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.