I once read that the children of dysfunctional children come in three varieties:

  PLAY DOUGH – you know the type. This one bends with the wind. She licks her finger, sticks it up in front of her and turns to take advantage of the extra push. Any direction will do. Don’t get too used to her in any given form because she’s a slippery one, this one; sort of a shape shifter

                 CRYSTAL GLASS – Oops! Watch out belooowwww!

Or just watch out in general. Wrap this one in cotton and take care of her well. And don’t go leaning on her! She shatters far too easily. 

And then there’s – TA DA – IRON WOMAN

  She’s one tough cookie. Throw anything at her. She can take it! Bounces off her like…well, iron.

How does a kid become one or the other? Born that way? Gets assigned? “This is your mission should you decide to accept it.”?

Well, that’s for another blog and another day. The deal is that I was Iron Woman from age 6 to age 56. That’s probably not exact but it sounds good. Poetic license. Six is about right, though. How could that be? Shucks, I dunno.

But there you have it.

And then, after decades and decades or taking care of, well, just about everyone and everything, something happened. A bunch of something. And something kept happening. And year after year, something developed into something and that developed into something and, then, yep!, that developed into something, too. 

I didn’t hear anything but…

one day I realized that my heart had cracked open and…

all sorts of things flew out and flew in.

Feelings. Pleasant and less pleasant. Comfortable and less comfortable. Happy and not so much

But the thing is – IT WAS ALL GOOD!

Because it was real. There was a real me in there all along. And to think I’d almost given up on there BEING a real me. I had just about decided that a dysfunctional family and crappy childhood are like Chinese water torture or the unrelenting erosion of a windy mountainside. That I was doomed to be Iron Woman forevermore. But, nope!!

                        

                                  Yoga.             Gil Fonsdal (and others).       Meditation

And then, the cherry on the whipped cream…

(Thank you, Rachel!)

So now, doesn’t this just sound idyllic and wonderful and like a happily-ever-after ending? And it is, really.

But life isn’t a fairy tale after all, in case you thought it was. Even idyllic, wonderful, happy developments in life have their down side.

An open heart is a vulnerable heart. Without that iron armor, all sorts of painful particles can come flying in. It’s not all hugs and smiles. Laughter and song.

It’s my youngest son, supportive husband, incredible father, smart, funny, handsome and charming, commanding a tank facing Hamas terrorists. It’s waking up to the background noise of inner disquiet, knowing he’s in harm’s way. Knowing the kind of man he is – one who sees Arabs (really sees them) as people and feels their pain but sees the enemy and believes in his obligation to protect his country. I’m proud of him even though I sometimes can’t catch my breath out of anxiety for his welfare.

It’s my youngest daughter, loving wife, amazing mother, beloved high school counselor, beautiful, thoughtful, generous to a fault, sitting in her daughters’ bedroom which is a special room built to withstand the armed rockets raining down on her city. It’s going to bed every night praying for her safety and feeling a rumbling of fear for her. (She may be a mother of two, but she’s still my little girl)

And, yes, it’s a heart open wide enough to feel compassion and sorrow for Arab residents of Gaza even as I curse Hamas for the cynical use of them as human shields, protecting rocket launchers and Hamas’ upper echelons of terrorists. 

A heart that understands and feels the tragedy of being poor, of being born into a culture that condones honor killings, of being taken advantage of by all sides and discriminated against, feared and fearful, of feeling hopeless, hateful and hated.

My heart feels anger at and frustration with their leaders and educators who have herded them into their dead end existence. Who keep them there. And who celebrate the misdirected explosions of violence that result.

All that, my friends – the down side of an open heart.

I fear for our children and grandchildren running for their lives with 15 to 90 seconds to find cover.

I weep for the Arab civilians who respond to Hamas’ orders to climb up to the roof of the buildings sheltering Hamas leaders instead of the IDF orders to evacuate.

I pray for our world and all of those who try to observe the commandment which exists in every religion…do no harm.

May we be safe.