Possible Futures

Premier among the consequences is the capacity to imagine possible futures, and to plan and choose among them. How wisely we use this uniquely human ability depends on the accuracy of our self-understanding. The question of greatest relevant interest is how and why we are the way we are and, from that, the meaning of our many competing visions of the future. Edward O. Wilson, The Meaning of Human Existence

It is that time of year, Christmas present shopping time, when it gets brought to my attention that I have over 600 items on my Amazon wish list. I thought it was bad a couple of years ago when there were 300 items. Most of these items are books. Books on art, books of poetry, graphic novels and memoirs. Books on healing, from healing with Tibetan singing bowls to books on neuroscience and trauma. Lately, I feel an overwhelm of information and a general unease of what to do with it all, how to make sense of it. When I found this quote, it was helpful for me to see, that yes, we can have “many competing visions of the future” and how do we then let our most wonderful future unfold? How do we create an accurate self-understanding? 

For such a long time for me, my self-understanding came from books. From Huck Finn when I was about 10 or 12, to Eldridge Cleaver’s Soul On Ice, at around 13, to my love of anything by F. Scott Fitzgerald in high school, to Wordsworth and Coleridge in college. There was only a small time frame, when my girls were little, when I didn’t read voraciously. I thought to myself, “hmm, maybe I just don’t like to read anymore.” I was just too busy and engaged in my outer world of parenting. Sometimes now, I worry about being too dependent on books, maybe I should get out more. Worry less about my self-understanding, my self-awareness. 

This self-awareness could be partly a trap; even though it is hugely stressed in the process of becoming a therapist. I partly believe that if we aren’t aware of our shadow selves, those parts of ourselves that we disown, that they will show up continually in our futures, in ways that might surprise us. But then again, maybe that’s ok, maybe it’s alright if we never truly know all of ourselves. Maybe we can let go a bit and trust that our best future will present itself at our doorstep, and we won’t ever fully know which bit of our past journey created the present we now know. 

Perhaps there is an art to creating and resting, or resting and engaging, reading and playing outdoors, being internal and being external. I know I will most likely not ever order or read the 600 books on my Amazon wish list. I just bought and read Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking, which I made myself finish, not because I really liked it, but because it seemed like the right thing to do, in light of her writing from a place of grief, I felt I needed to honor her grief. And in so doing, I realized that I have to create my own writer’s life, that Didion’s life of writing was her life, and I can glimpse into the lives of writers, of therapists, of poets, but I do indeed, need to create my own life, in which I create the balance, the outcome of mothering, of writing, of being a good therapist, and of just taking walks. 

Neatly Pressed

I stand here folding wrinkled cotton sheets

the softness soothing on my hands and arms

I think that I want to iron them

iron them smooth

and smell the smell of heat and steam and laundry detergent

I remember being very young

standing on a chair

and my mom teaching me to iron

dad’s starched white hankies 

then moving on to pillow cases

easy to iron

watching mom deftly ironing

dad’s dress shirts

collars first

then sleeves

then the body of the shirt

the clothes were piled high

the radio tuned to a classical station

my mom was not one to be into pop culture

she aspired to higher things

as I grew it became my job

to put the clothes away

hang them in the closets

we were all very neatly pressed

and put together

that mattered in a family

fed and clothed

prepared to make our way

and so today

I want to take out my ironing board

smooth away the wrinkles

sleep in ironed sheets

I never taught my daughters to iron

and it’s been a long time since I’ve done it myself 

back and forth

spray a little starch

spray a little water

hot to the touch

I left home in clothes

that would make me who I am 

Musings

I’ve had too much on my mind lately to feel like I could write something coherent, and sometimes, if I think about it, it scares me. My clarity of mind is something I value, and so I worry, as I get older, if this is just how it’s gonna be from now on; but then a bit of clarity does shines through, and says, nah, just cool down. It is hard to get older, to get wrinkles, to lose the ability to see in the dark, and to give up the youthfulness that our culture so highly values. I see young moms now, and feel nostalgic, it’s just weird. 

I’m also thinking about all the weird things I’ve believed over the years and wonder where I’d be if I hadn’t had so many limiting beliefs imbedded into my head; like there are certain things that men are supposed to provide for you, like a diamond ring, like a house, like safety. I’ve bought myself a diamond ring, and I ended up giving it to my sister, I’ve bought myself a house and now just feel like it’s kind of hard to keep one up on your own, and safety is something that still too often eludes me. 

I’m thinking that I’ve considered myself a single mom for too long, and fought against what I thought that that meant, instead of just sidestepping the whole issue. I’ve engaged in battles in my head against our culture, against the rules, against the church, and wonder what I’ve won or lost, and it’s probably mostly time and energy. I’ve wrongly believed that you can’t make art and make money, and that love and resources are dynamically opposed to each other. Silly me. 

So, I’m feeding my head new ways of looking at life, and believing that my future will feel safer and happier due to that. In the meantime, old thoughts still weigh me down, and memories of who I once was kinda haunt me. I was not a single mom, I was a mom with all the resources I needed, the evidence of which is always in front me. 

Monday Poem for You

I have words to tell

and a broken spell

and guts spilled out all over the floor

Come up close 

so as not to miss a word

and in a whisper I’ll tell you more

About kings and queens

and magic and dreams

and lies and schemes galore

About love and fear

and time and tears

about blood and bones and gore

About rivers I’ve crossed

and loves I’ve saved and lost

about letting go about keeping score

I had been called daughter and sister

and mother and twisted

and lover and virgin and whore

I have traveled to Paris

slept in London and Prague

Still my own bed fails to bore 

You want to know the truth you say

you want me to keep you safe

I say only you can know for sure 

You can know your way

you can see your future

plain as day the ill is the cure 

So open your hand

take this little pill

written on it is endure 

Feel the pound of heart beat
air fills your lungs with life so sweet
with wings take flight and soar

rain

what is the 
sound of rain
a beat
like that of the heart
what is the 
sound of the wind
a whisper
like a lover’s breath
what is the 
sound of the sea
like the womb before we descend
what is the sound 
a tree makes when it grows
silent like our souls

dialogue

I’ve always believed in the power of words, they shape how we see life and even how we feel. As I’m using words more verbally, in my therapy practice, I find it harder to write. I’m wondering if that is just temporary, trying to take in other factors, like maybe I’m just more tired as my practice builds. Or is there a correlation somehow, between having dialogue in our heads, with ourselves, and writing, and having actual spoken dialogue with other people? It makes me wonder about all the factors that go into what we consider being either introverted or extroverted? Is it about the words that we have stored inside us that either move us towards others, or push us inwards? 

I see this with couples, they want closeness, they want intimacy, but not only are the words missing, but also the permission to even talk about their deepest sense of self is often missing. I understand this, growing up in families and systems, that there are so many taboos around what parts of ourselves it’s ok to share, and what parts are not ok to share, that at times we just give in, and are quiet, not sharing anything at all. For me, when I was younger,  I would often just retreat, watch and listen, knowing that there were some rules of interaction that I just never quite ‘got.’ I would have considered myself shy, or more introverted, when in actuality, it was that the words that people were using to connect were not part of my vocabulary. And in our culture, there can be things not accepted in one family, that are perfectly fine in another to talk about,  to be open around. 

I’m still learning and practicing the art of communication, and finding, quite humbly, that even sometimes quite simple things elude me. Being exact about how much time I have to spend with someone. Giving feedback about my preferences. Being present when one or more persons is in the room. Telling someone I need time to myself. Asking someone to lower or soften their voice. Being curious about something. Asking for clarification when I’m uncertain, but don’t want to seem too needy. Even in writing this, it seems like my point is a bit unclear, like the ideas I’m trying to form are not fully gestated. But I think it’s ok, ok to be a little unclear, and still try to make sense, to put to words, to communicate. It’s how we grow. 

The Pursuit of Happiness or Can I Be Happy?

Can I Be Happy?

What a strange question, non? But it’s what I’ve been wondering lately. I signed up for an online free class that started just this week, and it’s all about, yes, you guessed it; happiness. And my initial reaction to classmates posting videos about what makes them happy, well, made me embarrassed. Yes, sadly, this was my reaction, but fortunately I noticed my reaction and was like, “Hey Theresa, what’s up with that?” And I’ve been wondering, hell, what is up with that? And what is up with that is that I really don’t think I’ve allowed myself, or even known, how to be happy. At least not for a while now. I do know that in the past I’ve been happy, but it seems like a faint memory. 

The backstory on this was that for over ten years of my youngest daughter’s life; she was clinically, horribly, undeniably depressed. Sounds bad, and it was, and in those years she made more than a few attempts at her life, and so I know my way around the block in crazy. Most parent just hope to feed and clothes their child, and you know, do the normal things to keep them alive, hope they don’t mess them up too horribly. I had to be ready to respond to crisis day in and day out. I’ve had to wonder if any change in mood might signal something scary. I’ve had to take her to specialist after specialist, therapist after therapist, only to be told, “hmm, not sure what is going on.” I’ve written only briefly about it, because it was her private hell, but I was there, too. 

And I think that to have allowed myself any kind of happiness during that time would have been crazy, and weirdly, unseemly. I remember missing feeling happy, and I too, like Megan, felt cheated. Cheated out of being able to enjoy my child’s childhood. Cheated of being able to focus on my other daughters as much as I wanted to. Cheated of being able to just be normal. Fortunately, finally, that girl got diagnosed with Hashimoto’s hypothyroid disease and with the right medication, her depression lifted, and now, years later, the subtle depression and hopelessness that followed, in her coming to terms with having lost 10 fricken years of her life has also lifted. She is now, mostly happy, mostly recovered, however that looks for someone who was clinically depressed from ages 7 to 17. 

I want to be happy now too. I want to just know that those dark years are gone, and in the last 8 of them, I’ve finished two master’s degrees, and started a private practice as a holistic psychotherapist. Working so hard might have contributed slightly to my lack of luster in the happiness department, but I’m ready to learn, ready to go, ready to let go of being on a mission to find help for my daughter. She is really quite good at helping herself now. And I am ready to feel happy. Like Megan, jumping on the bed at age 4 or 5 or so, taping herself, saying “Happy, happy, happy, I’m so happy.” I remember that little voice poignantly, I thought about it during my search for help for her, wondering what in the hell happened? She was so happy as a baby and toddler, she should have been able to have kept all that happiness, instead of having to lose and find it. She had a safe home and a mom and two sisters who loved her like crazy. Happiness is our birthright, it should be that simple. So, I’ll start by telling you what makes me happy, really happy--thyroid medication.