Missing Green

It is the last day of the year, and in my head are visions of couples, toasting the new year, dressed in fancy dress, surrounded by the energy of being together, not alone. Too often, I feel alone, alone in my thoughts, feelings, fears and even at times, alone in my happiness and contentment. 

When I was raising my daughters without their dad, and without a partner, I felt poignantly, the aloneness of not having someone to share their wonderful little lives with. Someone who would love them and delight in them the same way I did. Now that they are all adults, we can share our love and delight in and for each other. 

Still, this time of year, especially right at the end of the holidays, I am sad and lonely, and I think I realized this morning that the reason for this is that I am missing green. I know that I miss warmth, I miss early morning daylight, and I miss breezes, feeling them on my skin, and hearing the sound of wind through trees, windows, against curtains. But also, I miss green. I miss green trees, green grass, green flower stalks that burst forth with pinks, yellows, crimson. 

For a few more months, we will be like Dorothy in Kansas, not Oz. Brown, gray, cold, still, dark. I will hold on waiting for green. 

Christmastime is Here

The World has not Ended, Christmastime is Here, and Is it OK to be Happy? 

I woke up tired, it might be the hot flashes that are my new nightly experience, it might be that it’s been a long week, and a busy year, it also might be that kind of bone tired, when you realize that the worst really has not happened, there is tragedy in our news, but the world is still here, I saw the sliver of the moon lighting up the clouds last night when I got home about 9 pm, and felt the cold breeze through the window that I threw open around 2 am. It could also be relief, that the last of the Christmas presents that I ordered online just Sunday arrived yesterday, I love online shopping. So, in spite of being tired, I want to be able to enjoy the holidays this year. Really, to just relax and sink into being grateful, and happy. 

Can we be happy at this holiday time of year? I mean, really, is it OK? Can we be happy with what little or alot we have, can we be happy that the kids are either out of school, or home for the holidays, whether we like who they are dating or the fact that they might be out of work? Seriously, can we just be who we are, and celebrate that? I’m talking about letting go of the Martha Stewart family perfection that the media portrays this time of year. 

I’m lucky, I don’t have television, so I’m not subjected to the commercials that show families with perfect complexions, wearing brand new clothes, living in perfect homes any more, but I remember them from a long time ago when I watched television, and internalized the crazy idea that this might somehow be true. In case you’re still unconvinced, let me tell you, it’s not, and from what I know, those attempting to live this life of family perfection are miserable. There you have it, perfection is impossible, and the attempt of it leads to misery. 

What then? Love the ones you’re with, an old hippie phrase from Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, but apt. When you let go of the expectations of perfection, or actually, expectations of any kind, it lets real relationship blossom, and it will. Let go of who you think others should be, let go of what the holidays used to mean, or you think they should mean, use your imagination and let the holidays become for you what you want them to be, and then embrace it. This is your life, your time, you can celebrate that Jesus was born, you can celebrate that the lamps are still burning, you can celebrate that you have food to share, whatever brings meaning to your life, celebrate it. 

Years ago, I had a nativity set that I put out at this time of year, if I am honest, I will say that I put it out for my girls, so that they would know that this time of year was not really about Santa, (although I would take them downtown to sit on Santa’s lap), but about Jesus being born. When I was a child, I knew Christmas was about Jesus, and going to church, although I looked forward to getting a flannel nightie from my older sister, this I could count on, the gifts I got from Santa could be iffy, they may or may not be something I liked or wanted, and then I would not only feel disappointed, but also guilty, ungrateful and this combination of emotions was toxic. My oldest sister’s presence and her soft gift, consoled me. 

Now, this nativity set, a pretty set, from Italy, is in the trunk of my car. Baby Jesus’ hand is broken off, but you can hide that flaw in the straw around him. I was going to donate this set somewhere, that is why it’s in my trunk, but I don’t know of anyplace to bring it. So now, I contemplate bringing it in the house, setting it up, a reminder of what Christmas used to mean to me. What can I take with, bring into the future of this? Perhaps what it is, which I know my parents gave me when they shared their faith, is that this was a passing down of their best interpretation of how life works. I know that this was more than interpretation to my dad, especially, it was his hold on a tenuous life. My mom, too, holds onto her prayer life, telling me, often, that she is praying for all of us, holding out hope, holding out her best, holding her children in this tender, ephemeral web of love. Do we really need to keep trying to work out when the world will end? Do we really need to keep trying to work out how to live? Can we say we get it, yet? Can we be present, and grateful and happy?

snow day, slow tempo

The snow continues to fall, they’ve given the storm a name, which I think is silly twice, once, for naming the snowstorm, and twice for the silliness of the name “they” whomever, they are, have chosen. So, I am spending the day snowbound. Held by snow. The day becomes an exercise in slowness, as I read thoughtfully through the book by Carl Honore, In Praise of Slowness: Challenging the Cult of Speed.  

I am letting the idea of slow sink in, gently, like the snow falling. And now, as I write, I am listening to Beethoven, played slowly, by pianist Uwe Kliemt, who Honore interviews in the book. The listening takes me away, and I am writing, slow. I type, and then close my eyes to hear the notes, slowly, the music takes me in, in a way that the faster played piece never has. I am enchanted by the unknowing of the rate of the tempo that many classical pieces were written in, the metronome wasn't invented until the early 19th century. So, we have to ask then, how slow is adagio? 

My deliberate attempt to live more slowly started with my meditation practice, years ago now, and it continues, as I savor a cup of coffee, as I drive at times with no music on. As I tell myself to open my heart, as I'm listening to someone else, to stop the chatter in my head that takes me out of the moment and on to what I think is the next thing I have to do. I am finding in this book on slowness, that I am not alone in my quest for more quiet, for more slow, for less speed. It is snowing, it is beautiful, and slow. 

Holding Steady

On this journey of becoming a therapist, I go into the world, but I also continue to go deeper into myself, and continue to understand how we all hold together. I started a new supervision group for therapists, a place where we meet with a trusted, wiser therapist to share cases or struggles with the profession, and to share our joys, and insights also. Of the three women who were being supervised, we found something in common that we’d not been able to share before, the experience of being shamed for what we knew or know. I don’t know if this is a phenomena more likely to happen to women, or if it is universal, but when we were able to share about this, it was cathartic. 

Our supervisor, wise man that he is, was able to attune to this, and affirm that we are often wise as children, and have innate gifts as children that often aren’t recognized. That way that children have of seeing truth, just as it is, without judgment or, in the case of hypocrisy, which children often recognize, with right judgement. So, what happens to children when they continually hear, “How dare you know,” or “You did not see that,” or “Oh no, this didn’t happen, and don’t tell.” And I’m not just talking about blatant cases of abuse, but of that subtle knowing that children have that can scare and unnerve adults. So, the adults in their lives deny this, and let children know, this is not something to talk about.  

As we shared our stories of knowing and hiding what we knew and know, we grew to understand ourselves and each other better, to create a place where the gifts that we’ve carried and hidden for so long could come out into the light and be celebrated. The gifts of discernment, of knowing, of seeing, of clarity, of empathy, of compassion, the gifts that somehow brought us into the profession, that we could unwrap and wonder over, safely together. See, and be seen, hold and be held. 

I Will Be Shamed for What I Know No More 

no more she cried

as if to endure

any longer

the being small

the being afraid

would implode

into a million sparkling fragments

of knowing

what the stars held

that made up her being

that she continued to try

to conceal

with every breath

finally she knew

what she had known all along

no shame could contain her

or the vastness of her knowing

So she traveled on, 

To find a home 

a language that 

held enough words

to describe the many worlds

To talk freely of the places she had traveled

Magical things she had seen

The star dust that made up the lives 

of those she encountered

“I see the sparkles she cried,” 

but those around her had told her

“There are no sparkles, only the dust of flesh.”

“I am sure we are all holy,” she knew, but was 

admonished, “No, that cannot be, only some are holy.”

This is the lie that I call out. 

And so with this, it made me realize, that I have carried and protected my child knowing for all these years, a wise child who guides me, who holds me steady, fearless, still seeing the sparkles, still knowing that we are made up of the dust of stars, the rush of the ocean, the freshness of the wind on a spring day, and that we are all holy. 

Hide and Seek

Writing can be a complex process. It can help you sort things out, it can be used as an intricate defense mechanism, and it can sometimes expose the shadow self that you never intended to show, and perhaps aren’t quite ready to see, let alone, share.  Good writing is said to “show, not tell.” But sometimes metaphors aren’t springing up like daisies after a warm April shower, and so you just tell, and telling is cathartic. 

Research confirms that just the act of putting thoughts and feelings into words can be healing, and as Maya Angelou says, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” Sometimes, though, the agony is also in putting the story out there. Because sharing your writing can make you vulnerable, and that is how writing makes me feel, sometimes, perhaps, most times, if I’m honest. I looked up the definition of vulnerable, and here’s what I found:

Vulnerable: ORIGIN early 17th cent.: from late Latin vulnerabilis, from Latin vulnerare ‘to wound,’ from vulnus ‘wound.’

Maybe that’s why it sometimes feels scary, when I share myself through writing, because I am sharing my woundedness through words. Understanding then, that if I wasn’t wounded, there would be nothing to heal. And in the shadow self, some of those wounds aren’t completely healed, and this is why it is still difficult. Metaphors abound around this theme, we have “battle scars,” we talk of life’s journey as the “hero’s quest.” And what hero has not fought and been wounded? Recently, in a class someone noted that there are no single-mom heroes out there, and I thought of a good friend of mine who calls me her hero. 

She says this to me, “You are my hero.” (I’m getting used to her saying it, even liking it.) I never thought of myself as a hero, but she goes on, “Are you kidding me? Raising three girls by yourself? I don’t know how you do it?” And it’s funny, I was in Target yesterday, calmly shopping with Megan, who has the shopping list on her phone, and I walked by a woman with three kids, two hanging off the cart, one by her side, and she was navigating this all, and I thought to myself, “Oh my God, three kids!” And then I laughed and said to Megan, “I saw that woman with the three kids, and thought how difficult, how can she manage, three kids?” She smiled, because she knew, that was me, that was us, years ago. 

I’m still navigating my own wounds, and helping to heal others in my work as a therapist. The former paradigm, the one that we are shifting away from, tells us about boundaries, warns us about sharing our pain, not to inflict our pain on our clients, and from what I can see, the more a therapist tries to compartmentalize, the more they share their unseen woundedness. 

Yet, I worry as I try to bridge these worlds, being open and being closed, being both a writer and a therapist. Being both wounded and healed, being vulnerable and invulnerable. I hope to explore my own shadows, in my writing, in my art, in my life, and by being comfortable with this place; continue unafraid to walk through the shadow lives of others. Not compartmentalized into writer and therapist, mother and hero, but to integrate all of my selves, into a stronger, both more and less vulnerable version of who I am now. This, I guess, is my hero’s quest. 

Veteran's Day

My Dad, his friends, his brothers, all served in WWII.  Of this I am sure, no matter what training, how prepared they thought they were, they had no clue, absolutely no clue, as to what serving their country meant, fresh out of high school, in 1944, in WWII. Because he was half Scandinavian, because he was stoic, because, perhaps there were no words for this when he was sober, I know little of my dad’s experience in the Navy, except for the story of when the aircraft carrier he was on was bombed, and he lived. He would tell me about it when he'd been drinking, time and time again. 

18 years old

Navy man flying overseas

to serve on a huge ship

there’s things I can say

things I cannot say

things I cannot talk about

but I am ready to go

Billie my girl is waiting for me

back in Minneapolis

back in high school

my younger brother will take her 

to her dances

keep an eye on her

for me

Letters I write

pass through the ranks

location information

blackened out

security is priority

“loose lips sink ships”

secrets I hold 

Stationed on an aircraft carrier 

the ship has been hit 

and I am ordered to lock down

the damaged sections

the parts that are smoking 

on fire

men screaming help me help

I can only lock the doors

as quickly as I can 

their voices fading in the din

in the roar

in the thump thump 

thumping of my own heart

beating and heaving inside my chest

I never knew that for the rest of 

my life

this would haunt me

chase me

find me crying in a beer to my 

children 

who could only imagine in horror

Once I got home and married

my young love

once we became parents

to eight count them eight 

children

paying bills on Saturday

church on Sunday

Jesus could not take 

away the noise

the cries for help

the weariness 

I carried

the burden I bore

that I am honored 

for

sparkly time of year

It’s the start of the holiday season, and I need to stop equating these short days and dark evenings with falling in love. For some reason, I harken back to being so young, only eighteen and hanging out in downtown Minneapolis when Steve and I first fell in love. Walking down Hennepin Avenue or the Nicollet Mall, with the trees all asparkle, a swirl of snow, flakes falling on our hair and eyelashes. And so, with the start of the season, I feel like something is missing, not excited and not really ready to celebrate with the amazing family I have. 

Over the holidays, I also miss my dad-- in his flannel shirts and a fire in the solid brick fireplace in my parents' big home.  So, what do I think, at this time of year? I think that another year has passed and I am still alone! I remember telling a girlfriend when I was newly divorced, 17 years ago, that if it took a year or two for me to get my bearings before I got remarried, that would be OK. But seriously, 17 years? OK, these 17 years have been full, and I’ve grown exponentially, and had the chance to connect with my self, from my inner child to my inner goddess, and had the opportunity to become the overly educated self that I am now. 

So, where’s the love? I find love in my children and grandchildren, and in my friends and even my clients (I do love them, I just can’t really tell them that, that might be weird). I have lots and lots of love, but not the kind I’d had in mind, all those years ago when I figured I’d be remarried in a year or two. My daughters will point out, yes, I’ve had relationships, but nothing special enough to hang onto, nothing really viable. So, this year, I’ve decided to quit equating the season with romance, and just get into the swing of it, and quit mooning around, waiting for love, like my life is some movie, like, Holiday Inn.  

This evening, at Target, Megan and I picked out new Christmas tree lights, and didn’t care that they weren’t on sale. We’ll get the tree up hopefully this weekend, way early for us, to make up for the fact that last year we didn’t put it up at all. I think I might even buy curtains for the dining room to cozy it up, and find all my old Christmas CD’s. We’ll be home for the holidays, and the Nicollet Mall will still be there, shiny displays in the windows, lights sparkling on the trees, people bustling, breath coming out in puffs in the cold, snow swirling around and bright red kettles, ready to take your spare change. Maybe this time next year, I’ll have a hand to hold, walking through the sparkly streets of downtown, someone to duck into a warm restaurant with, just maybe. 

ink well

ink has dried up

i turn the well upside down

tap the little glass jar

on the desk

nope no ink

the shades of black 

and gray where the ink

has dried like edges of mountain

skyscape in black and white

a study

a work of unintended 

art the glass slips from my fingers

clatters to the floor

too sturdy to break

rolling rolling

coming to a stop in the dust

Small Revolutions

The longer I live, the more I can see the patriarchal (and hierarchical) structures and constructs imbedded in our systems, and in our lives. I was working with a client recently around the issue of keeping going when things are hard, of being encouraged, of not giving up and I brought up the analogy of sports, where we cheer people on, “come on, go, you can do it.” And as I was saying this, it dawned on me, that for as long as I can remember, watching football with my dad and my brothers, it seemed only natural, it was a normal part of life, that the pretty girls cheered for the male athletes, and I’ve been racking my mind to come up with a situation where attractive boys/men, dress up for and cheer female athletes on, shaking their pom-poms and all. And we wonder why women struggle for equality. 

In all seriousness, it is pay inequality, it is the perception of women as the “weaker” sex, it is in religious writings that tell us (or we interpret to believe) that women are not as close to god, not as holy, whether it is the story of Eve or Jezebel; it is also, all these little, perhaps even trite seeming ways, that women learn not to believe in and trust themselves in ways that will move them forward. So, do we want boys to start cheering at girls’ soccer games, or swim meets, or do we abolish the practice? Who gets cheered on, and who does the cheering, suddenly seems important to me. 

We all need encouragement at times, no matter our gender. And so, if you are not an athlete, if you do not have a parent, relative or friend who knows how to cheer you on, find one, be one. We all get discouraged by day to day challenges, let’s find ways to tell each other (and ourselves), “yep, it’s hard, but you can do it, I believe in you.” I believe in small revolutions, revolutions of the heart and mind, and in equality of cheer and encouragement for all. 

Home to Myself

On Friday I took a half day from work, and I packed a few things into a paper bag, being too pressed for time to go to the basement for my small suitcase. I hadn’t done laundry in weeks, and I also was hard pressed to find anything to pack. But I had to be off. After making sure Megan had groceries, I was on my way to Owatonna by 2:00 pm. Kathleen and I were scheduled to present again (for the fourth time) at the Women & Spirituality Conference in Mankato Saturday afternoon, the keynote was Saturday morning. We needed Friday evening to prepare. 

This was a convergence of selfs of sorts for me, driving back to Owatonna, where I’d raised my three daughters, pretty much by myself, back to Owatonna, where my sister still lives, even though we rarely even talk any more, (we once were best friends), I still feel sad and confused when I think about it, and always wonder, should I call her? I don’t, though, because when I do, it brings me even further back into who we were and it feels so stuck, that sometimes it takes me days to come back to myself. So, when I get to Owatonna, to Kathleen’s, to the house that used to be mine, it takes a lot out of me to stay present. 

Kathleen doesn’t get this. She is either too young, or too well adjusted (I’d like to think), to understand the hollows of my head, the trails that lead into a forest of frustration and sometimes fear that was once my life. She will never know the lost feelings I had, wandering through the systems of school that nearly swallowed Megan up, driving down dark country roads that bore no resemblance of the home I had known in the city. Of wondering how I’d gotten there, where my marriage and love went wrong, how I could have ended up with so much responsibility and so few resources. 

She just knows that I’m not the most present, not like she’d like me to be. But I do my best. We get our presentation together, and I will admit that yes, Kathleen does most of the work, but she’s like that, it’s the instructor in her, however, I did put together most of the art supplies for the vision boards we’d have our attendees create. It is always a relief once we arrive, one more year, and we have arrived at this place in time, to create together. And when we are inside the auditorium on the campus, it is just the space that Kathleen and I have been to, together, for years now. It too, is the place where Kathleen attended University, and where she taught for years. Places hold us this way, they hold our past, sometimes our future, sometimes our pain, sometimes our dreams. 

The presenter was Andrea Smith, who spoke of reclaiming our power, of creating radical relationship, of how government, with it’s power over power, seduces us with promises to help, and in this way takes away our own personal power. We gather to do good work, and then end up begging for grants, in such a way that the good work ends up being lost in the hopes for the cash to finance it. The words resonated with me, as I walk my walk in the world. A good reminder of which power to walk in, the power of hope and of healing, the power of connection. Our workshop went well, creating a new presence of hope in the small room where we gathered. Our workshop was called holding out hope, change and resilience in women’s lives. Together we held out hope. I love my daughter, and in those moments love myself, love my life. 

Love, Imperfect

Okay, so I’m reading more about shame and vulnerability and more and more about my own life and shame and vulnerability is coming into clarity. One of the easiest ways for me to understand these terribly dense and multi-faceted concepts is to break them down into the brain hemisphere functioning. With the caveat that I’m not a neuroscientist, and I know our brain can be divided into other sections other than the simple LR paradigm, that’s the one that works for me. So, as I’m trying to continually figure out why life (and love) seem to be so hard for me; I study attachment theory, right, so, if my parents are not empathically aware, or able to emotionally attune to me, I’m left with not so great attachment on my right hemisphere (which is relational). There are categories that describe different types of (un) attachment which get complicated, so you can look up attachment theory, but for now, for here, let’s just say that relationally, I’m lost. (Actually, a wonderful book on this is called, Becoming Attached: First Relationships and How They Shape Our Capacity to Love, by Robert Karen.) So, growing up, my emotions were not validated, I was given no direction or instruction on how to feel my feelings, I was actually shamed for having (feeling) feelings and one of the best ways for me to survive was to shut up and buck up. Of course I have memories of feeling my feelings, like when I lay in bed sobbing quietly at around age 10, while my older sister was getting emotionally and verbally and oft-times physically abused by my dad after she’d come home from a date. I’d pretend to be asleep (full of pain, and also guilt for being relieved it wasn’t me), while she came into the bedroom we shared. It was a duck and cover world, emotionally. 

So, then there’s our other hemisphere, the left hemisphere, which is logical and rational and likes to problem solve. Often, when folks are not safe navigating from their right hemisphere, they rely on the left. This is where religion often comes into play. You know those stories of people who have survived abuse only to come to Jesus, quite literally. Well, it makes sense that if people have not had good attachment, that attaching themselves to a god figure makes them secure, not only can they imagine feeling loved by their god, they also are given a left brain set of rules to follow. Magically, a large scary world is reduced to something much smaller and manageable. The downside to this of course, is that it’s hard to grow much outside of the confines of this ideology. What seemed to provide safety, can become a trap. 

So, here’s what I’ve realized. That growing up, I was given only my Catholic faith as a way to navigate my world. Neither of my parents went to college, so there was no academic or intellectual life going on in my home. Not much relating and no conversing, just a lot of TV and yelling and blaming and walking on eggshells. The library became my sanctuary. The books and LP records that fed my head I carried home by the library by the bucket load. Quite literally, I walked up the hill from 43rd and Sheridan to 40th and Sheridan from the Linden Hills library quite often with my arms so full, I could barely make it, but I knew somehow, that this was saving my life. There was no one in the home I could talk to about what I was reading, so I believed I was a loner. Songs like Neil Young’s The Loner, and Laura Nyro’s breathtaking, I Am The Blues, made me feel, ironically, less alone. I found that the safest way to navigate life for me was through problem solving. I find now, that this same skill, is hindering my relationships. It makes me feel very odd sometimes, in understanding that I’m also outside of gender norms, that this is my way of navigating emotions. If I were a guy, people would be, “Of course that’s how you navigate, emotions.” But I’m not a guy. I’m also, often not a good listener, being empathic in my closest relationships does not come naturally to me, and now I realize, I have some shame in my inability to love as well as I’d like. And well, probably some shame about shame, too. 

So, thank you Brene Brown, for all your work on shame and vulnerability. It makes me feel vulnerable, that you know so much and I so little, it reminds me of how hard it was to grow up thinking that there was something important I was missing, and wondering if I’d ever find it. And I’m still small enough to feel jealous of Brown’s bio, that says she is married, and of the parts of the book that talk about her being married for so many years. As much as I thought I was over not being married, I’m very sad and shamed about it, I guess. I still don’t know how you meet and marry and love for years and years, and I had the kind of day yesterday with my children that I feel like I’m just a mess at parenting, even my adult children. I really wanted to think that I had this parenting gig all figured out, but I don’t. So seriously, I am grateful for this book, that helps me understand these powerful emotions. I don’t want to be envious of authors any more, I don’t want to be a loner anymore, and I do want to find someone to love me just as I am, and to love those I do love, so much better than I do. I’m frustrated and ashamed that I love so imperfectly, but I think I have the courage to not give up. 

Golden Autumn

The weather has turned, summer, for all practical purposes is over. The sky has been a magical shade of gray, and the trees, gold, plum, crimson. The wind strong enough to shake the leaves loose and send them fluttering and flying through the air, evidence enough for me that the universe is benevolent, bountiful, and powerful. I need to be reminded that I am supported and not in this alone. 

It has been a forceful few weeks, I am being pushed through each day by the things I ought to do, the things I need to do, and having to remind myself, that these things, too, are things I want to do. I also want to feel like I’m doing everything well, and that I can put some order to things, and these are the things that are falling by the wayside. Perhaps that is the lesson. 

I’ve been reading Brene Brown’s newest book, Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead. It’s one of those books I have to stop and ponder every few paragraphs through. I wonder, am I daring greatly? Sometimes I think I am. I think that my writing is my daring, that I keep sharing my days and thoughts in hopes that these things matter, in believing that by sharing I make vulnerability visible. I can let others know what it looks like in a world where we are too afraid to even talk about it, let alone look at it. 

I do often feel like I’m stumbling along, like nothing is making sense, and that maybe when I get a book deal, when it’s all put together in a tidy package with a pretty picture on the cover, that then it will make sense. All my work will turn into an accomplishment, instead of just a project I’m working on. One of the things that’s getting through to me is that just by being we are enough. It’s that one day at a time thing, but it’s really one breath at a time, and in each breath, we have to really believe that we are enough. Good enough, lovable enough in our imperfection, we are like the sky, the wind, the leaves, altogether, a breathtaking combination. 

I am reminded then, that I am not my clean (or messy) home, I am not the title after my name, I am not even, in my imperfection of parenting, only valid as a parent, or any other role, but I am valuable because I exist as a part of this amazing, ever changing world. 

the cigarette thing

I feel like I need to explain a bit about the cigarette thing. It’s been one of those things, that I’ve sometimes had to explain, but to explain means having to go into something I’m not really entirely ready to go into, but I’ll give it a try. The thing where I casually buy cigarettes for my adult daughter, which seems a little out of character for me, because, well, it is.

Besides my memoir on being the mom of a teen mom (which is written, but unpublished), I know I have another memoir inside of me (unwritten), the story about being the mom of a child with hypothyroid disease, which, sadly, was undiagnosed for nearly 10 years, even though I brought her to specialist after specialist. This story unnerves me still, makes me sad, and angry because it seems impossible to try to tell how hard it was to parent a child with horrible symptoms (the worst, unremitting depression), and not know what was wrong. How I blamed myself, how the doctors thought she had a mental illness, how she struggled in school, how she had no energy and no motivation, not even to live. 

So, anyways, the short story is, years ago, she started smoking as a way to cope, to deal with the anxiety, and I actually supported her in this, as it did help. When we were left with a situation in which I had no clue as to how long she would suffer with her depression and her hopelessness, smoking seemed like a really silly thing to worry about. So, she’s 23, she smokes 3-4 times a day, it’s her deal, it’s her life. She is now on medication for her thyroid that has given her her life back, she’s reclaiming it slowly. She sings, she does yoga. Maybe one day she’ll quit smoking, maybe she won’t, I don’t care, she’s doing fine. I have, as they say, bigger fish to fry. 

Free Fall

Megan would say that I am often a whiner and a drama queen, and I guess she is right. She at least has the right to her opinion. I, however, envision myself as long-suffering and stoic, especially this past week, when I’ve had the worst-cold-ever. All I wanted to do today was lie around in bed and read Her Fearful Symmetry, by Audrey Niffenegger, because it has lines, paragraphs, that read like poetry, and real life, and dreaming, all together, and I just want to have a day doing nothing. But no, Megan needed cigarettes, and she told me this last night, just before I went to sleep, “Please mom, I’ll need cigarettes in the morning, how about before 9:30?” So I roused myself this morning, blew my nose a million times on toilet paper, because I’d used up all the tissue already and drove three houses away to the BP on the corner. I grumbled at her as I was dressing, “Megan, what will they think of me, pale and coughing, and buying cigarettes?” I also told her that maybe I was enabling her, that she could buy her own cigarettes, and well, sometimes she does. . . It’s this parenting gig, that people think will end. 

They dream about it when their children are little, just get through toilet training, just get through kindergarten, just get through grade school, high school, college. . . But parenting doesn’t end, and it’s become ok with me, it’s just that it’s a different kind of responsibility, a different kind of work. Because I haven’t felt well, this whole week felt like a jumble, like I had to let go of the line of what usually balances me, and just free fall through whatever came my way. To only make partial sense of things, and to leave it at that. I worked a full day yesterday, and was tired and ready to go home when a colleague suggested we stop off for happy hour, and so I did. Sat at the bar, in my jeans and sweatshirt, and my roughed up nose, from all the blowing, and just sat, had a couple of wine spritzers, being the light-weight I am and tried to understand that male bonding thing that guys do in bars. 

The put downs, the innuendos, the cagey way they skirt around each other, never quite letting their guards down. I’ve learned to be ok with this now, being ok with the facade, the fear in their eyes, the way they’ve internalized gender roles and sexuality so that they are entrapped by it, yet can’t see it. They are surprised sometimes that I put up with it, and it may have made me angry in the past, but I can see now, that it is their own peculiar defense against emotional intimacy, with anyone, even themselves. I can enjoy their company, the stories they try to tell in between the jabs, realizing that this is a sort of social dance in and of itself. I only stayed for a little while, and then stopped and picked up dinner to make when I got home (see, I told you I’m long suffering). I put a steak on the grill pan, threw potatoes in the oven and then watched 2 episodes of Doc Martin before bed, before Megan asked for cigarettes. 

It’s Saturday, it’s only 9:00 am. So, I’ve bought the cigarettes and I’m still going  to try to work my day around being in bed today, and reading, but I’ll have to go to Target, to pick up Megan’s thyroid meds, and she’s also told me that we need to go get Erin, then go to a yarn store, so that together they can pick out yarn. Megan is going to knit a Hello Kitty hat for Audrey (Erin’s daughter, who is 2), to wear for Halloween. See, the parenting gig does not end, and I’m tired, but I do love hanging out with my daughters, and I love that they are spending their time doing something creative and loving for Audrey. We just love our babies in this family, and Audrey, like me, just loves Hello Kitty. 

fall

spring held promise of love

summer heat dried up the ground

and no flowers bloomed

I tread the hard ground

around and around

until fall came

falling

fast 

a day in the life

so here it is the middle of September and where am I? 

I’m not feeling like I have much to say, but finding that I need to say something, anything, right? Can I say something about the fuzzy place of life, where there is no clarity, no confirming evidence of anything, but just the place in between? 

I’ll try. My private practice as a therapist is building, slowly, but surely. I’m not sure how or what the next steps are. All I can do right now is pay my rent, show up, and be a good therapist. My day job is ok, but I’ve been looking at other options, but then stepping back, as I’m worried about losing stability. Trying to balance stability versus the option to try new things. Trying to balance that with thinking that maybe becoming a busier therapist is enough of a new thing. Then there’s the writing piece. 

My imagination is overflowing with writing ideas for non-fiction and fiction for young readers. I keep putting these on the back burner, but they keep calling out to me, to come into being, to take on form, to be born into the world. I wonder when Mother Love, my memoir, will ever be out in the world, a finished book. The People’s Apocalypse, the edited book that a piece that I wrote was selected for, was supposed to be delivered in June, hmm, not sure where that’s at. No news, and nothing in the mailbox. 

And then teaching, I’m scheduled to teach a resume writing course next month, about a week or so after I present with my daughter at the Women & Spirituality Conference in Mankato. We hope to integrate some of Brené Brown’s new work on vulnerability into our workshop. I ordered a copy of her new book, Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Changes the Way We Live, Love, Parent and Lead for each of us. They are in a box on my dining room table. Pan to the dining room floor: my toolbox out, with paint tools around it. I haven’t quite gotten around to cleaning up from re-doing the bathroom. The bathroom is pretty much completed, except for a piece of molding near the floor that is a mess. It might remain that way for a while. 

Because, today, I woke up not feeling well. Not really terrible, but allergies, or a cold, and just too tired to do many (any?) of the things on my to-do list. But it will be alright. I’ll meditate, do the dishes (Meg made breakfast) and enjoy what I can of this beautiful day. I’m trying to make space in my life for the things that need to emerge to emerge, the things that need to recede to move back, and the things that need to move forward to move forward. I keep imagining a life where my home is bigger, my life is simpler, and I actually have a partner and we keep up a home and life together, like this is my goal. And it is a goal, but one of many. I’m also trying to let go of that future for now, to live in today and to embrace the chaos that is my life right now. I’m wanting to let go of the tension between the now and then. I’m trying to step back and let the Universe lead for a while. Miracles will happen. 

ps, I’ve deliberately tried to keep my blog link free, to keep it simple, and to step back from the busyness of everything, but I think Brown’s work on vulnerability is so amazing, that I’ve left it a link. 

Labor

Some thoughts on labor day weekend

So, the political stuff is coming out and people are posting on Facebook, and I’m sure other places as well. I am intrigued by politics, I am bored by politics, and I’m always a little surprised that people like movie stars think they know enough about anything to voice an opinion nationwide. But that is our nation. 

If I speak to, (or write about) something, anything, I hope to have somewhat of an educated say. This is my hope. This doesn’t mean there’s no disagreeing, but it does mean that what I’m saying is based on my limited understanding of some things, and my more in-depth understanding of others. This is something that doesn’t get said often enough. What is a politician’s expertise, exactly? With what rigor have they studied both the problem(s) and the possible solutions? What has been done, and what can be done? Who are the experts they are consulting? How about instead of a candidate, we vote on a plan? I understand that this is supposed to be part of the process, that the parties supposedly have plans--but these plans are not in the news, Clint Eastwood is. 

What often comes into play, is what I see as “appeasing my god.” This is not a new thing to humankind, the reason that the old testament god tempted Abraham, (according to some) to kill his son Isaac, was to see if Abraham would follow the heathens who were known for sacrificing their children to the god Molech. On a new twist to this, since the old testament (and therefore new testament) god does not want human sacrifice, some folks (those who hold abortion to be wrong in their god’s eyes), deem that the reason we have suffering in our country/culture is that we have legal abortions. A god who does not want sacrifice, therefore, but wants retribution. A god who retaliates, (the same god I think, who invented forgiveness). 

What I'm wanting to know, however, is, is there a politician out there somewhere who can unhinge their personal religious belief system from what is good for our country? Is there someone out there with a good grasp of economics who also understands the power of our country’s history? Who understands that there have been some initiatives that have worked? Just look at the infrastructure that was created after WWII. Just look at the work of the unions who brought us safety and decent wages to some professions. Do you see the movie industry waning? Just look, and you will see union symbols on the ending credits of films. Who can predict where we need to be in 10 or 20 years for the sake of education and preparing the new little ones entering kindergarten this fall? Who can put into place initiatives that can be implemented before these kids graduate college? 

Who can take all the health care dollars being drained and put into the pockets of insurance company executives and put them into a universal program that makes premium health care for all a priority? That brings down our dismally high infant mortality rate? Studies show over and over that people are most happy when they live in a culture where everyone has what they need. In that sort of culture, you are not measuring yourself against your neighbor to see if you come out “better.” You are measuring your standard of living by the satisfaction that comes from everyone doing well. Who can bring about this sort of prosperity to our nation? 

Trying to appease a god, (or anyone) seems to me to be a very scary way to run a nation. So, how do we run our nation? Do we make a huge chart that lists issues such as, the health care crisis, war, returning vets and that health care crisis, unemployment, providing schools that nurture and educate, providing a safety net for folks unable to work, cleaning up the environment. . . ? How about a reality show that shows us how the government is project managing our country? How about spread sheets that can encompass every sector? Is there a graduate program somewhere for prospective candidates with courses such as “Dealing with a middle east crisis?” How can we even possibly know who is qualified for the position of “leading” or managing our country?

I’m just asking, who’s in charge and what are their credentials and world view? I understand the power of cash to buy things, including position and votes, how much of this really does come into play (outside of what we know from Michael Moore)? Don’t ask me to listen to an actor talking to a chair, or believe in someone who feels so unsafe they need to have the power of a gun (or corporation, or church) behind them. Don’t ask me to take seriously someone who thinks that we all need is to appease their god. I seriously don’t think outlawing abortion or birth control will solve the debt crisis. Where is a candidate who can bring wisdom and healing to our nation, instead of rhetoric and flag waving? A candidate with no gods to appease? 

And more about labor

I just have to bring up this wonderful book, called All Things Are Labor: Stories by Katherine Arnoldi, it is beautiful and wonderful. I love it because it is a work by the same author who wrote The Amazing  True Story of a Teenage Single Mom. Arnoldi inspires me as a mom and a writer, and years ago she inspired me when my daughter was a teenage mom. She reminds me of the holy spirit that resides in all of us. 

Bumpy Night

As I know, sometimes the outcome of things is unexpected. I like this about life, I don’t like this about life. I took my first doctorate level course, totally expecting it to give me amazing skills, (it was Advanced Research Writing) and really, it just made me dislike research writing even more than I already did. Why I don’t like research writing: well, it is based on a system that uses the past and measuring as a basis for what is acceptable. It is contrived and makes you accept that what is generally accepted due to following process is more true than not true, which, I believe, is totally untrue. We’ve all been victims of research in the last half of a century which has purported to find one thing true, only to have it turn out after more research, to be untrue. From eggs are bad for you to psycho-pharms are good for you. 

Also, the topic that I chose to research, Feminist Pedagogy, was interesting historically, but was also a bit depressing to realize just how hard so many women are working to move us forward, and then, just this week, to have some ignorant male politician make a comment about rape that is totally untrue, but just think how far this man had gotten in this ignorance of his that of course was not something he just woke up that day into. Errrrrr. That’s all I can say about that. So, back to research writing. It’s not that I totally disregard and hate all research writing, I’ve learned tons from it. There are wonderful scientific writers that have illuminated many, many things for me. I just still feel like I’m on this side of writing, not that. I like to be able to just write and speak my peace, and not cite anything (or much of anything). 

So now, as I’m registered for course 2 in this doctoral journey, I’m not as excited, I’m hesitant, wondering, is this degree for me? Is this the way? If it’s not, than the future is more unclear than clear, or the path is curving and I can’t see around the bend. It’s this uncertainty that unnerves me, and yet moves me also. I am stuck between boredom and the unknown, I am in the process of becoming something different, the process that I thought I’d only go through once, called adolescence. But no, it’s not a onetime process, it is a part of what it means to be human, and perhaps there’s no preparation for it, only the words of Bette Davis, as Margo Channing in the 1950 movie, All About Eve, “Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.” (about.com-not a reliable source, but good enough for non-APA writing, aka, good enough for me).