The Gift of Crisis. Bridgitte Jackon Buckley
Mckenna has one more year in preschool. She can feed herself, is potty-trained, and it still costs $700 a month. Greyson is now in second grade, and is supervised on the playground after school until Dennis picks him up. I return to work on a part-time basis, but we have to get creative on how we will manage a childcare situation that allows me to continue to breastfeed without going deeper into debt. I explain all of this to the Project Manager, my immediate supervisor, and request to bring the baby to work with me two days a week. My mother agrees to watch the baby on Mondays, which leaves Wednesdays and Fridays for me to navigate with him at work. The Project Manager discusses the situation with the two primary Project Investigators. Both women agree to my request.
During my work hours, I work diligently while Gavin sleeps, and do not waste any time socializing. I take him to meetings, carry him in Greyson’s Baby Bjorn when I deliver paperwork, and walk around outside with him in the stroller, so he will drift off to sleep after my lunch break. Having a baby at work is inconvenient, but I make it work for a little over a year with my annual performance review resulting in “Exceeds Expectations” across the majority of categories.
Things are moving along, although not necessarily in the best way. The kids, Dennis, and I trek through the daily routine of domestic and professional responsibilities while the country surreptitiously moves deeper into economic crisis. Then, during the worst of the economic downturn in 2009, funding for our research project is frozen and the grant not renewed. I am laid off from work.
With the layoff, I have the option to withdraw the full amount of funds from my retirement account, or leave it as is. With close to three years working on the project, I accrued roughly $6,000 in that account. With Dennis’ secondary signature of approval, I make the withdrawal. We put the money towards our living expenses and some towards the mortgage, but we are still behind on the mortgage. By now, my parents are receiving telephone calls from the loan servicer, and I am trying to avoid going over to their house. That is impossible because my mother wants to spend time with the kids. I resort to trying to drop the kids off when I hope Matt isn’t home. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. One Saturday night, he is home. When I walk into the house, I can feel the tension before I turn the corner to greet him in his dining room chair. A bill from the loan servicer lies on the table in front of him. “We’re going to lose that house,” he says. “And we might lose this house! This is going to ruin us. I cannot believe you let this happen! This is not how we raised you. We don’t have $16,000 to give these people!” At that moment, I should have said, “I’m sorry.” I should have told him how sorry I am that Dennis and I did not keep our end of the agreement, and that I am so sorry our choices affected them this way. But that’s not what I do. I stand in silence whirling in embarrassment, anger, fear, and disdain for everything, and instead of apologizing, I try to defend myself. Maybe I did wait too long to return to work. Maybe I should not have been home with Mckenna in the first place. Maybe I should have asked for more money when I was hired at USC. No matter how much we put towards the mortgage, we cannot catch up and stay up. My stepfather and I, the two most defensive individuals in the family, are primed for an argument over the house on Forty-first, and argue we do. I don’t have any reason or right to defend the fact that the house they refinanced for us is in pre-foreclosure, but I do. Despite my defensive position, I feel terrible. I feel so alone. I am sorry for everything, and I cry on the drive home.
Since we moved into the house, the mortgage has been sold to two different loan servicers. Each time the loan is bundled and sold, vital information regarding our payment history is “lost,” and always to the advantage of the lenders. We lived through a four-year cycle of sending in money orders for the mortgage, missing monthly payments, avoiding creditor phone calls, having the water and power shut off and restored, borrowing money from my closest friends, regretting borrowing money from my closest friends, hoping the neighbors won’t notice random strangers standing in the middle of the street photographing the house, and watching property investors in nice cars periodically stop in front of our house to get a good look. The prolonged loss of a home takes a staggering toll on physical and emotional health, because we create emotional meaning tied to where we live. A home is normally a place of refuge and sanctuary; it’s where you find safety and comfort, and create lasting memories with people you love. But when you’re dealing with foreclosure, the house no longer feels safe. It’s no longer comfortable. It becomes a living reminder of instability. You can no longer do simple acts with simplicity. Every act—washing the dishes, folding laundry, cooking dinner, walking outside (only to see someone photographing the house)—is contaminated with a perpetual fear of loss.
One afternoon, during another prolonged session of feeling sorry for myself, I lie on the sofa aimlessly flipping through the channels. I come across Elizabeth Gilbert, speaking about her book Eat, Pray, Love on Oprah. I’m not in the mood to hear yet another story of how wonderful life is coming from someone so far removed from my life. As I listen, I begin to feel simultaneously excited to read the book, yet sad. After a few minutes, I realize I am no longer listening to a word she’s saying, as if the television is on mute. I notice the radiance in this woman’s eyes; her spirit is beaming out from her eyes and piercing the television screen! How can it be that I am sitting thousands of miles away, yet I know this woman is completely filled with love and inner peace? This sends a disturbing wake-up call through my system. I try to recall a moment, any moment in recent times, when my eyes shone with joy of this magnitude. The truth is that there isn’t a recent memory when I display such happiness, because I am not happy. I am unrecognizable to myself; wandering aimlessly, feeling overwhelmed with work, the financial situation, the strain on my marriage, and the immense shock of it all. I feel lethargically uninspired, angry, and simply put-off with the entire deal. My mind is filled with noise, and I am changing as a result of the crisis. I let it become a part of me. It permeates every aspect of my day, interactions, and thoughts. Being faced with the issue of homelessness, not knowing where we will sleep, having so few options, thinking about our family being split apart, not knowing if we will qualify to rent an apartment, is taking a profound emotional toll on me, and on us. It takes vast amounts of effort to hold myself together, to not be depressed, and to quell complaints of victimization. When I visit family and friends, it is difficult to relax. I notice the abundance of food, household supplies, and unnecessary stuff lying around. I think, “Look at all this stuff! Look at what they can afford to buy. They are relaxed because they have money. They are not worried about losing their house.” The only person who truly knows how little money we have is my good friend, a certified tax preparer, who files our taxes. I can only talk about crisis so much, and then I stop. In my world, the crisis is all there is, but in the lives of friends and family who are doing fine, they can only do and say so much.
With the weight of all of this on my mind, I want desperately to feel relief, to feel inspired. So, I start saying aloud, “I just want to be inspired,” over and over again. Without realizing what is happening, by voicing aloud that I want to feel inspired, I proclaim I am finally ready to receive help. A few days later, after service at my mother’s spiritual center, my mother stops by our house. I have attended service with her a few times. The reverend speaks of quieting the mind, turning within through meditation and personal transformation, things I have not ever heard in a church service. I’m not sure how these recommendations can help with our current situation, but nevertheless, I’m curious. When my mother stops by late Sunday morning, she has two books she’s bought for me. She occasionally stops by on Sundays after church to visit with the kids and comes bearing gifts. Despite everything, she is absolute with unconditional love. She doesn’t bring up the argument with Matt or the mortgage. She hands me the two books, one of which is the initiator of a spiritual watershed moment. “I bought these for you.” The Power of Intention, by Dr. Wayne Dyer, boldly catches my attention.
Trusting my mother’s judgment, over the course of the next few days I read The Power of Intention. Change, intention, perception, thoughts become things, silence, meditation, energy, transformation, and clarity are not foreign to me, but then again, they are. I have not heard these words explained in a way I can relate to and apply to challenges in my life. The book is by no means the answer to my problems, but it is another unexpected miracle. It sparks curiosity. I want to know more about how perception influences our experience of life, how we attract things, situations and people into our lives that reflect our level of consciousness. I want to know more about consciousness,