if she looked fat.  And she wanted an answer.  Everybody’s version of fat is different – obesity can be quantified by the doctor, but every woman I know has a number on the scale, or an roll, or bulge that they see, and decide that they are fat. 

 I told her that when I looked at her I didn’t see her.  It was the truth.  When I first met her, yes, I sized her up – her cute Lululemon outfit, her neon running shoes, stylish haircut and figured out if I could keep up with this gal 10 years younger than me  ( I couldn’t, but she pushed me).  But months later, after sharing some long walks and talks about our lives, when I looked at her, I didn’t see her.  I didn’t see the five pounds she gained or the five pounds she lost.  I saw my beautiful friend, the one who asked me hard questions and sat next to me when I cried, the one who prayed for my ridiculous requests and cheered with me when I told her that we were moving back to Maryland (even though it meant we wouldn’t be running pals anymore).  I didn’t see her as pretty, or beautiful, skinny or fit, I saw her as my true friend. 

So when I’m looking in the mirror these days, and my zipper is straining, I want to be a friend to myself as well.  I’m going to try to clear that scowl off my face, ignore the negative thoughts in my head, and just put on something that feels comfortable and looks good whatever shape I’m in. I have faith that when I’m kind and happy within, I can share those kind words and actions with others who will not notice my lack of waistline, they will see the beauty within.

Sharing and Oversharing

I don’t want to be known as the lady on antidepressants, just like you don’t want to be known as the woman who had an affair, or the woman who watched her mom die.

When I first shared with a friend that I needed to take a happy pill, I had heart palpitations.  I just didn’t want her to see me as broken and judge me as “depressed girl” every time I stressed out.  It’s taken years, but I’ve now shared my struggle with depression with friends, co-workers, two of my kids, and the internet (Uh-oh) because most times its been honestly appropriate and I want to release that stigma that people with mental illness are failing at life.  Some of my friends have not been surprised, but some have been shocked that “happy, party planner, social butterfly Rej” struggles with depression regularly.  Yes, the day that was bad enough for me to seek help changed my life profoundly, but I am more than my worst day.

I got through that worst day (or worst season, since that day affected my week, month, year and life, if I think about it) – and now I have to balance hiding that dark spot in my lives with sharing it so other people can see that it's not the end of their world.  

There is a time and place for both - Sharing our hurts stop the cycle of “My life is awesome” that pervades not just social media, but many tangible places, including church.   There have been many times, I’ve sat in my car and thought, “Look at that family- they have it all, money, a big, clean house, the latest minivan, two beautiful honor roll kids – why am I always struggling? “ There have also been moments in my life, when I have the money, a clean house, the latest minivan, and kids on the honor roll.  Sometimes in those moments, I think, “Yes- I have it all” and other times, I still haven’t been happy.  I’ve lived long enough to know there is always some dark cloud lurking in the corner, some wave that threatens to bring life and all its trouble crashing down.  It’s life – its brutiful  for everyone. 

 We are all struggling.  Sometimes I over share my struggles.  Sometimes I hold back, not because I’m trying to hide, but sometimes I just want your opinion on the dress I’m planning on wearing to the event on Sunday.  It’s a fine line that I’m constantly balancing and sometimes falling.  But I’m working on it.