I started a practice of journaling to my son when he was about 3 months of age because of something he did. While nursing, he suddenly released my nipple, engaged eye contact, and started a conversation. We “baby talked” to each other back and forth for several minutes while falling into each other’s eyes. Then he made a face that looked an awful lot like a smile and returned to nursing. I was beyond beyond. I had just experienced one of the most beautiful and intimate moments of my life in my first conversation with my infant son.
I did not grow up around babies, so I did not know if this was a regular “baby thing.” Problem was; there was no one to ask. My father was deceased, and my mother was well into Alzheimer’s at that point. Being “older” new parents (I was 41 and his dad 37), I grew concerned that maybe one day my son would be in the same position, wondering what he was like as a baby with no one to describe those intimate precious moments. His dad and I may be off the planet and on to the next thing by the time he marries and has children (especially if he follows in his mother’s footsteps), so I began journaling to give him my memories.
Something about last week’s series of events sparked a remembrance, so I went back to one of his journals, and there it was. When my son was 8, he said two things that left me dumbstruck. The first thing he said happened while we were about to cross the street. It went like this (and I quote from his journal), “Mommy, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you can’t hold my hand to cross the street anymore.” The second thing he said to me occurred about two weeks later (and again I quote), “Mommy, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I regret that I did not spend more time with Daddy when I was a baby. I will be spending more time with him now.”
Could someone pick me up off the floor please?
This past weekend in going through my pain, looking for a birth was the only thing that kept me in it. I told you that when I dropped my son off at his dad’s a week ago, something left the relationship. What I didn’t tell you was that when I got home from dropping him off, I felt like an amputee with an agonizing pulsing phantom limb or, more honestly, I felt like my son had died.
I wasn’t experiencing birth. I couldn’t face it, but I was experiencing death.
Bottom line…I felt crazy. The simple act of leaving my son at his dad’s clearly warranted a cover photo and a four page spread in the DSM V. This level of grief had to be a signal of some deep-seated psychological pathology. And, yet, I couldn’t stop myself from feeling it.
It took me 9 years, 9 months, and 16 days, but I realized that last Sunday, I finally let my son cross the street on his own to be with the father that he has always wanted and needed. The little 8 year old with the porcelain skin, big bluer than purple eyes, and curly black mop-top hair suddenly released my hand, engaged eye contact, and started across the street. He navigated himself safely to the other side while I anxiously waited where he could see me. When he stepped up on the opposite curb, he turned around to face me beaming with pride, with anticipation, and with gratitude.
In that intimate precious moment standing with a lifetime between us, I saw my little 8 year old boy transform into my 17 year old son. We fell into each other’s eyes. Then he made a face that looked an awful lot like a smile, turned, and went into his life on the other side of childhood.
And I was thrilled to know that I had taught him something important. He looked both ways before he crossed the street.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Birth
In the ninth month of my pregnancy with my son, I was carrying 60 extra pounds and sweating in places I barely knew existed. Being on the petite side, I often startled people when I turned around to face them because from the back I looked perfectly normal. From the front I looked like I had swallowed the state of Rhode Island. The midwives told me that I had an extraordinary amount of amniotic fluid. The baby had not dropped. He was, they said, quite content and not going anywhere soon. From their palpitations, they determined his weight to be 8 pounds or more…and counting. Since I was overdue, they suggested I be induced.
I recalled that through my pregnancy I was often awed at the ways in which my body and my mind worked as a team: informing each other of my cravings, when I needed to rest, and when I needed to nest. They were a good team, so I asked them if they wanted to induce, and they said, “Yes.”
I have never experienced Da Bombe of “normal” labor (if there is such a thing), and if you have, I in no way mean to minimize your experience or your pain. On the other hand, I will say one word…
Pitocin.
All those breathing techniques that my son’s father and I practiced for weeks went out the window in a New York minute. Like a big bully on the playground, my body picked up my mind as it was reminding me how to count, and kicked it across the birthing room. My body was making the rules this time, and I could not get on top of the pain that it produced. I couldn’t get under it or around it either. In order to stop the physical pain, I, like all birthing women, had to go through it. I had to surrender to and trust the knowing of a primitive force much more powerful than I.
Since I left my son at his father’s place a week ago, I have been revisiting the tidal waves of pain I experienced while in labor. At first, they came and left with the irregularity of the first stages of labor. But, as the week progressed, their timing escalated and their pain magnified until I was in a full blown Pitocin induced labor. Six days after feeling the release of a dynamic in my relationship with my son, I found myself in a constant state of rolling pain the depth of which literally brought me to my knees. Agony and anguish welled up in my body in tidal wave proportions crashing me into the rocks over and over again.
My body was making the rules. I could not get on top of the pain. I couldn’t get under it or around it either. Finally, with the help of a deeply trusted Mastery sister, I was midwived through my pain. I surrendered to it.
The only thing that kept me going was the thought that after all this pain, I would birth something new.
(Thank you my dear sister, Elizabeth Claire)
I recalled that through my pregnancy I was often awed at the ways in which my body and my mind worked as a team: informing each other of my cravings, when I needed to rest, and when I needed to nest. They were a good team, so I asked them if they wanted to induce, and they said, “Yes.”
I have never experienced Da Bombe of “normal” labor (if there is such a thing), and if you have, I in no way mean to minimize your experience or your pain. On the other hand, I will say one word…
Pitocin.
All those breathing techniques that my son’s father and I practiced for weeks went out the window in a New York minute. Like a big bully on the playground, my body picked up my mind as it was reminding me how to count, and kicked it across the birthing room. My body was making the rules this time, and I could not get on top of the pain that it produced. I couldn’t get under it or around it either. In order to stop the physical pain, I, like all birthing women, had to go through it. I had to surrender to and trust the knowing of a primitive force much more powerful than I.
Since I left my son at his father’s place a week ago, I have been revisiting the tidal waves of pain I experienced while in labor. At first, they came and left with the irregularity of the first stages of labor. But, as the week progressed, their timing escalated and their pain magnified until I was in a full blown Pitocin induced labor. Six days after feeling the release of a dynamic in my relationship with my son, I found myself in a constant state of rolling pain the depth of which literally brought me to my knees. Agony and anguish welled up in my body in tidal wave proportions crashing me into the rocks over and over again.
My body was making the rules. I could not get on top of the pain. I couldn’t get under it or around it either. Finally, with the help of a deeply trusted Mastery sister, I was midwived through my pain. I surrendered to it.
The only thing that kept me going was the thought that after all this pain, I would birth something new.
(Thank you my dear sister, Elizabeth Claire)
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Betwixt and Between
Yesterday, in meditation, my Metaphor and my Muse appeared standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of me. They parted, and as they did, the Magician walked forward and stood in the space between them.
He (My Magician is most definitely male energy, but I bet you knew that already) wore a three cornered hat which was poised fairly low on his forehead, so I was hoping he didn’t notice how afraid I was (and that I was avoiding looking into his eyes). His robe and his hat were bluer than purple in contrast to a large red plume attached to the left side of his hat. The embroidery of his floor length robe was white, intricate, and meticulously hand sewn.
He didn’t seem compelled to do anything except stand in front of me and project His essence. As I started to relax, a very powerful and clear thought shook my body in the exact manner my home was shaken two weeks ago during a 4.2 earthquake. It (the thought, not the power with which it was said) startled me as it reverberated through my body because I recalled that same thought ran through my body the day I consciously saw that my MEB’s Technicolor Dreamcoat had been hanging in my closet all along. The thought He sent was “POSSIBILITY.”
Then He was gone.
This morning He appeared sans his sisters and communicated one more thought, “MIRACULOUS.” Now, I thought, is He a little odd? Or is English His second language? “Miraculous” is an adjective. So….miraculous……what?? I had almost worked up the courage to ask for a noun to complete the thought.
Then He was gone.
I have a feeling He’s asking me to practice that restraint thing again. (And it’s getting just the teeniest bit irritating.)
However today, in the spirit of BEING magical instead of ACTIVELY conjuring up the magical, I decided to let “miraculous” sit in me open and unattached. To let it flow through my body with no particular destination. To let the word tell me what it wants to tell me when it’s ready to tell me. (FYI - Nothing yet.)
One thing I know. The image of the Magician bridging the space betwixt and between the Metaphor and the Muse is alive in my mind. I understand the betwixt and between space requires my restraint so I can finally stop bouncing back and forth in identification with a quality and it’s polar opposite dependent on external circumstances. The “POSSIBILITIES” and the “MIRACULOUS” are internal, born in the space between masculine and feminine, centered and fluid, straight and curved, angular and wavy, and exactly precise and gloriously messy.
I have a very strong feeling that betwixt and between is where the Greater Field of Life and the reconciliation of the seemingly irreconcilable meet.
I’m ready.
He (My Magician is most definitely male energy, but I bet you knew that already) wore a three cornered hat which was poised fairly low on his forehead, so I was hoping he didn’t notice how afraid I was (and that I was avoiding looking into his eyes). His robe and his hat were bluer than purple in contrast to a large red plume attached to the left side of his hat. The embroidery of his floor length robe was white, intricate, and meticulously hand sewn.
He didn’t seem compelled to do anything except stand in front of me and project His essence. As I started to relax, a very powerful and clear thought shook my body in the exact manner my home was shaken two weeks ago during a 4.2 earthquake. It (the thought, not the power with which it was said) startled me as it reverberated through my body because I recalled that same thought ran through my body the day I consciously saw that my MEB’s Technicolor Dreamcoat had been hanging in my closet all along. The thought He sent was “POSSIBILITY.”
Then He was gone.
This morning He appeared sans his sisters and communicated one more thought, “MIRACULOUS.” Now, I thought, is He a little odd? Or is English His second language? “Miraculous” is an adjective. So….miraculous……what?? I had almost worked up the courage to ask for a noun to complete the thought.
Then He was gone.
I have a feeling He’s asking me to practice that restraint thing again. (And it’s getting just the teeniest bit irritating.)
However today, in the spirit of BEING magical instead of ACTIVELY conjuring up the magical, I decided to let “miraculous” sit in me open and unattached. To let it flow through my body with no particular destination. To let the word tell me what it wants to tell me when it’s ready to tell me. (FYI - Nothing yet.)
One thing I know. The image of the Magician bridging the space betwixt and between the Metaphor and the Muse is alive in my mind. I understand the betwixt and between space requires my restraint so I can finally stop bouncing back and forth in identification with a quality and it’s polar opposite dependent on external circumstances. The “POSSIBILITIES” and the “MIRACULOUS” are internal, born in the space between masculine and feminine, centered and fluid, straight and curved, angular and wavy, and exactly precise and gloriously messy.
I have a very strong feeling that betwixt and between is where the Greater Field of Life and the reconciliation of the seemingly irreconcilable meet.
I’m ready.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Me and 3
The number 3 has always held a special and significant place in my life.
New England was a very snowy place back in the 50’s, and for many years as a child, I upheld my own snow filled tradition. I searched for blocks of snow that naturally formed after a storm. I looked for 3 of them that had an appealing shape and gently arranged them on the front porch of my home. No one else had permission to touch them. I took care of them all winter, dusted them off when we got more snow, talked to them, grew to love them, and, come spring, said my painful goodbyes as they slowly melted away before my eyes (is it any surprise that I went into psychology?).
I came from a family of 3 children. My brothers forced me to watch the 3 Stooges. I grew up in with the holy 3 in the Catholic Church. I studied Freud and became best friends with the Id, Ego, and Superego. I earned 3 Master’s Degrees.
There is something for me that sets the number 3 apart. 2 doesn’t work for me. It is too open. I don’t feel any safety in its shape. 4 doesn’t work for me. It is too closed. It feels restrictive and inflexible.
3 is a perfectly balanced number for my body. My spine finds solace in 3’s synchronous shape, fluid and curved. It holds me cradled in the arc of my uncertainty. At the same time, 3 is triangular. Its sturdy and solid base protects me in its angles, degrees, and precision. It’s dependable and creates a feeling of safety in me.
3 is where yin meets yang, masculine meets feminine, and I can begin to find balance within.
I bring up all this because I want you to understand how profound it was for me yesterday when I welcomed in, not 2 or 4, but 3 visitors at my door. Although I do not know how to incorporate them fully into my Self yet, I can articulate how I feel knowing they are present in me.
I feel the tug of opposites: centered and fluid, fortified and soft, straight and curved, angular and wavy, exactly precise and gloriously messy. It’s a tug for sure, but not a tug of war. It’s an expansive tug, and I’m kind of liking it.
I think these are the 3 things they want me to do: welcome, witness, and honor all of me. And I have a feeling we have already started.
New England was a very snowy place back in the 50’s, and for many years as a child, I upheld my own snow filled tradition. I searched for blocks of snow that naturally formed after a storm. I looked for 3 of them that had an appealing shape and gently arranged them on the front porch of my home. No one else had permission to touch them. I took care of them all winter, dusted them off when we got more snow, talked to them, grew to love them, and, come spring, said my painful goodbyes as they slowly melted away before my eyes (is it any surprise that I went into psychology?).
I came from a family of 3 children. My brothers forced me to watch the 3 Stooges. I grew up in with the holy 3 in the Catholic Church. I studied Freud and became best friends with the Id, Ego, and Superego. I earned 3 Master’s Degrees.
There is something for me that sets the number 3 apart. 2 doesn’t work for me. It is too open. I don’t feel any safety in its shape. 4 doesn’t work for me. It is too closed. It feels restrictive and inflexible.
3 is a perfectly balanced number for my body. My spine finds solace in 3’s synchronous shape, fluid and curved. It holds me cradled in the arc of my uncertainty. At the same time, 3 is triangular. Its sturdy and solid base protects me in its angles, degrees, and precision. It’s dependable and creates a feeling of safety in me.
3 is where yin meets yang, masculine meets feminine, and I can begin to find balance within.
I bring up all this because I want you to understand how profound it was for me yesterday when I welcomed in, not 2 or 4, but 3 visitors at my door. Although I do not know how to incorporate them fully into my Self yet, I can articulate how I feel knowing they are present in me.
I feel the tug of opposites: centered and fluid, fortified and soft, straight and curved, angular and wavy, exactly precise and gloriously messy. It’s a tug for sure, but not a tug of war. It’s an expansive tug, and I’m kind of liking it.
I think these are the 3 things they want me to do: welcome, witness, and honor all of me. And I have a feeling we have already started.
Monday, March 22, 2010
The Metaphor, The Muse, and The Magician
I know. I said I thought I was done. However, since my last post, I have been hearing a gentle but persistent knocking at my door. I decided to ignore it. Yesterday, I was home after dropping my son off at his father’s place, 4 miles but light years away from mine. Again, I heard the knocking, but I just wanted to be alone. I wanted to tend to my anguish without having to put on a “face,” and entertain company. Go away. I’m not buying today.
I turned on some music, so I could sleep through the knocking last night. This morning while making coffee, I heard it again…gentle but persistent. I opened the door, and there they were: the Metaphor, the Muse, and, behind them, the Magician.
I had to let them in because, as soon as I saw them, I started to cry.
I had to let them in because, as soon as I saw them, I felt lifted from my tiny anguished perspective into a more expansive place.
I had to let them in because they have been saving my life for the past year.
By now, I know the Metaphor and the Muse pretty well. The Muse writes this blog through me and her sister, Metaphor, gives us the phrases and the images and hands us the threads we weave together. No one has been more shocked than I am to learn that these women are in my body and, that in the simple act of sharing about my process in a public forum, I could lead my life in this blog induced way. They guide me to places I never imagined existed within the landscape of me. I have come to love the writing because it transforms me out of my self and into my Self, and, along the way, I hope with all my heart that it helps others on their journey as well.
On an energetic level, I recognized the Metaphor and the Muse immediately, but, honestly, I am a bit perplexed by the Magician. First of all (and please keep this under your hat), I don’t know if the Magician is male or female (and I am kinda afraid to ask). He/She simply introduced Him/Herself like this (and I quote), “Hello. I am the Magician. Please make no assumptions about my skills based on the fact that I did not engage my powers to open your door. There is Power in the manifestation of magic, miracles, and synchronicity, but there is also Power in restraint.”
Intimidating, right??...Or is it just me??
I will say this. Yesterday, when I dropped my son off, something died. It was in the car with us. We both said goodbye to it. It was gone. I have a very strong feeling that there is a connection between the disappearance of that relational dynamic and the appearance of this mysterious Magician. I have an inkling or two as to who this Magician might be, but I am going to take His/Her advice and restrain from coming to any hasty conclusions. (See, I’m learning this restraint thing already)
Let’s see what appears.
I turned on some music, so I could sleep through the knocking last night. This morning while making coffee, I heard it again…gentle but persistent. I opened the door, and there they were: the Metaphor, the Muse, and, behind them, the Magician.
I had to let them in because, as soon as I saw them, I started to cry.
I had to let them in because, as soon as I saw them, I felt lifted from my tiny anguished perspective into a more expansive place.
I had to let them in because they have been saving my life for the past year.
By now, I know the Metaphor and the Muse pretty well. The Muse writes this blog through me and her sister, Metaphor, gives us the phrases and the images and hands us the threads we weave together. No one has been more shocked than I am to learn that these women are in my body and, that in the simple act of sharing about my process in a public forum, I could lead my life in this blog induced way. They guide me to places I never imagined existed within the landscape of me. I have come to love the writing because it transforms me out of my self and into my Self, and, along the way, I hope with all my heart that it helps others on their journey as well.
On an energetic level, I recognized the Metaphor and the Muse immediately, but, honestly, I am a bit perplexed by the Magician. First of all (and please keep this under your hat), I don’t know if the Magician is male or female (and I am kinda afraid to ask). He/She simply introduced Him/Herself like this (and I quote), “Hello. I am the Magician. Please make no assumptions about my skills based on the fact that I did not engage my powers to open your door. There is Power in the manifestation of magic, miracles, and synchronicity, but there is also Power in restraint.”
Intimidating, right??...Or is it just me??
I will say this. Yesterday, when I dropped my son off, something died. It was in the car with us. We both said goodbye to it. It was gone. I have a very strong feeling that there is a connection between the disappearance of that relational dynamic and the appearance of this mysterious Magician. I have an inkling or two as to who this Magician might be, but I am going to take His/Her advice and restrain from coming to any hasty conclusions. (See, I’m learning this restraint thing already)
Let’s see what appears.
Friday, March 19, 2010
I Think This May Be My Last Post
I told my son he needs to go live with his father.
I have sunk so far into despair, disappointment (in myself, my son’s father, my son, his therapists, everyone on the planet), and self-loathing that I honestly don’t know how to pull myself out.
I think about all the posts I have done since December. I have tried to work outside the box with myself and my son. I have tried to center myself over and over again in dealing with his resistance to change, his fear, his ditching, his refusing to do the work in school, and his escalating drug use. The therapies, the long talks, the attempts to walk the line between trying to help him deal with his internal grief and sadness and holding him accountable to himself and to me.
I know I have said this before. I know I already told you I was physically and emotionally spent, and I had let him go. I thought I did, but the next day I found us in this new place, this new Field. It gave me hope; it gave me a way to look at my son and me in a new relationship. Okay, I thought, I can find it in me to do this (again).
Then, yesterday, he came home high (again) and denying it (again) after ditching school (again).
I lost my internal rudder (again), and have been pitching wildly on an open sea ever since (again).
I told my son he needs to go live with his father.
Four miles, but light years away, from the physical environment he has with me. His father lives in our house that has been teetering on foreclosure for over two years. There are piles of stuff all over the place. It is unclean (at least to me). There is no electricity, no heat, and no hot water. My son sleeps on a blow up mattress in the living room because, when I moved out and took him with me, we brought his furniture. A few months after I left, his father took in a “boarder” who was allowed to make himself comfortable in my son’s room. He left. All his stuff is still there…in a big pile… in my son’s room. His father has little, if any, money for food.
I told my son he needs to go live with his father.
I am not a safe emotional place for him or me right now.
It is taking everything I have not to get on that train.
I told my son he needs to go live with his father.
And I don’t know how to live with myself.
I have sunk so far into despair, disappointment (in myself, my son’s father, my son, his therapists, everyone on the planet), and self-loathing that I honestly don’t know how to pull myself out.
I think about all the posts I have done since December. I have tried to work outside the box with myself and my son. I have tried to center myself over and over again in dealing with his resistance to change, his fear, his ditching, his refusing to do the work in school, and his escalating drug use. The therapies, the long talks, the attempts to walk the line between trying to help him deal with his internal grief and sadness and holding him accountable to himself and to me.
I know I have said this before. I know I already told you I was physically and emotionally spent, and I had let him go. I thought I did, but the next day I found us in this new place, this new Field. It gave me hope; it gave me a way to look at my son and me in a new relationship. Okay, I thought, I can find it in me to do this (again).
Then, yesterday, he came home high (again) and denying it (again) after ditching school (again).
I lost my internal rudder (again), and have been pitching wildly on an open sea ever since (again).
I told my son he needs to go live with his father.
Four miles, but light years away, from the physical environment he has with me. His father lives in our house that has been teetering on foreclosure for over two years. There are piles of stuff all over the place. It is unclean (at least to me). There is no electricity, no heat, and no hot water. My son sleeps on a blow up mattress in the living room because, when I moved out and took him with me, we brought his furniture. A few months after I left, his father took in a “boarder” who was allowed to make himself comfortable in my son’s room. He left. All his stuff is still there…in a big pile… in my son’s room. His father has little, if any, money for food.
I told my son he needs to go live with his father.
I am not a safe emotional place for him or me right now.
It is taking everything I have not to get on that train.
I told my son he needs to go live with his father.
And I don’t know how to live with myself.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
By Guess and By God
I have been adrift since I landed in this new and undefined sea of blue-green grass with my son. I think he has, too.
However, I am grateful that it has only taken a few days for me to realize that we have gone off course. Each new turn of the tides (and there have been several already) has hit me like a gale wind, tossing me so far off my keel that I have not been able to find my balance. Subsequently, my perception about how to plot our next heading has been all over the charts.
I’ve been tacking back and forth like a madwoman.
Time to drop anchor and find my bearings.
This is the totality of everything I know in this moment. Sailing is one of the ultimate sacred tapestries. It is a divine weaving of man/woman, nature, and the universe. We humans love the adventure, the challenge, and the new worlds that open to us as we navigate the seas. Nature contributes the weather conditions, the oceans and seas, the tides, and the marine life. And the universe offers its stability. Everyday the sun rises in the East and sets in the West. The moon goes through pre-ordained phases, waxing and waning its way through each year. The stars travel well-established routes maintaining their unique constellations as they traverse across the sky.
The North Star, however, is fixed.
The North Star never moves from its appointed position.
And, God, by divine design, gave us the North Star to use as a navigational tool.
I temporarily misplaced my internal rudder and forgot about the North Star. In the midst of several sudden and powerful squalls my son and I have been overwhelmed by, I have been unable to captain because I was preoccupied with keeping us afloat.
I forgot all about divine guidance.
Dropping anchor re-focused my attention on my guide, my North Star. I remember that I can let my North Star be the lens to illuminate and interpret the events of our lives. It gives us ballast. It gives us stability, and it gives us a through line that is changeless and true.
My North Star is a prayer that I can live on. And, this time I have spent getting my sea legs has also reminded me of the navigational approach the ancient mariners called “By Guess and By God.” Before charts and fancy run-on-its-own technology, the mariners used three simple navigational tools: experience, intuition, and faith.
Experience, intuition, and faith…its a trinity fits beautifully into my tapestry.
However, I am grateful that it has only taken a few days for me to realize that we have gone off course. Each new turn of the tides (and there have been several already) has hit me like a gale wind, tossing me so far off my keel that I have not been able to find my balance. Subsequently, my perception about how to plot our next heading has been all over the charts.
I’ve been tacking back and forth like a madwoman.
Time to drop anchor and find my bearings.
This is the totality of everything I know in this moment. Sailing is one of the ultimate sacred tapestries. It is a divine weaving of man/woman, nature, and the universe. We humans love the adventure, the challenge, and the new worlds that open to us as we navigate the seas. Nature contributes the weather conditions, the oceans and seas, the tides, and the marine life. And the universe offers its stability. Everyday the sun rises in the East and sets in the West. The moon goes through pre-ordained phases, waxing and waning its way through each year. The stars travel well-established routes maintaining their unique constellations as they traverse across the sky.
The North Star, however, is fixed.
The North Star never moves from its appointed position.
And, God, by divine design, gave us the North Star to use as a navigational tool.
I temporarily misplaced my internal rudder and forgot about the North Star. In the midst of several sudden and powerful squalls my son and I have been overwhelmed by, I have been unable to captain because I was preoccupied with keeping us afloat.
I forgot all about divine guidance.
Dropping anchor re-focused my attention on my guide, my North Star. I remember that I can let my North Star be the lens to illuminate and interpret the events of our lives. It gives us ballast. It gives us stability, and it gives us a through line that is changeless and true.
My North Star is a prayer that I can live on. And, this time I have spent getting my sea legs has also reminded me of the navigational approach the ancient mariners called “By Guess and By God.” Before charts and fancy run-on-its-own technology, the mariners used three simple navigational tools: experience, intuition, and faith.
Experience, intuition, and faith…its a trinity fits beautifully into my tapestry.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Livin’ On A Prayer
I’m making room in this blog for someone else. No, I’m not talking about Bon Jovi. I’m talking about God. Call IT what you will: the Universe, Om, The One, Infinite Goodness. IT's all God to me.
After letting go of my son yesterday, I felt the earth give way. It literally opened up, and we fell through the space it made for us. We landed safely on our feet on what feels like some kind of a playing field. I’m just a little nervous because I am a Do-er, and I feel the impulse to do something, but I have no idea what game I am in. There is no opposing team, no equipment, no bases, or white lines to indicate the parameters of our game, and no scoreboard to let us know if we should celebrate victory or bemoan defeat.
It's just my son and I standing in the middle of a never-ending sea of beautiful blue-green grass. (However, I do think God is in the vicinity because it smells freshly mowed.)
Yes, God, I get all Your clever metaphors. We are in a new, freshly cleared space where anything can happen. I get it (and no disrespect intended; I know You’re uber-busy with the world and everything), but were You even listening yesterday when I said I was emotionally and physically spent?
No burning bush, no loaves and fishes, no audible response; only a potent and palpable silence from Mr./Ms./The Omniscient One.
The reality is that it is my son and I, infinite us in infinite space, and for all the emptiness, this Field feels potent, powerful, and full of possibility. I don’t mind telling you how completely uncomfortable, overwhelmed, clinically wack-a-doodle (AND relieved, liberated and strangely at home) I feel. At the same time, I wouldn’t be at all opposed to being pointed in the “right” direction, but I have a feeling God isn’t going to do that.
Like Helen Keller and that miraculous rush of water from her hand pumped well, I am suddenly able to put meaning to all that has come before this moment. My son and I are standing on the lessons, and the tears, and the laughter, and the love, and the prayers that have come before. We are standing on IT. We are standing on the Greater Field of Life. We are standing on God. There are no earthly rules in this space, but there is terra firma if we have enough faith to trust it.
From here, for my son and I, it isn’t important in which direction we go. What is important is the willingness to openly deal with what we discover along the way. We may even separate for a time. I can accept that now because I know my son is being supported by a Force and Field much greater than I.
He may not be willing to live on a prayer yet. He's young and might need more proof, but I don't. I have all the proof I need.
I’m livin’ on a prayer for both of us.
After letting go of my son yesterday, I felt the earth give way. It literally opened up, and we fell through the space it made for us. We landed safely on our feet on what feels like some kind of a playing field. I’m just a little nervous because I am a Do-er, and I feel the impulse to do something, but I have no idea what game I am in. There is no opposing team, no equipment, no bases, or white lines to indicate the parameters of our game, and no scoreboard to let us know if we should celebrate victory or bemoan defeat.
It's just my son and I standing in the middle of a never-ending sea of beautiful blue-green grass. (However, I do think God is in the vicinity because it smells freshly mowed.)
Yes, God, I get all Your clever metaphors. We are in a new, freshly cleared space where anything can happen. I get it (and no disrespect intended; I know You’re uber-busy with the world and everything), but were You even listening yesterday when I said I was emotionally and physically spent?
No burning bush, no loaves and fishes, no audible response; only a potent and palpable silence from Mr./Ms./The Omniscient One.
The reality is that it is my son and I, infinite us in infinite space, and for all the emptiness, this Field feels potent, powerful, and full of possibility. I don’t mind telling you how completely uncomfortable, overwhelmed, clinically wack-a-doodle (AND relieved, liberated and strangely at home) I feel. At the same time, I wouldn’t be at all opposed to being pointed in the “right” direction, but I have a feeling God isn’t going to do that.
Like Helen Keller and that miraculous rush of water from her hand pumped well, I am suddenly able to put meaning to all that has come before this moment. My son and I are standing on the lessons, and the tears, and the laughter, and the love, and the prayers that have come before. We are standing on IT. We are standing on the Greater Field of Life. We are standing on God. There are no earthly rules in this space, but there is terra firma if we have enough faith to trust it.
From here, for my son and I, it isn’t important in which direction we go. What is important is the willingness to openly deal with what we discover along the way. We may even separate for a time. I can accept that now because I know my son is being supported by a Force and Field much greater than I.
He may not be willing to live on a prayer yet. He's young and might need more proof, but I don't. I have all the proof I need.
I’m livin’ on a prayer for both of us.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Hanging On For Dear Life
Three hours and seventeen minutes ago, I did something that even as recently as three hours and eighteen minutes ago, I would have never imagined I would or could do.
I let go of my son.
Almost exactly a year ago, after the horrendous car accident he was in, my son asked his father and I to let him go, so he could be independently minded and responsible to make his own decisions. I said “Okay,” but didn’t really do it. At that time, I had an image of myself standing at the edge of a cliff holding my one year old baby boy straight out in front of me in a death grip with both hands. His father was standing next to me. In the image my son kept saying, “It’s okay Mommy. Let me go. I can fly! Honest!” For obvious reasons, I just couldn’t do it.
I realize now that I have been in that spot ever since, but the image has changed a bit. My son’s father is still standing where he was a year ago. I, on the other hand, am lying prone with my almost full grown, almost 18 year old son holding on to the one good hand I have left as he dangles over the chasm below.
I have been hanging on to him for dear life since the car accident, the subsequent depression he fell into, the drugs, the alcohol, the impulsive decision-making, and the failing in school.
And, parentally speaking, I have been holding on all by myself.
I have been terrified to let him go, and despite trying repeatedly to enlist his father, I have had no ready or consistent male backup. I unsuccessfully tried to become two parents in one, but instead became an over-bearing, over-involved, over-decorated police woman mom all in the vain attempt to keep my grip, so my son wouldn’t break (or worse) in the fall.
My son and I had a long talk this afternoon. I told him I can’t do it anymore; I am physically and emotionally spent. We confronted the excrutiatingly painful reality that his father is “not a father figure” (my son’s words). He is a significant masculine presence in the tapestry of my son’s life, but in a way that is confusing, painful, and disappointing. We acknowledged that for better or for worse, I am all he’s got right now and in terror for him and in profoundly deep disappointment in myself…
I let go of my son.
What kind of mother am I?...I’m not kidding. Could someone answer that for me? I really need to know.
I let go of my son.
Almost exactly a year ago, after the horrendous car accident he was in, my son asked his father and I to let him go, so he could be independently minded and responsible to make his own decisions. I said “Okay,” but didn’t really do it. At that time, I had an image of myself standing at the edge of a cliff holding my one year old baby boy straight out in front of me in a death grip with both hands. His father was standing next to me. In the image my son kept saying, “It’s okay Mommy. Let me go. I can fly! Honest!” For obvious reasons, I just couldn’t do it.
I realize now that I have been in that spot ever since, but the image has changed a bit. My son’s father is still standing where he was a year ago. I, on the other hand, am lying prone with my almost full grown, almost 18 year old son holding on to the one good hand I have left as he dangles over the chasm below.
I have been hanging on to him for dear life since the car accident, the subsequent depression he fell into, the drugs, the alcohol, the impulsive decision-making, and the failing in school.
And, parentally speaking, I have been holding on all by myself.
I have been terrified to let him go, and despite trying repeatedly to enlist his father, I have had no ready or consistent male backup. I unsuccessfully tried to become two parents in one, but instead became an over-bearing, over-involved, over-decorated police woman mom all in the vain attempt to keep my grip, so my son wouldn’t break (or worse) in the fall.
My son and I had a long talk this afternoon. I told him I can’t do it anymore; I am physically and emotionally spent. We confronted the excrutiatingly painful reality that his father is “not a father figure” (my son’s words). He is a significant masculine presence in the tapestry of my son’s life, but in a way that is confusing, painful, and disappointing. We acknowledged that for better or for worse, I am all he’s got right now and in terror for him and in profoundly deep disappointment in myself…
I let go of my son.
What kind of mother am I?...I’m not kidding. Could someone answer that for me? I really need to know.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Do I Really Want to Be A FOO Fighter?
Since my blog yesterday, I have been asking myself, “How is it possible that my son and his father can lie to me (BIG, fat ones), keep secrets from me (BIG, fat ones), and I don’t see? What kind of crazy sleight of hand instruction did I miss? Do I need glasses?”
Those questions have been busy opening my bureau drawers, looking under my mattress, and searching through my closet to find something, anything, that I may have hidden away within myself. I tore through myself with the ferocity of, “I know I put it in here somewhere.”
Well, seek and ye shall find. I found what I was looking for this morning. My 15 year old has been holding a package for me, and, believe it or not, she has been right in front of my face the whole time, standing very straight and tall, patiently holding it out, waiting for me to receive it from her. Through the dust that has accumulated on her gift (well, I told you she's been waiting a long time), I saw that it was a 45 RPM record. I also saw where she had written “FOO” on it. I knew what it meant immediately. Suddenly, the lyrics to that familiar song and her special song title clue brought me right back home.
"FOO." "F.O.O." “Family Of Origin.”
I have always known that there is a very big presence within me, my “Truth Teller.” Now, I have not always (okay, until very recently, NEVER) told truths in a way that allows others to actually hear them and take them in. I have been kind of a “Blurter Truth Teller.” My family function was to consume our family secrets and lies until I felt like I had eaten my third piece of pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving. Left full to overflowing, I, then, blurted out my truth song. Next, my family completed their part of our duet; they either rested or began playing a completely different tune. Like well-rehearsed musicians, I crescendo-ed in a release of tension just before fatal family injury occurred and, as skillfully as Rachmaninoff, we went directly to our dissident coda and started building the tension all over again.
Now in my current family, I‘m not saying I hold all the responsibility for the secrets and lies, but I can see that the grooves in my part of the FOO harmony are old and deep. I have been co-composing a recognizable re-make of the original with new players.
So I ask myself the question, “Do I really want to be a FOO Fighter?” And my answer is a resounding “No.” Frankly, I’m tired of fighting. However, what I am willing to do is look straight ahead, actually see myself, and accept what is offered to me as something I may (or may not) want to re-orchestrate, re-arrange, or flat out discard as outdated.
For me, it is not so much about seeing other’s sleight of hand tricks anymore. It's about consciously owning my chair in an orchestra whose compositions sing and resonate through me.
Those questions have been busy opening my bureau drawers, looking under my mattress, and searching through my closet to find something, anything, that I may have hidden away within myself. I tore through myself with the ferocity of, “I know I put it in here somewhere.”
Well, seek and ye shall find. I found what I was looking for this morning. My 15 year old has been holding a package for me, and, believe it or not, she has been right in front of my face the whole time, standing very straight and tall, patiently holding it out, waiting for me to receive it from her. Through the dust that has accumulated on her gift (well, I told you she's been waiting a long time), I saw that it was a 45 RPM record. I also saw where she had written “FOO” on it. I knew what it meant immediately. Suddenly, the lyrics to that familiar song and her special song title clue brought me right back home.
"FOO." "F.O.O." “Family Of Origin.”
I have always known that there is a very big presence within me, my “Truth Teller.” Now, I have not always (okay, until very recently, NEVER) told truths in a way that allows others to actually hear them and take them in. I have been kind of a “Blurter Truth Teller.” My family function was to consume our family secrets and lies until I felt like I had eaten my third piece of pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving. Left full to overflowing, I, then, blurted out my truth song. Next, my family completed their part of our duet; they either rested or began playing a completely different tune. Like well-rehearsed musicians, I crescendo-ed in a release of tension just before fatal family injury occurred and, as skillfully as Rachmaninoff, we went directly to our dissident coda and started building the tension all over again.
Now in my current family, I‘m not saying I hold all the responsibility for the secrets and lies, but I can see that the grooves in my part of the FOO harmony are old and deep. I have been co-composing a recognizable re-make of the original with new players.
So I ask myself the question, “Do I really want to be a FOO Fighter?” And my answer is a resounding “No.” Frankly, I’m tired of fighting. However, what I am willing to do is look straight ahead, actually see myself, and accept what is offered to me as something I may (or may not) want to re-orchestrate, re-arrange, or flat out discard as outdated.
For me, it is not so much about seeing other’s sleight of hand tricks anymore. It's about consciously owning my chair in an orchestra whose compositions sing and resonate through me.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
A House of Cards
I don’t enjoy playing cards. I don’t have a “poker face.” I have never had the slightest desire to be around card playing or card carrying members of the local Canasta or Bridge Club. Playing cards, watching others play cards, being around cards, anything remotely related to cards; well, it’s just not a part of my life.
Until now.
I have spent the last two months abiding by a commitment that my son and I made to each other: to build a new place to live in relationship with each other. We put our stake in the ground, called it honesty, and began pouring the foundation of our new home. In my head, we have been working side by side piecing our relationship together with good solid materials and a whole bunch of reliable tools (that I mentioned in a blog way back in January).
Our house fell on my head last night. No need to worry. I didn’t get hurt.
We built it out of cards.
And, apparently, I was playing solitaire.
My son has that poker face that I can’t seem to find. He knows my “tell,” but I can’t see his. He has been bluffing with a stacked deck, but somehow my eyes weren’t trained for (or willing to recognize) the sleight of hand.
Last night, he put his actual cards on the table, and I folded. My head was aswirl with how I have failed him, how he has failed me, how his father has failed both of us.
But I don’t want to play that game anymore. And I don’t want all the growth the three of us have made in the last several months to get lost in the shuffle.
I woke up this morning and decided that I have to see this as an opportunity for one of the biggest high stakes games of my life. It is the Tournament of Champions, and I am ready to take my place at the table, deal with what I, my son, and his father have been dealt, and ante up. I’m going to gamble on us all winning this tournament by using it as an opportunity to grow.
With one caveat…..
I’m going to make sure the dealer breaks open a fresh deck.
Until now.
I have spent the last two months abiding by a commitment that my son and I made to each other: to build a new place to live in relationship with each other. We put our stake in the ground, called it honesty, and began pouring the foundation of our new home. In my head, we have been working side by side piecing our relationship together with good solid materials and a whole bunch of reliable tools (that I mentioned in a blog way back in January).
Our house fell on my head last night. No need to worry. I didn’t get hurt.
We built it out of cards.
And, apparently, I was playing solitaire.
My son has that poker face that I can’t seem to find. He knows my “tell,” but I can’t see his. He has been bluffing with a stacked deck, but somehow my eyes weren’t trained for (or willing to recognize) the sleight of hand.
Last night, he put his actual cards on the table, and I folded. My head was aswirl with how I have failed him, how he has failed me, how his father has failed both of us.
But I don’t want to play that game anymore. And I don’t want all the growth the three of us have made in the last several months to get lost in the shuffle.
I woke up this morning and decided that I have to see this as an opportunity for one of the biggest high stakes games of my life. It is the Tournament of Champions, and I am ready to take my place at the table, deal with what I, my son, and his father have been dealt, and ante up. I’m going to gamble on us all winning this tournament by using it as an opportunity to grow.
With one caveat…..
I’m going to make sure the dealer breaks open a fresh deck.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
SEX And The City
In my opinion, SEX And The City, continues to be a mega-hit because we see ourselves in each and every one of those women. Miranda represents the Masculine Us out in the world fully engaged in the process of To-Do lists, envisioning societal structures and building them into law. Charlotte is the encapsulation of the Eros Us: searching for and releasing deep love with her friends, her men, her children and her beloved art. And, Carrie is the Seeker Us, illuminating deeper levels of self-awareness and connection with others.
I embrace and identify with them in their transparency and deeply admire how each character’s choices trace back to their unique North Star: doing the right thing, giving and receiving love, or evolving the consciousness of New York City.
However, for me (and maybe others of you), Samantha is the most exciting, the most outrageous, and sometimes the most difficult character to watch and identify with because of her full and unabashed embodiment of the SEXUAL Goddess Us. Her libido is her North Star. She never takes her eyes (or other body parts) off the prize. And, to make it worse (or better) she makes no apologies and takes no prisoners. Diving deep (sorry) into SEXUAL foreplay, SEXUAL excitement and SEXUAL gratification are her ways of being, and if she has no partner, she makes no bones about taking care of herself (thank you very much).
It has been a very long time since I had SEX (with another breathing body), and I am afraid I have lost my desire for it. Once, many moons ago, desire was my bright and brilliant North Star, but now I can’t find it anywhere on my astrophysical chart. (And, trust me Honey, I’ve looked.)
Now don’t get me wrong. Vibrators are great. They do the trick (sorry), and my life can go on with my Miranda, my Charlotte, and my Carrie selves, but I really don’t want it to. I am tired of feeling like an amputee, a three legged table: incomplete, unfulfilled, and top heavy (sorry again).
Okay, I’m just gonna say it. I’ve tried, but my life can’t climax without Samantha. I need her passion born of the juice, the force, the joy, the adventure, the passion and celebration of being born female. And while she is the symbol of SEXUAL passion expressed mano-a-woman-o (and more), Samantha’s passion also underlies and infuses the lives of her co-stars. Her energy gives Miranda the courage to stand up to her convictions, Charlotte the ferocity to love in the face of all odds, and Carrie the fire to dig deep and welcome, witness, and name who she is.
Simply, Samantha gives us the courage to live our lives “balls (or vaginas) out.”
I feel hopeful now as I remember that in the movie, even Samantha lost her way and her passion. And if she can get her groove back, so can I. All I need are my three closest friends and free-flowing Cosmos.
I embrace and identify with them in their transparency and deeply admire how each character’s choices trace back to their unique North Star: doing the right thing, giving and receiving love, or evolving the consciousness of New York City.
However, for me (and maybe others of you), Samantha is the most exciting, the most outrageous, and sometimes the most difficult character to watch and identify with because of her full and unabashed embodiment of the SEXUAL Goddess Us. Her libido is her North Star. She never takes her eyes (or other body parts) off the prize. And, to make it worse (or better) she makes no apologies and takes no prisoners. Diving deep (sorry) into SEXUAL foreplay, SEXUAL excitement and SEXUAL gratification are her ways of being, and if she has no partner, she makes no bones about taking care of herself (thank you very much).
It has been a very long time since I had SEX (with another breathing body), and I am afraid I have lost my desire for it. Once, many moons ago, desire was my bright and brilliant North Star, but now I can’t find it anywhere on my astrophysical chart. (And, trust me Honey, I’ve looked.)
Now don’t get me wrong. Vibrators are great. They do the trick (sorry), and my life can go on with my Miranda, my Charlotte, and my Carrie selves, but I really don’t want it to. I am tired of feeling like an amputee, a three legged table: incomplete, unfulfilled, and top heavy (sorry again).
Okay, I’m just gonna say it. I’ve tried, but my life can’t climax without Samantha. I need her passion born of the juice, the force, the joy, the adventure, the passion and celebration of being born female. And while she is the symbol of SEXUAL passion expressed mano-a-woman-o (and more), Samantha’s passion also underlies and infuses the lives of her co-stars. Her energy gives Miranda the courage to stand up to her convictions, Charlotte the ferocity to love in the face of all odds, and Carrie the fire to dig deep and welcome, witness, and name who she is.
Simply, Samantha gives us the courage to live our lives “balls (or vaginas) out.”
I feel hopeful now as I remember that in the movie, even Samantha lost her way and her passion. And if she can get her groove back, so can I. All I need are my three closest friends and free-flowing Cosmos.
Monday, March 8, 2010
I’ve Got A Secret
When I was 12, my best friend, Sandy, and I would get together everyday after school at her house, play Mah Jong (yes, Mah Jong), listen to Andy Williams’ recording of “Moon River” (over and over again), hold hands, look deeply into each other’s eyes, and share our deepest and most intimate secrets. She trusted me to wrap myself around her secrets, and I trusted her to wrap herself around mine. As we shared more and more, our bodies, like vines, intertwined. It was a deep, full bodied and unbreakable connection, head to toe. When things in our young lives were confusing, or threatening, or out of the realm of our understanding, we found comfort in this most sacred, secret intertwining of our Selves. It was our way to feel rooted, safe, and supported in the complex and unpredictable world of family, school, and life outside of our limited experience.
This weekend without any conscious forethought, I unearthed a secret (a BIG one) that I had long ago “forgotten.” This is what I unearthed. I share a secret with my son’s father that carries, for me, a tremendous amount of shame.
I thought we had “dealt with it” before we were married. We sat in a therapist’s office many weeks talking about it. We analyzed our families of origin. We made behavioral changes. I thought I had found peace and let it go. I thought it had no lingering effect on my feelings, my relationship with or my love for him.
Back then, I didn’t understand the insidious nature of the secrets of shame and their root system. So I merely looked at our secret (albeit, from every possible angle), maybe even pulled it out by its stem, but never really put my hands in the dirt, dug deep somatically, and exorcised it roots and all. I didn’t know that, like a weed, shame’s roots go deep and are far reaching. They wrap themselves around healthy roots and relentlessly and systematically squeeze the life force out of them.
When I unearthed my shameful secret this weekend, I thought it best to consult an expert. I sat down with my 12 year old (or, as she likes to call herself, “The World’s Most Super Duper Sharer and Keeper of Secrets Gardener”). What we decided to do is remove all the debris, weeds, and dead roots from our garden. We have committed to planting new growth and feeding, watering, nourishing and actively participating in keeping our garden healthy, abundant, beautiful and weed-free.
Therefore, in service to our garden, the first thing my 12 year old and I did was to sit down with trusted friends. We held their hands, looked deeply into their eyes, and shared our deepest and most shameful secret.
We could have sworn we heard Andy Williams in the background.
(Thank you Denise, Ashley, Susan, Judy, and Tracey)
This weekend without any conscious forethought, I unearthed a secret (a BIG one) that I had long ago “forgotten.” This is what I unearthed. I share a secret with my son’s father that carries, for me, a tremendous amount of shame.
I thought we had “dealt with it” before we were married. We sat in a therapist’s office many weeks talking about it. We analyzed our families of origin. We made behavioral changes. I thought I had found peace and let it go. I thought it had no lingering effect on my feelings, my relationship with or my love for him.
Back then, I didn’t understand the insidious nature of the secrets of shame and their root system. So I merely looked at our secret (albeit, from every possible angle), maybe even pulled it out by its stem, but never really put my hands in the dirt, dug deep somatically, and exorcised it roots and all. I didn’t know that, like a weed, shame’s roots go deep and are far reaching. They wrap themselves around healthy roots and relentlessly and systematically squeeze the life force out of them.
When I unearthed my shameful secret this weekend, I thought it best to consult an expert. I sat down with my 12 year old (or, as she likes to call herself, “The World’s Most Super Duper Sharer and Keeper of Secrets Gardener”). What we decided to do is remove all the debris, weeds, and dead roots from our garden. We have committed to planting new growth and feeding, watering, nourishing and actively participating in keeping our garden healthy, abundant, beautiful and weed-free.
Therefore, in service to our garden, the first thing my 12 year old and I did was to sit down with trusted friends. We held their hands, looked deeply into their eyes, and shared our deepest and most shameful secret.
We could have sworn we heard Andy Williams in the background.
(Thank you Denise, Ashley, Susan, Judy, and Tracey)
Thursday, March 4, 2010
The Homecoming
I don’t sit at the Singer anymore and sew nice straight seams that meet perfectly at the crotch. I have stopped worrying about the kind of setting I need to use to make sure all the stitches stay tight and uniformly aligned. I have taken my foot off the accelerator pedal, removed the bobbin from its home, and re-attached the machine’s removable protective plastic cover. I slowly and methodically cleared the workspace taken up by that machine, stored away all the fancy needles and accoutrements, and gently placed the sewing machine with all its high-tech, high-speed, fancy-dancy accessories out of my everyday awareness.
I may have even posted it for sale on Craig’s List. I’m not sure.
I’m not sure if I posted it or not because, until last night, I was not consciously aware that I even used a Singer, much less that I had packed one up and put it away.
Last night, I connected with a somatic opening that has been making itself known to me slowly and incrementally since I began those quiet, empowering, meditative moments last July.
Crazy as it sounds, what I realized is this: My thoughts no longer automatically generate from my brain. The logical, cognitive, goal oriented thinking that dominated my life (without any input from my feelings and emotions, intuition and inner knowing) has been systematically deconstructed. The linear, single minded, go from point A to point B thinking is still there, yes, but my life no longer follows its patterns.
I work on a loom now. My body is fully engaged in the process. My feet pump the pedals. My hands caress the rich feel of the multiple yarns of my life threading through my fingers. My eyes witness the organic reveal of the weave: the beauty of colors that have never existed before as they merge with patterns and textures that my brain would never have thought to juxtapose. My ears detect a vibrantly delicious hum as it exits my lips and resonates on every frequency of the Universe simultaneously.
I am no longer concerned with checking tasks off my to-do list. I sit at my loom and co-create my life. I have relinquished creating a life dictated by a pattern (even if McCall’s size chart tells me it will fit). I prefer to open myself to my tapestry as it reveals a life lived in unprecedented, breath-takingly expansive and miraculous ways.
It is taking some getting used to, this way of being. It’s a whole new, whole body infused existence.
And, I’ve got to tell you. It feels like I came home.
I may have even posted it for sale on Craig’s List. I’m not sure.
I’m not sure if I posted it or not because, until last night, I was not consciously aware that I even used a Singer, much less that I had packed one up and put it away.
Last night, I connected with a somatic opening that has been making itself known to me slowly and incrementally since I began those quiet, empowering, meditative moments last July.
Crazy as it sounds, what I realized is this: My thoughts no longer automatically generate from my brain. The logical, cognitive, goal oriented thinking that dominated my life (without any input from my feelings and emotions, intuition and inner knowing) has been systematically deconstructed. The linear, single minded, go from point A to point B thinking is still there, yes, but my life no longer follows its patterns.
I work on a loom now. My body is fully engaged in the process. My feet pump the pedals. My hands caress the rich feel of the multiple yarns of my life threading through my fingers. My eyes witness the organic reveal of the weave: the beauty of colors that have never existed before as they merge with patterns and textures that my brain would never have thought to juxtapose. My ears detect a vibrantly delicious hum as it exits my lips and resonates on every frequency of the Universe simultaneously.
I am no longer concerned with checking tasks off my to-do list. I sit at my loom and co-create my life. I have relinquished creating a life dictated by a pattern (even if McCall’s size chart tells me it will fit). I prefer to open myself to my tapestry as it reveals a life lived in unprecedented, breath-takingly expansive and miraculous ways.
It is taking some getting used to, this way of being. It’s a whole new, whole body infused existence.
And, I’ve got to tell you. It feels like I came home.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Into Every Life A Little Pain Must Fall
I absorb all the space that pain takes up in my relationships with men I love. As a woman, I don’t think I am alone in this. For a lot of us, pain comes with the womanly package: monthly menstrual pain, the pain of childbirth, the pain of abuse and oppression for our collective (and in some countries, current) female lineage is embedded in our DNA. We are accustomed to pain in our bodies. Therefore, (I tell myself) I really can't be assigned any blame for absorbing it. In addition, I am a mother. How many years did I magically make my son's pain go away with nothing more than a kiss? We're moms. We don't want our children to hurt.
But at what point does absorbing the hurt for our child cause them more pain?
I think as women, (okay as one woman) I/we took it too far. I have spent my mom lifetime with my pain antenna poised at the ready to zero in on and absorb any kind of pain (with the ferocity of the newest high voltage vacuum cleaner) that comes my son's way. And doing it feels just as natural and routine as running my Dyson under the couch and sucking up all those free-floating dust bunnies.
The problem is that turbo vacuuming is great for cleaning the Berber. Not so great for living a life, or sharing one.
Last night, I watched as my son regressed into some old and non-productive escape behaviors (web surfing and hiding out in his room). I felt a definite shift in his energy, but he acted fine. I, on the other hand, felt a wave of disappointment and sadness. I tried to find an answer to his energy shift. I tried to engage him so I could make it all better. Did he fail a test? Have a bad experience at school? Feel defeated for any reason??
His response? A grunt or two (peppered with a growing annoyance at me for continuing to pop my head into his room). My inner knowing told me to leave him alone, but then I found my body PLOP! smack dab in the middle of his space. Never gave him an inch or a moment to reflect on his pain.
This morning I woke up feeling a deeper sadness with a more profound level of disappointment sprinkled with a new feeling…worthlessness. I took a deep breath and acknowledged what I already knew. These are not my feelings. I think they belong to my son. I think this is how he is feeling.
And my grabbing it away from him may have made it worse.
Rather than allow his feelings to be in his internal space so he could breathe into them and own them in his own time, I absorbed them, identified with them, gave them permission to run rampant in my body and call themselves me. Let’s be honest here. I wasn't only trying to help him; I was trying to make his pain go away so I could feel better, too.
I gave my son some space this morning. I asked for his permission to have a conversation instead of an interrogation. We met in a space that felt fertile, safe, and ours alone. I apologized for taking what belonged to him, and he opened the door to his painful feelings. It's a beginning...for him and for me.
I also shared a precious secret with him that most men don't know. Into every life a little pain must fall because we know, as women, that new life does not happen without it.
But at what point does absorbing the hurt for our child cause them more pain?
I think as women, (okay as one woman) I/we took it too far. I have spent my mom lifetime with my pain antenna poised at the ready to zero in on and absorb any kind of pain (with the ferocity of the newest high voltage vacuum cleaner) that comes my son's way. And doing it feels just as natural and routine as running my Dyson under the couch and sucking up all those free-floating dust bunnies.
The problem is that turbo vacuuming is great for cleaning the Berber. Not so great for living a life, or sharing one.
Last night, I watched as my son regressed into some old and non-productive escape behaviors (web surfing and hiding out in his room). I felt a definite shift in his energy, but he acted fine. I, on the other hand, felt a wave of disappointment and sadness. I tried to find an answer to his energy shift. I tried to engage him so I could make it all better. Did he fail a test? Have a bad experience at school? Feel defeated for any reason??
His response? A grunt or two (peppered with a growing annoyance at me for continuing to pop my head into his room). My inner knowing told me to leave him alone, but then I found my body PLOP! smack dab in the middle of his space. Never gave him an inch or a moment to reflect on his pain.
This morning I woke up feeling a deeper sadness with a more profound level of disappointment sprinkled with a new feeling…worthlessness. I took a deep breath and acknowledged what I already knew. These are not my feelings. I think they belong to my son. I think this is how he is feeling.
And my grabbing it away from him may have made it worse.
Rather than allow his feelings to be in his internal space so he could breathe into them and own them in his own time, I absorbed them, identified with them, gave them permission to run rampant in my body and call themselves me. Let’s be honest here. I wasn't only trying to help him; I was trying to make his pain go away so I could feel better, too.
I gave my son some space this morning. I asked for his permission to have a conversation instead of an interrogation. We met in a space that felt fertile, safe, and ours alone. I apologized for taking what belonged to him, and he opened the door to his painful feelings. It's a beginning...for him and for me.
I also shared a precious secret with him that most men don't know. Into every life a little pain must fall because we know, as women, that new life does not happen without it.
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