Miki Dedijer

Coaching for Relational Parents | Miki Dedijer

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Our children deserve less than we got

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I know that my children deserve less than I got. Most likely your child does too.

This doesn’t go down easy, if like me you’re a member of the industrial growth society. Here, most of us by far want to pass on more to our children than our parents gave us.

Such is the script of progress, where more is the plotline of success. More comfort, more convenience, more mobility, more entertainment, more experiences, more activities, more money.

More, as you know, comes at a cost. We take more from those yet to come. We take it from earth and from once thriving communities.

The paradox of more in the times we know is that it inevitably impoverishes all our children, and their children in turn.

The innocent luxuries we have come to take for granted today–juicy tomatoes in December, a quick hop on an airplane, a 23 degree home year-round–are all mortgaged on our children and theirs to come.

As a generation desperately entitled to more, we inevitably deepen our debt spiritually, materially, relationally and morally to our grandchildren. Our legacy of consumerism, of taking more than we give, is an inherited poverty from our own ancestry, one that accrues to our children and theirs to come.

Our children deserve less of this poverty.

A legacy of less consumption but also of less cultural poverty is revolutionary parenting in the industrial growth society.

If you are willing to consider this, you likely belong to a minority of the concerned. If so, you will have to prepare for the day when your child asks you, “Mom, dad, why did you give me less than you got?”

This is a hard question to answer. I doubt there are many parents who have gone before us who ever had to. Yet our children deserve both this diminishing material legacy and our sincere concern for the cultural poverty that underlies it.

Whatever our response, it must somehow be sourced from love rather than self-hatred. It must also adress our obligation to leave enough for our children’s children as our way of affirming life itself, while becoming wise to the gnawing poverty that drives the hunger for more.

And if we get it right, our children, and theirs to come, will know how deep our love ran. They will know us as the ancestors who did their best to be human, accultured, generous and greatful.

Becoming a family servant

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In a few days, a dozen or so men are gathering at our farm around a man about to become a father.

So I’ve spent some time pondering what this moment asks of us, now that his life seems to be taking him away from a certain singularity awash in endless possibilities, towards an obligation to be tethered to the bundle of ties that is family.

Now there’s a word, family, pregnant with hidden meaning, fully birthed only by a willingness to wonder some about its ancestry.

Family, from the latin famulus, is originally an adjective meaning servile, or a noun signifying a servant or slave. We may receive this as a negative, this posture of submission, but I suspect that there’s more to it then what the knee’s jerk suggests. As the verb famulur, it indicates someone who ministers, tends to or waits upon someone or something.

And so there is an action concealed within the pale lifelessness of the noun, something being done that is of consequence to the one being acted upon.

The servant here is not a single person submitting to the will and command of others of higher standing. Nor does it ask of us that we resign ourselves to tending to the whole without recompense, agreeing to become gradually impoverished by our  ministrations, forever bound to an insatiable hunger.

When we first tread across the threshold of parenthood, we’re not entering the vaguely heroic realm of sacrifice, rising every day to lay our gifts down at the altar of the child. Not as I understand it. It’s more relational than that, less ridden with resignation.

It seems that as you become a parent, you take on a relational obligation and mutual agreement to serve whatever and whoever needs sustenance. Not sacrifice. Surrender.

For this man coming to our farm, his heart expectant, this may be his pregnant partner. It most certainly will be their newborn child. At times a grandmother or uncle and others of the fold. The family requires the attention of all members onto all members. It ceases to be without this collective willingness to serve.

And in entering this web of relations with the stance of a servant, we soon discover that it extends far beyond our child, our partner, ourselves. For what sustains us, is serving us, is family.

So I wonder if family is only born from our willingness to bow our backs and kneel together in servitude to all that calls on us for nurturance. As a man then, we marry into family by a pledging our allegiance to matrimony, the condition of the mother. This is the honor bestowed on the one entering wedlock, to become a servant, not master, in the household of life, human or otherwise.

Our children are not exempt from this daily practice of family-making.  They too are asked to learn this willingness generously to serve, so that they may one day come of age, knowing that beyond the immediate family, there’s a larger community fed by their willingness to give what they are able to part with, and some of what they relucantly know they must give up for life to continue.

Home as a place that doesn’t exist

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The global village tends no fire around which the children can gather.

Its sophisticated arrogance is politely to sneer at domesticity as a lovely ideal, but ultimately a naive and inevitably temporary undertaking.

It announces to anyone seeking to grow roots, that home is to be found everywhere, making sure that it is nowhere to be found.

No wonder then that many of us are part of a deracinated throng that for generations has wandered towards an elusive somewhere we are told is both here and there, homeless people forever on our way towards the rumour of a village hearth.

The denigration of the homebody and the dismissal of a place-bound life has ripped into the fabric of most lineages, leaving its bloodied mark on the words once spoken there.

If you doubt whether this is so, and has been for centuries, consider the old Latin word villain, which means ‘inhabitant of a farm,’ or ‘the scoundrel in thrall to the villa for his life’.

The Swedish word ‘hemsk’ today means horrible, terrible, frightening. Follow it back in time to the 1800s, and you find the meaning changes slightly to anxious and gloomy, even stupid. Further back yet, and it speaks of a person who spends most of his or her time being at home.

Of all the myriad challenges parents grapple with as they raise a child in a culture such as this, one of the more common ones is the feeling of being unsettled, literally without a seat to rest on.

Many fathers and mothers are overcome with the experience of being adrift and isolated. Wanting to pass on a greater sense of stillness and belonging to their children, they wish for their lives to be held with more groundedness. But even meditation or its equivalents offer a weak medicine for the affliction of endless perambulation.

The path that meets these needs passes instead through the willingness to stay put long enough for the whole family to become so enthralled by the intimacy of a place, that they may one day proudly reclaim their role as villains.

Then home becomes truly irreplacable, a somewhere not found anywhere else but here, and that alone is enough to kindle a fire that draws others towards an actual hearth.

Touch your child’s heart to feel her fear

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Fear isn’t always visible on our children’s faces, even when their bodies are in turmoil.

When my son was around four, we left the farm to visit the city for the day. We sat by a market square with an ice cream each, when a red-faced, drunken man walked up to us yelling and gesticulating.

He soon walked away, and I looked at my son, who sat very still. My hand was on his chest, and I could feel his heart pounding.

He was in fear of his life, but there wasn’t much showing.

I learned something that day.

Now, whenever I wonder if he’s afraid, I place my hand gently on his heart. It helps me know him better.

The spell of potential

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There are a few spells around, beliefs that are so common we hardly notice their insidious impact on how we lead our lives.

Like when we tell a child “You can be anything you want to be”, without us actually having any way to know what that child’s potential truly is.

Potential has no definite shape, nor a given end. It’s amorphous and limitless.

Under the spell of potential a child will always fall short, growing accustomed to never being all that she has been told she can be. She loses sight of her true value, and her natural capacity for belonging slowly withers.

You, I and our children cannot be anything we want to be. That’s good news.

Because once we recognize the spell for what it is–another expression of a culture that has fallen ill from all kinds of abstraction and excess–we can begin to accept who we actually are.

Most of us are quite ordinary, we suffer and we struggle, we are gifted in ways that bring us joy and some kind of income to help meet our needs, and if we’re fortunate, we have a place where we know the land and the people in it well enough to feel at home.

If we can accept the confines of our selves, we can more readily value our child for who he or she actually is. Then the child’s gifts, such as they are, become surprising treasures, tended through discipline, and complementing the gifts of others.

Your child’s spiritual doctor

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Your child’s nature unfolds like an oak from an acorn.

Once she has tumbled onto the ground from some mysterious height, it is the soil and the wind and the rains that give her ultimate expression its particular form.

Who she becomes when she’s well rooted and fully extended has painfully little to do with who you are as a parent.

And yet, we readily take it upon us to be our child’s spiritual doctor, to provide the way for her to become what we envision she ought to be.

This is too big a burden for someone as inconsequential as a father or a mother to the innate calling of the child. It’s also a position we don’t have the qualifications or skills for, whatever our ambition, unless that child is someone else’s. If she is, then we might serve her as an elder, a mentor, a trusted uncle or aunt.

Our own child’s spiritual path is laid down by her encounter with the world, what we used to know as the village. And if this village is now unknown to you, as it is to most of us here in the west, you might have placed the full weight of your child onto your weary lap. If you’re a single parent, you will know the strain of this burden all the more.

Parenting this way is an impossibility masquerading as a responsability.

If we take it as our task to be the spiritual doctor of our child, we close the door on the main generational work before all of us fathers and mothers, which is to tend to the threadbare remains of what was once the village, so that it may begin to remember why it came to be in the first place.

This is why parenting today as always before is village-making, not the spiritual doctoring of our own kind. It’s a gathering in of people and beings around all our children, so the world in which they come of age has the willingness and capacity to welcome them and steward them in ways we on our own cannot.