Lost in the Experience of Parenting?
On being in the parenting world but not of it
Last weekend I was eating a sandwich at my dining room table, and out the window, I could see the sun bursting through the bare trees into the yard below. My two year old was down in the yard excitedly picking up a half-deflated beach ball and then pouncing on it belly first. She’d gently roll off landing on the still brown grass before doing it all over again and again.
My five year old was tinkering around the storage shed dragging out a balance bike, then an old rusty, red tricycle, and then a pogo stick. She moved with excitement and intention, discovering forgotten toys from last summer and the new feats her growing body could do with them.
My husband, Rick, sat on a large tree stump at the side of the yard soaking up the first sun rays of Spring while watching them both.
I knew there were loud clangs coming from the shed and shrieks of delight from the belly rolls, but it felt like I was watching a silent 1950s home movie. The closed window was a screen, a portal, into another world. Even if in one of those old family movies a child burst into tears, the whole scene (no matter how it unfolded) was a tribute to a time gone by. With no sound coming through the window, all I could do was observe the joy that moved through each of their bodies, and it infused my heart with the same.
The funny thing, however, was that the day before I was in the yard alone with my daughters and instead of savoring the moment, I was enduring it. I was cold in the spring air (refreshing but still chilly), I was annoyed at all the toys the kids were dragging into the yard (more to clean up before dinner), and I was growing tired with all the exclamations of “watch me!” (developmentally appropriate or compulsive attention seeking…). So as I sat on this day watching almost the exact same scene unfold, I wondered what was the difference?
It came to mind that my bird’s eye view through the window and down into the yard provided me with a new perspective. It reminded me of what author and spiritual teacher Michael Singer often says in his talks; here’s a paraphrase of one of his most common refrains:
“You’re on a planet spinning around in the middle of nowheres. It’s incredible here. The birds sing to you when you wake up in the morning. It’s like Disneyland every day. If you were on Mars, there’s nothing happening there. If you found a cockroach, you’d be ecstatic. You’d want to be best friends with it.”
His point is that often we get so caught up in our personal agendas that we forget the absolute miracle of everything happening around us. As humans, there seems to be an effect of looking down on our lives that removes us from the scene just enough to remind us of how precious it is.
Sometimes people experience a shift like this on an airplane or at the summit of a mountain; possibly the most powerful example of this is the overview effect that astronauts report. When astronauts look back at Earth from space, it’s not uncommon for them to experience a massive shift in awareness that causes deep awe, wonder, and understanding of life’s fragility and the interconnectedness of all life.
Edgar Mitchell, who was a part of the Apollo 14 spaceflight in 1971, described it as an “explosion of awareness” and an “overwhelming sense of oneness and connectedness… accompanied by an ecstasy… an epiphany.”
Now clearly, looking through a window from about ten feet above my family is no trip to the moon, but even still, it seemed to be enough distance to help me see things a bit differently — more clearly.
What I also noticed was that my emotions weren’t getting stirred up because I wasn’t within earshot of anyone. I didn’t worry about what my kids were saying, about anyone being unkind, or Rick’s response. I also wasn’t analyzing the scene for safety risks because I knew he was on it. The moment was just happening, there was no inner monologue, and I was simply watching. It was in the space of being a quiet observer that a deep appreciation for them all welled up and caused my eyes to glisten with small puddles over my lunch.
There’s a magnet I’ve had on our refrigerator for years that says:
“Peace. It does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble or hard work. It means to be in the midst of those things and still be calm in your heart.”
This, to me, captures the goal of spirituality, which is to be in life but to stay centered in the experience of it. The default for most humans (including myself) is to get lost in our thoughts and emotions about life rather than purely experiencing the moment as it is. When someone asked an Indian saint if he ever experienced anger he said that he did but it was like writing on water. As soon as the emotion arose, it was gone. He didn’t follow the angry train; he let it go and returned to witness what was actually happening. That’s staying centered in the experience of life.
There’s a beautiful scene in the dystopian movie The Giver, which is based on Lois Lowry’s book by the same name. In it, people have lost the ability to feel emotions and have no memories in order to keep humans from doing bad things. The result is a very sterile world devoid of color and emotional intensity. At one point, the main character is given access to all the memories of humanity. What unfolds is a powerful montage of human experiences: birth, death, falling in love, war, kindness, cruelty, adventure, loneliness and everything in between.
As the minute unfolds, myriad human emotions are unleashed in the character, and there’s a deep awareness of how profound it is to be human. It’s a poignant reminder that life is not about avoiding the world or emotions but developing the inner strength to experience life in its fullness without losing our seat of self. Buddhists call this equanimity — a state of mental balance and even mindedness, a sense of temporal detachment, and the ability to maintain a balanced mind in chaos.
Singer puts it this way in his New York Times best-selling book, The Untethered Soul:
“You are behind everything, just watching. That is your true home. Take everything else away and you’re still there, aware that everything is gone. But take the center of awareness away, and there is nothing. That center is the seat of Self. From that seat, you are aware that there are thoughts, emotions, and a world coming in through your senses. But now you are aware that you’re aware. That is the seat of the Buddhist Self, the Hindu Atman, and the Judeo-Christian Soul. The great mystery begins once you take that seat deep within.”
Maybe this is why some people who have near death experiences report looking down on their body and watching their entire life flash before their eyes. First, there’s the bird’s eye view that puts everything in a larger perspective, and then there is the witnessing of one’s life without getting lost in the reactionary emotions and thoughts about it. Maybe it’s the final pure awareness of what a gift the whole experience of life actually is.
As I sit here writing this in the morning before the kids wake up and we will jet off to little feet soccer, the monthly trip to Costco, and the many other activities of the weekend (which will likely include play time in the yard), I hope to carry the perspective gained from eating my sandwich at the window. But even more, I hope to one day develop the seat of self to be both fully in the yard and above it, at the same time.
About me: Mom of two, wife, writer and podcast co-host who is fascinated by the intersection of parenting and spirituality — one seeker exploring the wild experience of being a parent and being human. For more reflections on parenting and spirituality, follow me on Medium and subscribe to my free newsletter: aparentspurpose.substack.com.
© Caitlin Frauton. All rights reserved
