“Co-parenting”: An Illusion with Noble Intentions

The idea of “co-parenting” has become popular these days when discussing divorce and children. In the course of my work with women undergoing divorce, volunteering with women facing “co-parenting” struggles, and in my own personal experience of divorce, “co-parenting” is an illusion. 

It’s a handy term for an ideal notion, but sadly, that ideal is rooted in problems that may very well be at the heart of marital discord in the first place. How can two individuals who may disagree on many important, fundamental issues involving value systems, parenting styles, personal childhood experiences with unresolved trauma, and a myriad of other potentially messy problems like infidelity or betrayal, be expected to “co-parent” through separation, divorce, and post divorce? When trust is broken can “co-parenting” even occur, and is it fair to prioritise the wellbeing of the children but ignore the wellbeing of the aggrieved spouses? 

The so called division of “parenting” within a family is already never a 50-50 balance. One parent is always going to work so much harder in the trenches, and in divorce that’s often the mother who was given care and control in joint custody, or who has sole custody. One parent is there 24/7, worn out, emotionally stretched, physically exhausted, and mentally burdened by the load. No idea what the other less burdened parent might be doing, but think of most “midlife crisis” situations and you get the picture. It’s an incredibly common, recurring, tragic picture. 

It sounds nice, this “co-parenting” business, but if it wasn’t going well pre separation/divorce, it isn’t going to magically happen once the marriage is over. Parents need to resolve some of those issues that caused trouble in the first place, especially the ones that led to one party shutting down, running away, giving up on the other, etc. If those issues remain there is very little hope of proper “co-parenting”. It’s an illusion, really, fuelled by noble intentions for the wellbeing of children, and supposedly aided by typically inadequate court mandated counselling sessions. 

Parents need to dig deep, and do the work on themselves, and learn to work together and communicate better even if they no longer wish to be married to each other. Their marital partnership might be dissolved, but the parenting partnership is supposed to continue. If they don’t do the personal work, there will always be an imbalance in the “co-parenting”, and there will be some measure of unfairness and ongoing resentment that could potentially affect the children as well. Court mandated counselling sessions simply aren’t enough. Parents and children need to want to work through their issues, children need to be onboard with “co-parenting”, and efforts need to be made to make sure that the overburdened parent has recourse when the balance is tipped against them. 

I’m exhausted from my stint of “co-parenting”, and saddened by what I hear other women struggling with, knowing that while women are the natural nurturing caregivers, men also have a responsibility that involves providing support beyond the financial. 

What is “co-parenting”, really, and how can we make it work better, in a context where the “co-“ has broken down, there’s acrimony, and it’s every person for themselves in largely adversarial divorces made worse by lawyers who see dollar signs instead of broken hearts and families? How do we prioritise the wellbeing of children while not ignoring the needs of the parents, especially the one who’ll be in the trenches 24/7? 

Age long issues with no clear answers. Our noblest of intentions will not be enough. Sigh.

Thanks for reading, 

Pav

Morning Coffee, Seasoned With Tears

“Morning Coffee, Seasoned With Tears”

She kneeled, praying, her fingers caressing the beads, 

Despair wrestled amongst hope’s delicate seeds.

To live through grief was her only choice,

“Draw close to me”, said God’s voice. 

“Hail Mary, full of grace”,

And tears rolled down her sorrowful face. 

“Save my marriage, God, it’s sacred and holy.”

She begged, head bowed, while “they” met for morning coffee.

What did those stolen moments taste like, bitter or sweet?

Coffee sipped, laced with lies and deceit.

Her knees grew weary as she finished her prayer, 

She drank in the liturgy, gasping for air. 

Here is my body, broken for you.

“Lord, heal my heart, it’s broken, too.”

Here is my blood, poured out for you.

“Lord, just tell me, what more can I do?”

Her morning coffee, seasoned with tears,

An aftertaste of despair mixed with silent fears.

Unable to speak, denied any expression,

She wandered alone through her depression.  

“It’s over. God didn’t hear your prayers”.

God, were you listening to theirs?

Thanks for reading,

Pav

An Open Heart on a Morning Walk

(A reminder of a reflection from 2018 that beauty surrounds us, as does grace, forgiveness, resilience, dignity, and the love of God. We need to keep our eyes and hearts open.)

So glad I made it for my morning walk today. Such a beautiful morning, with familiar faces and places, and there was a spring in my step because finally I was back in the neighbourhood!

I saw the little boy off to Kinder with his helper, the same one I always see, only this time he wasn't shouting out his numbers like he usually does. He was unusually quiet. Must have been a long week. Poor chap. Still, he was doggedly walking ahead to school, and I wanted to tell him to stay resolute because Kinder is one of the most carefree times of your life, young man!

I saw the little old lady who always looks ahead or down when she walks past, as if she was afraid that if we made contact with our eyes her world might fall apart. There's a story there. I wonder what it is. I see dignity, a touch of pride, an aloofness and boundaries. All very useful, and necessary. Her dignity impressed me the most. It isn't prideful, it's self respecting. I like that, and the distinction.

I saw the couple that lives on my fav street, walking together for the first time. Usually their young kids vanish in a bus and then Dad walks to the train station, presumably. Today Mum walked along too. They caught me taking photos of trees and myself, and so we laughed and chatted about how beautiful the trees were on their street, and how there was an "other worldly" feeling with the way the sunlight slanted through. They agreed, I wished them a lovely day, and off they trumped, a British couple on their morning commute.

I felt like I might have been in England. What, no flask of tea and no scone all clotty with cream, jammed into a pocket for a mid walk snack at the playground? Ah well, turn round and go home then.

And what awaited me when I got home? I saw the old lady next door with whom I have had a couple of altercations over my plants shedding leaves onto her cement floor. Somehow, she had heard that I had been in hospital, and she expressed her concern, wished me well, apologised for the past, and made amends. I had never encountered this version of her before, and she swept me off my feet by her kindness. Any ill will I had ever harboured against her melted away. I knew what it cost her to apologise. I reciprocated in kind, apologised too, hugged her, found tears welling up in my eyes, and thanked her for her concern. It was a moment of grace that melted my heart.

All I did was leave home for 30 mins and already I have found resilience, dignity, beauty, and grace. Surely the love of God Himself surrounds us with many miraculous things that we will see and feel and know, if we are open to them. So blessed. Have an awesome weekend, dear friends, God is close.

Thanks for reading,

Pav

Why Won’t It Go Away?

Anyone who has been depressed may recognise themselves in this, a poem I began that typically expanded into something broader. 

WHY WON’T IT GO AWAY? 

Every morning I empty my cup of sorrow and grief, and by evening it fills up again. An unending source of sadness replenishes me relentlessly. Why won’t it go away? 

Tears overflow, the cup cannot hold, and grief is ever present, unwelcomed and unwanted. Why won’t it go away? 

At night the wounds of my heart reopen and bleed afresh. Tears flow, alongside the begging for sleep to come, for peace to descend, for memory to forget, for pain to stop. Why won’t it go away? 

Sleep finally comes but the mind grinds on, ruminating quietly, churning over, like a silent machine that will not stop, fed by grief unspoken, and pain unrelenting. Why won’t it go away? 

The leeches have sucked me dry again. Each one a recalled thought, a word, a deed that preyed upon my collective memory of grievances. Why won’t it go away? 

Waking seems an exercise in futility, an attempt to resurrect a ghost that will not die but cannot live. The day ahead looms large with its needs and demands. Why won’t it go away? 

I pour out my cup of tears, griefs and sorrows, wanting my heart and day to start anew. The cracks are there, the ones that let the light in but also the dark. Why won’t it go away? 

The day wears on, minutes to hours, and I fight the good fight, imagining myself a knight in shining armour, rescuing myself. Until I see myself in the mirror and wonder who that sadly grotesque person is, and ask, “Why won’t it go away?”

Why won’t it go away? Because grief and sorrow, pain and hurt, they live with you, are part of you, are simply You. They won’t go away until you go away, and your time has not come. 

Pavitar

14th Jan 2023

On an overcast morning with a tinge of sadness, side effects of antibiotics, and a sense that today my melancholy side needs an airing.

A Reflection as 2022 Draws to a Close

The end of the year prompts all kinds of resolutions, though for me it’s usually a reflection of sorts. What is speaking loudly to me and calling my name, and reminding me of my direction, purpose, and calling in life? What’s the one thing that has reappeared over and over despite my best attempts to ignore it, bury it, escape it or deny it? 

It’s the death of ego. Yeah, sounds heavy duty, and like a real burden, but it’s so central to so much in life. The image that means the most to me, that truly reflects the death of ego, is that of Christ on the cross. Some days, when I have been so deeply hurt, I hug the crucifix by my bed and I ask myself what it means to believe, to have faith, to identify with the sufferings of Christ… and it’s the death of ego. It’s selflessness and sacrificial living, the denial of self to the extent that one can truly put the other ahead of one’s self, over and over again. It’s unconditional and sacrificial love, the kind that undergoes Good Friday without really knowing if Easter Sunday is around the corner!

I’m revisiting useful reminders and lessons as I’ve struggled with past ghosts, lingering hurts, unresolved anger, and deep grief. How to remain an effective wounded healer if my own wounds fester, I tearfully ask myself. I must address these wounds, and for me, the best way is to return to starting my day consistently with the things that soothe my soul. It sounds so simple but it’s been hard to do. Prayer, meditation, Gregorian chants, walks, time with nature…peaceful starts to the day that allow me to bring my hurt and grief to God, and to unburden, but better still, to proceed through the day without inflicting hurt on others because I am hurting myself. Dying to self. Death of ego. Denial of me. 

Not to the state of being an absolute pushover doormat, or some kind of martyr but simply recognising some important truths: that love overcomes all things, a kind and gentle word usually prevails, not all battles are worth fighting, less is more, silence is golden, not every circus requires my attendance, I can unburden to God who collects my every tear, my load need not be so heavy, it is infinitely better to give than to receive, stillness and solitude lead to peace, my own needs can be met by meeting those of others, I am not the centre of the universe, and that very lovely thought: What if every moment of every day is exactly where God wants us to be, squarely in His will, wouldn’t that make each moment incredibly special? 

I’ve forgotten some of these hard learned lessons, and so I am returning to them because the way forward is not to grasp for anything or at anyone, but to let go, and to truly allow the right things to come my way in the right time. After all, if I truly die to self, then isn’t every moment a new opportunity to live for Christ, in His will, and in the right time and place? 

I had this amazing peace, once, because I pursued it relentlessly since my very life depended on it. And then I grew cynical and disillusioned and stopped. My heart has been telling me that something is missing, and it is... it’s the focus on something other than myself, my kids, my work, my life. Time to recalibrate, realign, and reset the focus. Nothing else but a vital, living, real relationship with God brings me this much peace, so I might as well stop denying it, or running away from it. Listening to the still, small voice that says let go of thoughts, behaviours, attitudes, people, places and things that are not meant for me, and to simply be. 

Looking at the cross, and seeing Christ there I realise that while we may yearn for the resurrection and all the joy that brings, the real personal growth happens when we suffer, when we deny ourselves, and when we surrender and embrace God’s will. 

Time to revisit my fav little Chapel that I’ve neglected over the past 4 years, and make peace afresh with God, and truly accept all that He offers: the grief alongside the joy, the tears alongside the laughter, and the pain alongside the ease of life. The call is clear, and my soul is ever so ready because it doesn’t lie to itself, unlike the heart and the mind that can spin all sorts to evade the truth. There is no escaping one’s true calling, no matter what that call may be. 

My wish for all of you, dear friends, is that you hear the call for your own life, whatever it might be, and are relentless in the pursuit of the things that feed and grow your soul, whatever those might be. Here’s to greater personal growth in 2023. 🙏🏼❤️

Pix of my fav St Francis Xavier Chapel at St Ignatius Church, overlooking a lovely garden. An oasis for my thirsty soul!

Thanks for reading, 

Pav

Death is Easier Than Divorce

(A reflection I wrote on Christmas eve, in 2017, the year I got divorced. I still haven’t written this book. Perhaps some day I will.)

Today I woke up at 6am and lying in bed, I drafted the introduction to one of my many possible books. This one is vaguely entitled "The Death of Marriage: When Your Spouse Lives On", and is meant to be a comparative look at divorce and death with the premise being that while both involve immense loss and grief, divorce is possibly far more heart breaking. 

The spouse continues to be a living reminder of everything that was lost and so "closure", "letting go" and "moving on" are incredibly difficult to achieve. Many people are clueless when dealing with death, but I have noticed that far more are helplessly lost when it comes to relating with someone who is living through divorce. People need help understanding how they can help. 

Unfortunately, I didn't have my laptop with me, and so all my thoughts flew up to the ceiling where they wafted into the ether and vanished. Would a book like that be useful? I wonder. I think so much in life brings loss and grief. I know illness does too, in addition to the death of a loved one, the end of a friendship, the loss of a romantic relationship, and divorce etc. 

But never, in all my life, have I felt the kind of pain, grief, hurt, isolation, rejection and deep loneliness that comes with divorce. Nothing prepares you for it. Nobody seems prepared for its impact and so everybody stumbles along waiting for some happy end to your pain so they can relate to you again and all the while you were alone in your suffering. 

You are not now the grieving widow deserving of empathy or sympathy but simply vaguely somebody's insignificant other, and nobody really knows what to do with you. And so they do nothing, and this nothing speaks loudest because the echoes from the silence reverberate round your own empty, hollowed out heart and remind you that truly, in all of life's darkest moments, we are alone. 

Oh my. I think I sense the introduction returning. Slowly, the words are falling back down from wherever they floated to, and back into my heart. A book is waiting to be written. Hopefully more than just an introduction. Perhaps a long essay. Oops, my vision is shrinking. Enlarge your vision, see open horizons and embrace the pain so you can transform it into something meaningful. Making meaning out of life's sufferings brings hope, and without a vision and without hope, we will surely perish on the inside. 

The moral of this story: Bring your laptop to bed. Plenty of space there for it. Haha :) Put those thoughts down. 2018 beckons. Be the writer you can be. Find the force within you. Strong you shall be. Write you must. Do it. Focus.

Thanks for reading, 

Pav

(View from my home office, a perfect place for writing)

My Heart In My Hands

I started out writing a poem… and then it became this. Some poetic prose. 

My Heart In My Hands

You ripped my heart out of my chest, and I grabbed it from you, and tried to stuff it back in. But it didn’t fit any more. 

My heart had shrunk in fear and grief, and fell out of my chest, time and time again. Vulnerably exposed, angrily raw, and easily wounded, it stared back at me with questions I did not dare to ask myself, knowing I had no answers anyway. 

My heart grew as I did, taking in the pain of others, suffering alongside them as never before, because I had suffered too. It tried to sit in my chest, expanding as it took in the possibilities of loving people, trusting them again, of being worthy, and deserving of all that is good. 

Some days I felt my heart shrink away afraid, other days it expanded fearlessly full. It felt like the pull of tides, something visceral and real, quite beyond my control. I rode the waves as they came and went, and I learnt that change is the only constant. Slowly, I grew to watch my heart in my hands and love it, not despite its fragmented state, but because of it. 

The hole in my chest had been too big, and then too small, and then too big, and then too small… a rollercoaster ride of self awareness and understanding, laced with compassion and love, for my own broken heart. It would never be the same again, ever. 

I realised I held it in my hands each day, and watched the ebb and flow of daily life shrink it or grow it. I must be kind to this heart beating a tuneful rhythm in tandem with life itself. I owe it to myself, no one else will do this for me. I sit with it, and I love it, in moments of deep pain, and in moments of great joy, almost watching it from afar, willing myself from one low to the next high, searching for an even keel, a quiet lull, a peaceful stretch, when time ticks over and the heart is at rest. 

All of life flows from the heart, and guard it we must, while we let it beat a little wildly, feel so very deeply, and speak so eloquently to us of what it means to be fully human. 

Would I have known my own heart so intimately if you had left it in my chest?  I might never have met it, and yet, I cannot thank you for this. My heart won’t grow in that direction. If the only constant is change, then maybe some day it will, but not today. Today, I sit and watch my heart in my hands, and tears fall, but my heart expands, in love, for me. 

Pavitar

12th Nov 2022

Thanks for reading.

Dawn at the East Coast, 2020.

Musings on The Wounded Healer

Musings on The Wounded Healer

Opening afresh my wounds gape up at me,

Asking me to decide what to do. 

Are they wounds that wound or wounds that heal,

Which will it be when I encounter you?

Gaping wounds cry out to be sewn shut, 

Flooded by memories, plagued by pain.

One stitch at a time at every deep cut,

Nerve endings screaming in my brain. 

Perhaps if I closed my inner eyes instead, 

And forgot for now every shed tear,

If I left them somewhere in my head,

They would fade away and disappear. 

“I have no wounds”, I tried to pretend,

But they grew septic, bleeding out from me.

In extending to others my helping hands,

How could I be the best version of me?

How can we help heal others, 

When we ourselves are broken?

How do we not wound others, 

When we ourselves have wounds unspoken? 

Bringing my wounds into the light, 

Seeing myself and my failures truly,

Loving myself despite the sorry sight,

Letting go, forgiving, moving on slowly. 

If only old wounds never ripped apart,

If only memories never lingered in our mind.

If only we could truly shut our heart,

If only we could forever leave the past behind. 

The wounded healer daily makes a choice,

Not from pain to wound others,

Choosing instead their healing voice,

For their own wounds and those of others.

Reflections on a quiet afternoon on how vigilant we must be to articulate, process, and heal our own wounds even as we help others with their wounds. A daily duty to self and others, to be the best version of one’s self at every encounter, or at least to try. We are all wounded healers.  🙏🏼❤️

Thanks for reading, 

Pav

Choosing Authenticity

Love my counselling work because it’s a constant reminder to me to remain authentic. Woke up feeling so exhausted today, and plagued by memories of the past. Found my emotions threatening to overwhelm me, and I recalled something I’d just told a client recently… 

“If we don’t manage our emotions, they’ll manage us. Acknowledge how you feel, recognise your feelings, sit with them briefly, and then make a choice to let them go”. 

Also reminded of the lists that I help clients make but somehow do not enjoy making myself. Faced with choices? List pros and cons, don’t just wing it on a feeling and a prayer. Write it down, clarity will come. Gosh, I’d forgotten just how hard writing can be and yet my lovely clients work hard at any task I set for them. Must. Write. Also. 

Then there’s the sessions on building self esteem and allowing internal validation to grow, to develop an innate sense of intuitively knowing what you must do, for you. But this is so hard, for me. Trapped in places in the past, I struggle to let go of hurts, judgments, words, and actions that have hurt me to the core. And then I am reminded of what I tell my most traumatised clients:

“Very rarely is there a moment of intense healing that never necessitates a return to dealing with past wounds. We may have to accept that all of life is learning how to live at peace with our old, and fresh, wounds. They remain with us, always, a reminder of our humanity and frailty, and the need to pick ourselves up and keep going, over and over, everyday, if necessary, looking forward, moving on.”

And that other reminder to self which I tell myself ever so often:

“If the past lives in your head without paying rent, it’s time to evict it. Let it go, and be kind to yourself. Direct love, kindness, and compassion to your own heart and mind, and help your healing by loving the person in the mirror”. 

“If you had to describe yourself to a complete stranger what would you say?” One of my fav questions to ask, and to read the answers. Perhaps I need to write this myself, though I’d struggle not to over analyse my every choice of word! 

People are mysteries, even unto themselves, afraid to love themselves because they might find that they are strangely unworthy of love. If only we all knew how powerful truly loving ourselves is as the key to being able to love others, freely giving and receiving love. All of life is a journey along this road, towards this space where we can be seen as we are, and truly loved as we are. Living in that space is the tension we face, knowing how imperfect we are, and yet wanting more of ourselves and of others. 

Love is the key to surviving the trauma that is life. Yes, life is trauma, all the way from start to end. Oh dear, feeling a wave of melancholy threatening to sweep over me… I know you, old friend, I sit with you briefly, I let you go freely. No long visits with you today. I choose joy, and I choose to live authentically, so that I know, in my soul, that what I do and what I say are the same. 

Got four lovely clients today, maybe I’ll do some painting, gonna feed the zoo in my roof garden, and gonna eat some carbs. In short, choosing to focus on the things that bring me joy. Carbs! Haha! No space for things that don’t bring me joy. Evicting unwanted tenants from my head, heart, and soul. Choosing authenticity all the way.  🙂 

Thanks for reading, 

Pav

A Reflection on Death and Dying

Some people are afraid of death, imagining it to be something frighteningly mysterious and darkly disturbing that they must fight against all their lives. I think death is a relief, a rest, a rite of passage, for all of us. Nobody is escaping life alive, we’re all going to die, somehow, somewhere, some day. The mystery might be that we do not know the details, and what really happens when we die, but it’s going to happen whether we have those answers or not. 

I really do think the secret to living fully is fully accepting the inevitability of death, not exactly inviting it but simply acknowledging that it must surely come. And then living life without fear or frenzy, as if one must pack in electrified energy into every second but rather breathing in the essence of each moment in a calm and peaceful way. Savouring each breath as a gentle ebb and flow of waves upon the troubled sea of life, rising above the worry and woes, and recognising one’s place in time and space. Content to be as tiny and insignificant as a grain of sand at the ocean’s edge, as a drop of water in the sea, as a speck of dust floating in the breeze above the tempest. 

Might death then be the same, like a breathing of the soul, finally exhaled from its tiny, caged, physical frailty and set free to wherever it must go? Does the mind live on with its myriad thoughts and ruminations, or does consciousness cease to be? Is the soul an ephemeral or eternal thing that God breathed into us on the day He saw fit to bring us to life, binding us forever with our fellow living, breathing, sentient creatures on this planet, and perhaps beyond? Where will it go when we die, if not back to Him, for all eternity? 

What is a human life, so short, like flowers swaying in the wind, the grass trembling in the rain, or the butterfly fluttering by in the sun? We’re here today, and gone tomorrow, a memory in the hearts of those who loved us, until they, too, are gone. Where do all those collective memories go, and who remembers the ones gone many moons before? 

Death is the only certainty once we are born. Embrace it, expect it, live it. Dying to self is the first death we must endure, and the better we are at dying to ego, the easier that final physical death will be, the one mystery that truly sets us free. That moment in which we gladly say, “It is finished, take me back to Thee”. 

Thanks for reading, 

Pav