The Last Trimester

I am coming up to the end of the nine month transformational program I have been involved in since July. Katherine and Claire (my teachers) very cleverly set up the New Feminine Power Mastery program to culminate in April. I have to admit they were very clear about the gestational parallel with pregnancy, and since I have had a baby…..

… I knew what to expect going in.

I was smitten from the get-go. It was love at first sight. I went into Mastery completely in love with the idea of birthing a new, unrecognizable Self. I opened myself with abandon and invited the world to mix fluids with me. Even in the most intimate moments, my eyes remained wide open to take it all in. My metaphorical legs were poised in unprotected surrender. This was not whoops!, a mistake, an unexpected meeting of my egg and the seminal fluid of the universe. This was Planned Parenthood at its best.

The past seven months, I have reveled in the organic changes, the miracle of life that has taken place in me. I have sat in awe and amazement that I was beginning to show. My burgeoning growth was becoming evident to colleagues, friends, the women in my Mastery. Frankly, it has been kind of nice being noticed for my “glow.” I smile and strangers smile back (in a good way!); people give up their seats on the subway and offer to hold the door open for me.

Like most women pregnant with life, I have been single mindedly focused on nurturing this embryo to its fullest growth and development. Oh yeah, I have had my bouts with morning sickness, gaining a new kind of weight, and outgrowing the old ways of being that have become too small for my ever-expanding Self. So I expelled what my body refused to absorb and bought stretch pants and big blousy tops because I got so much attention in return. Totally worth it.

However, all along, a small voice has been whispering to me….

… “You knew what to expect going in.”

A few days ago, like any woman in her last trimester, I was jolted into reality as if I had watched my first LaMaze video.

I actually have to give birth.

A Constant State of Emergence-cy

As I was sitting in my living room this morning, I heard an ambulance go by several blocks away.

When I was a little girl, anytime I heard an ambulance (or as my mother used to call it “the Emergency Wagon”), I ran home as if my curly red head were on fire. Everything about the sound of the siren terrified me. It screamed Disaster with a capital D. As I ran, I could feel its hot, fetid breath on my neck; its decaying bony hands trying to snatch me up to deliver me to chaos, further injury, and death. Once that siren began, I needed to get home, now, to safety. As I opened our home’s oak double dutch front door, I knew. Some other little girl (or little boy, or mom or nana) was grabbed, and it was only a matter of time before I or someone in my family wouldn’t run quite fast enough.

This morning in recalling that, I thought about how a whisper of the word “emergency” can still send shivers down my spine. Emergency meeting, emergency room, emergency landing …poor word…it has such a negative connotation (at least for me).

But it was then that I realized that in order to live a dynamic and full life, I had to be in a constant state of emergency: like Waldo who suddenly emerges from a picture after hours of searching for him, a rose stem that emerges through the soil after a long winter, or a baby who emerges from the protective womb of its mother after nine months of preparation.

Emergence-cy, the state of emerging, can be magical and life-giving and life-affirming. It is often treated as crisis because it’s scary to bring something (that had been overlooked) into clear view, or to watch as what we know to be solid ground is pushed aside to make room for new growth, or to stretch beyond the body’s established physical and emotional limits to welcome life into the world (while shedding precious blood, amniotic fluid, and tears). Frankly, it can be quite a mess.

But if I am not in the process of emerging, what am I doing except finding my safety in remaining hidden, staying underground, refusing to be birthed?

I think that for the rest of my life, I will shudder a little when I hear that wail of the Emergency Wagon. However, I am also going to make a friend of being in a constant state of emergency: no more hiding in the crowd, staying underground, struggling against my universal push to birth something new into the world.

It’s just what I have to do. Well, that and bubble baths.

Joseph’s Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat…

…is hanging in my closet. I just noticed it this morning.

I must admit that I have seen it before (and I’m not talking about watching the stage production).

Except that the last few times I saw it, another woman was wearing it. It was hard to tell who she was because she was very far away. I did notice she had red hair (which kind of piqued my interest).

The times I envisioned her in it, the power of the Dreamcoat radiated through space to me where I stood. The glow, the magnificence of the colors and the patterns and the fabric and the style met me as I stood and received it like a 5’2” wave at Easton’s Beach. It literally washed over me. I thought to myself, “That’s one powerful coat, and she’s gotta be one amazing woman.” At the same time it was, honestly, frightening. I was glad she was wearing it and not me.

I forgot all about it.

Then I found it in my closet this morning right there in front of me next to my grey wool pants.

My first thought was “What is that coat doing here?” My second thought was, “What took me so long to see it?”

I feel surprisingly comforted knowing that the Dreamcoat is this close to me. It has entered my sphere of possibility, and I revel in thinking about it while I am at work. It’s waiting patiently (as it always has) for me to decide to put it on.

I know that once it is on my body, a part of my fashion-forward life, I will merge with its power, its beauty, its radiance, its joy. The colors I have so longed to know about myself will embody me, connect, and reunite with something very deep in me. And the Dreamcoat and I will be one; a perfect fit.

I will be visible. I will be IN my life. I will once again experience the divine lightness of my Being.

Maybe I will try it on when I get home from work, just for fun. Or maybe tomorrow. Or maybe the next time I am with my sisters. I am not in a hurry. It is all colorfully and uniquely mine. Ready to wear. No alterations required.

I know when I am ready, it will fly off the rack to me like one of those great finds at Filene’s Basement. And I will hear my mom say (like she used to), ” Beautiful. It was meant for you.”

Oh, and tomorrow morning when you are in your closet look right there, in front of you, next to your grey wool pants.

What Do You Do With A General When (S)he Stops Being a General?

For me, the Christmas season is not official until I watch “White Christmas;” it always makes me cry. Near the end of the movie, Bing Crosby sings a song “What Do You Do With A General When He Stops Being A General?”

Not one of my top moments in the film, but I cannot get that song (or, more accurately, the first line) out of my head. I have avoided sitting down and posting about it because, frankly, I’m embarrassed. However, the song has been as relentless as one of my brothers sitting on me until I give him the last chocolate chip cookie in the bag.

Okay, I give.

It’s embarrassing because my son’s father would, on occasion, call me “The General.” It started out as a kind of…sort of… endearment. I didn’t like it. So, like any decorated General always at the ready for battle, I began deploying troops and strategizing for what I knew would later come back to bite me in the ass (to put it in military terms). Sure enough, “The General” started emerging in arguments as a label for my behavior. It was then that I really started to hate it.

I hated it because it was, well, kind of…sort of…true.

I am Irish, I have red curly hair, and I am a Taurus; hence, I am just the teeniest bit bossy. It all comes with the package, especially growing up in a family that needed a parent. I was enlisted, quickly promoted through the ranks, and awarded command at a very early age.

I willingly attended my own personal War College to learn as much as possible about the skirmishes (and worse) of life so I could avoid land minds (and worse) thereby keeping myself and the troops safe. That was my job, and, for a 9 year old, I took it very seriously.

I gave orders, and people followed. Period.

It's what I did.

It’s what I do.

In my own defense, it is not that I am in it for the medals or that I willy-nilly impose my decisions on others. I look at all the options, devise the most efficient battle plan to minimize casualties, and make the best decision for the troops. Only now am I beginning to see the aftermath of friendly fire. Those who I had absolutely no intention of getting hurt, were; some with only minor injuries but I gotta admit it; there were some casualties.

Over the past 6 months, I have tried to be different. Everyday I struggle against the call of re-enlistment.

I think I will follow in the footsteps of the General in “White Christmas.” I am going to accept who I was and embrace who I am becoming. Who knows, maybe it will finally snow.

The Secret of Successful Gift-Buying

I used to hate to shop for birthdays, anniversaries, weddings. I was always so concerned that I would buy the “wrong” thing. My shopping technique was to try to put my gift recipient’s eyes in my head so I could find their perfect gift. It often didn’t work.

Similiarly, I have lived a life by borrowing the eyes of others to look at myself; constantly on the ready to morph into the persona required to fit seamlessly into their current fashion statement. In any given fashion show, I can try on and stomp the runway as zany co-worker, serious professional, wounded partner, supportive friend and back again in a Bryant Park minute.

But I am finding it exhausting to constantly look outside for fashion cues so I can don the right skin, the appropriate adornments, and the matching (or deliberately mis-matched “popping”) shoes for each role I am given. I am, honest to God, getting a little tired of being a model, a human mannequin, an empty outline waiting to make a unique and colorful statement via someone else's point of view.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy playing different roles in my life; I do, but somewhere in me, I knew the difference was in what motivated my desire to take these roles. It was all a little unclear until I went shopping for my former college roommate’s Christmas gift. In the season of miracles, I discovered the secret of successful gift-buying and began to change my life.

I bought a gift for my former roommate because I loved it so much I wanted to buy it for myself.

I became my own fashionista.

I realized it is all about letting go of seeing myself through someone else’s eyes and having the faith and courage to trust and take responsibility for what is alive in me. Then I can inhabit my clothes and own a life whose style is dictated by my inner Versace.

It all fits. Ready to wear. No alterations required. All colorfully and uniquely mine.

Oh, and now when I buy that gift that I love, I buy one for myself, too.

Square One

I am beside myself right now. I let my train leave the station this morning. This time my son was on the tracks. (If you haven’t been reading this blog and you want to know what I am talking about, you can read the post on Jan 6) Now I’m not saying I went on a wild ride over the Rockies with him clutching the cow catcher (or worse), but that is not to say it didn’t feel like that to him (or worse).

He has been efforting change all over the place, and his father and I have told him how great that is. This morning I was upset with him for neglecting some important school things.

The school structures that he has put into place are newly constructed. The cement in the foundation isn’t completely set yet. And, because of the way I dealt with him, I feel like the Big Bad Wolf who has blown his house down.

I worry that I moved his growth back to Square One.

It’s been so long that my train left the station (relatively speaking for me), that I did not even realize it until we (the train and I) were well underway. Since I now know where the brakes are located, I stopped it way earlier than I have before, but the train had already left the station…there was momentum and drive behind me.

I ache that the surgical removal of this tendency in myself was not as complete as I wanted to believe. Even though I understand that real transformation with loved and intimate relationships is the true test of change and that it is all a try and fail and try again process; I ache that it got away from me in dealing with my son.

So now I, too, worry that my growth has moved back to Square One.

But I did learn something very important.

We are both feeling a tremendous amount of stress around his schooling and his ability to navigate the demands of high school. Moreover, if we can’t handle the pressures of high school in our relationship, how can we handle the pressures of life beyond the diploma? What comes up for both of us is fear. I fight; he flights, but all we are really trying to do is protect ourselves.

All I know is this. The first thing I am going to do is recognize that I can’t surgically remove my train. What I can, and have been doing, is build new structures around my train to house it where it is safe and contained. The next thing I can do is recognize that my structures are as new, and wobbly and tenuous as my son’s. We both need to be gentle with ourselves and each other.

Finally, I can forgive myself, apologize to my son, get out the hammer and nails, survey the damage, and start re-building.

And that’s exactly what I am going to do. I have no answers, no solutions, but I have some tools. And I’m going to piece it back together, one sturdy, rustproof nail at a time.

Lions, and Tigers, and Gauges..Oh My

My son brought up the “gauges” discussion again last night. If you don’t know what gauges are, thank your lucky stars. They are hoop earrings that gradually stretch the lobes and create holes from ½” to conservatively guessing well beyond 2 ½” in diameter. Now granted my son claims he does not want gauges that big (for now I am guessing), but he thinks the whole look is cool.

The look that he loves so much makes me want to throw up. Google it if you don’t believe me, but I recommend you have a barf bag near by.

So, being a parent, my first comment is, “We have had this discussion several times already. What about ‘No way in hell’ don’t you understand?”

My second thought (unvoiced) is,“ Why, in God’s name, do you want to be ‘that’ kid or me to be ‘that’ mom with ‘that’ kid?” immediately followed by the somatic suction into the familiar bad mom, I did not give him what he needed black hole. Not helpful to me or him.

Later I realized my real thoughts were, “Why does this issue (or similar ones about tattoos, septum rings, squatting etc) keep coming up? Why would a boy as sensitive and sweet as he is, want that? What is he trying to tell me, ask me?”

I woke up before the alarm this morning and something in my body said, “Fear.”

When I was a child, the scariest thing I experienced was the Mandatory School Air Raid Drills. Khrushchev was due any minute, and we had to be ready. At 12 years old, what the heck could I do except hide under my desk, a (chubby) open target to the “Reds”??

I think my son is terrified, and I don’t think he is alone. The world we live in generates fear in whirling dervish proportions to which children and adolescents are extremely susceptible. They breathe it in everyday. Forget H1N1. Where is the antidote to the pervasive and non-stop viral assault to the well being of our children? How do we treat them as adults when they suffer from the Post Traumatic Stress of growing up in a world whose soul has been misplaced?

I think the gauges, the tattoos, the septum rings are his way to eject himself from this assault, to protect himself by leaving the tidal waves of the mainstream to go to the shore, the fringe of society, where, he believes, the water will gently soothe his tired body, heart, and soul. Where he can feel safe, out of harms way.

I think he sees his only other option as somehow walking through the dangers of the yellow brick road to meet his future, the Wizard, the man in charge. And if the Wizard is, in fact, in control, he must be the one who is responsible for causing the death of all those flying monkeys and falling houses in the first place. I can’t blame my son for wanting to get off this path, take that huge, exposed, and terrified heart of his and surround it like the Tin Man with gauges or tattoos. Put out his “No Trespassing” sign to keep it safe.

I think what he is asking me is, “Why do I want to meet the Wizard?? Tell me again why, exactly, I should stay on this road??”

It is my job to help him generate his own safety within…without gauges of course.