Sometimes Great Healing

Sometimes great healing springs from the simplest moments in time, when fate conspires with memory to catch me off guard and bring grief into full view with a sudden shiver, no chance to push it away or cover my eyes. A touch, a look, a song - all can tap me between my breasts and beckon my purest self to comfort and rock, to hum and coo, to stroke my aching heart as it cracks wide open. That is how hearts are meant to be: wide open.

This time it was a moment of tenderness and satisfaction after watching "The Secret Life of Bees" that delivered this divine rupture. Yes, a movie. I had identified with the young female lead and her self-loathing as she declared aloud that she was unlovable. I have done that. But then she was shown a photograph of her mother holding her as a toddler, looking at her with obvious and complete love. The fissure in my chest started then, but I quickly sewed it back up – “this is only a movie, repeat after me, only a movie.” I didn’t recall ever feeling my mother’s love and I’ve longed for it all these many years, but I was not going to allow that thought to ruin a perfectly relaxing evening.

The movie ended, as all good movies should, with love and compassion and hope. And so I went to my desk to further distract myself from the sorrow I had shut off, when suddenly another young girl appeared before me. She was about seven years old, standing in the front yard, missing a front tooth or two. Her blond hair was pulled away from her face to reveal a smile that was both broad and uneasy; her dress was a teal and purple plaid, with lace edging sewn around the hem. It had always been my favorite dress.

As she came full into my mind without being invited, I saw her nervousness, her fear, her questioning eyes – why don’t you love me? It was then I burst into tears and began my chant, the prayer of Ho’oponopono: I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you. Over and over again, the words loudly shoved their way through my pleading throat, guttural and pitifully howling: I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you; I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you; I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you. My mind was aware and yet not in control, as the chant continued on, also uninvited. It did not stop nor even subside and my childhood self stood before me unwavering, looking at me with my own eyes, simply receiving this prayer pouring out of me.

And then there was a moment - she shifted, her expression changed from fearful to compassionate and she moved in, towards me. I watched as she began to spread her arms and embrace me in the most tender hold I have ever received. My prayer continued, I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you, but now it was directed not at her but at my grown self, the woman sitting at the desk. I sobbed more deeply, not breaking the prayer for even a moment: I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you. Still the words made their way past my choking throat, flowing out of me with a will of their own. I wanted to embrace her back but I could not lift my arms. I needed to be held, to be held like that little girl in the movie, to be loved by the very self I had rejected nearly fifty years ago. My arms hung motionless by my side as I felt her head on my chest and her love in my heart. She forgave me. It was then my heart broke open and I knew that I could love myself.

With forgiveness, I slowly brought my hands up and placed them around my own body, circling my upper arms. Still the prayer continued through my sobbing: I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you. I held myself tightly, crying and now rocking. And then someone else came in and I felt her arms also holding, comforting, loving me, both the young me and the adult. All my life I’ve longed for my mother’s embrace and now, twenty years after her death, I finally know how it feels.

I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you. How could I ever have believed that she didn’t love me? How could I ever have not loved myself?

An Open Letter to My Son

Dear Liam,

What does it mean to me to be a Mother? There are so many responses clamoring for expression ... some of them contradictory, opposing, ambiguous & indistinct, but I'll try to sort them out here.

As parents, society tells us we must be caretakers, overseers and authority to our children. And the only way we learn how to do this is through our own parents, regardless of how successful or unsuccessful they were in raising us to be happy, healthy & wise. The blunders flow down from generation to generation, but so do the successes, hopefully. My father always told me that I could do anything I wanted to do in life, but my mother told me that I couldn't. She told me that I shouldn't expect anyone to love me, or to think that I'm pretty or smart, and she told me that I can't have what I want in life. These are some of the messages that were passed down to her from her own mother, and then down to me. That's how it goes, but I'm hoping my father's words will win out before I die.

As far as mothering, the problem for me was that the caretaking and the authority got all mixed up together. I thought taking care of you meant that I shouldn't allow anything bad to happen to you - no falling down, no pain, no mistakes. I tried to take control of your life in ways I had no right to, all in the name of mother love. I was scared, not just for you but for myself, too. It got worse after your father died - I was holding on to you for dear life.

The truth is, I experienced fear, self-doubt, confusion, anger, guilt, frustration and anxiety on a daily basis (well, almost daily). Why did I have to pretend that I had it all figured out? Why did I worry about what other people thought? Why do I still feel so guilty for divorcing your father? The divorce was necessary. I did not deserve the treatment I received and I also did not want you to grow up thinking that the insanity that he and I had created was what love & marriage is all about. I wanted you to have a chance to see what real love is and not recreate your parents' marriage the way I had recreated mine.

And now that you're 18 and having a child of your own, I find myself afraid of losing you. I am all too aware of the mistakes I’ve made with you over the years. Please know that I have never wanted to cause you pain and I regret that you have suffered as a result of my fear, anger and confusion. I am very sorry.

As a parent, I believed it was my responsibility to handle it all and keep you from seeing how scared I really was and how truly difficult it was to keep all the balls in the air at once, to never let you see that I am more like you than you will ever know. I thought I was supposed to make you believe that I am wise, to make you understand that I was in control for a good reason - I have experience with life. Ha! You see right through it and you have for years. That's a myth only another parent could believe.

And I thought that if I didn't stay "strong" and maintain control, it would undermine my authority. But, I've recently learned that by trusting you and your choices, by allowing you the freedom to fall down, to experience pain or make mistakes, I earn respect, which is something that authority does not guarantee. Liam, I would much rather have your respect than your compliance. Damn, some days you seem to be so much clearer than I am, I should be asking you for guidance. Some days I feel like the student rather than the teacher. And I'm OK with that, because of my belief that we are Spiritual beings having a human experience. You were born into my care as a child, but I believe that you are a Master. And many of your friends have wisdom beyond their years and have come into this world to lead, to make changes for the better, to be part of creating a new Earth. That's why I love them, too, and I stand in awe of all of you.

We are all One - that is what I know to be true. Because I know this, I struggle with what it means to be a Mother in this 3-D reality we live in. I know that spiritually I am no better than you, no wiser, no higher, no more advanced. But, in this game of life, I'm supposed to pretend that I am. I'm not sure I want to play this game anymore. I want to be rid of the guilt and the judgments, but it is a challenge for me - "society" is a vigilant dictator, always throwing rules and regulations at me. I must do this or that, I must take control of my child, must make him "behave," I must make sure he has a "good" education (by what definition?) otherwise I will not be a GOOD parent. I want to say screw it all. Sometimes I feel as though I'm blazing a new path through the jungle without a map or a compass and I'm completely lost. And you know what? I bet there are other parents like me out there, but society needs us to maintain the illusion of control, otherwise it all falls apart.

But when I put the fear aside, I realize that it has been my greatest joy to watch you grow and come into your own power. You have so much Love to give. I’ve seen it, I’ve felt it. Love creates Unity and Oneness. That is what you want more than anything else - I see it in your eyes and feel it in your hugs. Life is so much more than we can wrap our limited human brains around. It requires fully engaged hearts and souls and I see a Mothers spiritual job as encouraging that engagement.

So, back to my original question - what does it mean to be a Mother? It means to give birth to a unique being, an expression of life and Spirit separate and apart from oneself. It means to nurture that life in a way that ensures growth and individuation, that encourages and allows that person to become fully empowered to be All that is within his or her potential. And it means knowing when to let go.

Liam, I know that you will rise to meet your challenges and achieve your goals. I have absolutely no doubt of that. Yes, you are my hero.

I love you,

Mom

To Ask or Not to Ask

I’ve spent the better part of this evening running various scenarios through my head in an effort to decide on a course of action - if only I can figure out which one has the least potential to end in pain and humiliation. All the while, the question, “But what do you want to do?” was snaking itself around the inside of my skull. When I finally noticed it, when I heard it for what it was, I was struck by the fact that I was unable (or unwilling?) to simply do what I wanted to do without all the planning, hypothesizing and second-guessing. This has been the way I’ve run my life.

I can clearly see that fear is at the root of all these mental gymnastics; it always has been. And I also see that fear has been one of the worst advisors I’ve ever had, so why do I keep using it to guide my decisions and actions? For once I’d like to speak out clearly and without hidden agendas, to simply stand up and say “I want …”.

Wow, I just got a rush when I visualized doing that, a powerful surge rather than the usual debilitating angst. In my visualization it didn’t matter what the outcome was because standing in my power isn’t about getting what I want, it’s about asking for what I want, without judgment. And since it is human nature to want, unadulterated asking is all about letting myself be human.

Letting myself be human – as if I needed my own permission. Sounds schizophrenic, huh? :-)

Choice, part two

Over the course of the last twelve years there have been several, if not many, challenging situations through which I persevered, even though I believed that I had no strength left to be summoned and nothing more to give. It was during those times that impossibility, survival and obligation fueled my every step and, until recently, I commended myself for these apparent triumphs over such staggering adversities.

But, to say that I picked myself up when I had no strength is a lie. I am not superhuman, but an ordinary woman not very unlike all other women. Obviously I had the strength - it was willingness that I lacked. I was driven by the belief that I had no other options, that I must, that I HAVE TO prevail, if not for myself then for those who were dependent on me. Ahhh, such a martyr.

I now find myself wondering what it would have been like to meet those challenges from a place of choice rather than being driven by "have to's." And I wonder how much more strength might have been available to me with willingness at the heart of my "persevering."

So what about the present? Certainly, for every day that my feet hit the floor, I will be gifted with similar challenges and many more opportunities to choose how to respond to whatever life delivers, but now with awareness and fully comprehending that there are many possibilities. And I do not know what will happen or what can possibly happen - all I can do is take my best shot. I am not God.

There, I said it: I am not God. What that means (to me) is that, for me, there are possibilities rather than absolutes. For me, there is free will and the gift of choice. Hallelujah!

I'm so relieved.

Honor in His Heart

As time goes on, this photo still remains my very favorite and, as a prizewinner, it's the one I'm most proud of.

Choice

In the end, there is always choice.

It is the stripping away of non-essentials that allows this truth to be revealed. Once the “problem” of choosing what clothes to wear to work has been resolved because there no longer is a job to go to, what remains is the choice of how to live each moment of one’s life, especially when snowbound in a little cabin with only two cats for company.

Remove the reason for a choice and all that is left is the meaning of it. That is when choosing becomes glorious.

One liners

I used to think that my son carried my salvation in his back-pocket like the long lost key to my front door that he found one day while rummaging through the junk drawer for a rubber band to keep his hair out of his face.

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True self-expression was once reserved for times when I’ve needed to save myself, when it was better to be wrong than obliterated.

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We glide beneath the surface of the water, like ancient sea serpents daring only on rare occasions to lift our eyes above the glassy barrier, and then only when we cannot stand the loneliness any longer.

Living Alone, Chapter 2

The trouble with living alone is that there's no one to stand between you and your loneliness - it must be confronted. Time and again I ask myself, What am I making this mean, that I sleep alone every night, that I watch romantic movies with no one's arms around me, that I feel this deep longing for a man's touch, a strong hand to simply brush the hair out of my eyes?

I'll tell you what it does not mean. It does not mean that I am unworthy or unlovable. It does not mean that there is something wrong with me or that I will be alone for the rest of my life. It doesn't even mean that I must change in order to be desirable, yet my fear makes me believe all those things and more. I stumble on the lies of a child too often made the scapegoat for a parent's misery.

I have spent the better part of 54 years polishing myself up that I might be acceptable, that I might be judged as worthy of love. Both of my parents have long been dead so there is no one to tell me if I'm shiny enough. No one but me. But, it isn't a matter of assessing whether or not I've proven myself, whether or not I've used enough elbow grease in my polishing. What is needed is simply the truth: I have only ever been human.

So, I will put down the jeweler's rouge and take a good look in the mirror. I will tell the truth about the woman I see there; I will say that she is an honest and caring soul. I will see and say that she is someone I appreciate, someone I want to listen to and walk beside. And when I do, I will know that it is enough just to be with myself.

Living Alone, Chapter 1

As of Sept. 27 I've been living alone for the very first time in my life. There's certainly a lot to like about it: no one sitting in my favorite chair or turning off my music or eating the chicken I was saving for lunch. But, these are just the petty annoyances of living with another (a teenage child to be specific). The real joys of living alone for me are found in moments of deep thought and self-reflection, in blissful endorphin baths that I seem to experience only when perfectly and utterly in communion with myself, my whole self and nothing but myself.

I've made discoveries within and embraced new ways of being in the world at large. I've learned that in seeing and knowing myself I have also experienced loving myself, something that has eluded me for years. You can't just say, "I love myself," and have it be true. And it isn't enough to take good care of myself, to have strong boundaries, or to put myself first even; none of those things have ever made a difference for me. But, rather it was opening my eyes to see the woman I am, allowing my heart to acknowledge the truth, understanding that it is neither ego to know one's goodness nor humility to deny it - these are the changes I've made in myself.

These are my new choices and they have delivered the sweetest love I could ever hope to know.

Touch

I don't mind admitting that it's been a very long time since I've had a significant romantic relationship. Sure, I've dated guys for three, maybe four months, but nothing compelling has ever developed. And while I could easily ponder the reasons for this lack of noteworthy relationship over the past, oh, twelve years, that wasn't what sent me to my blog page this evening. It was touch … or, more specifically, the lack of it … the lack of the simple sensation of skin on skin. Fingertips, arms, toes, lips, heads on shoulders, cheeks on chests, leaning, grazing, caressing.

It's all too easy for me to complain about the ways I suffer from lack of sex, and I have, believe me (and just for the record, no sex is infinitely more tolerable than bad sex). But, tonight my mind was recalling how the simple trailing of a finger inside the palm of my hand would easily and quickly flood my brain with endorphins and how a simple shoulder to shoulder lean could relax my body from head to toe.

It just feels good to touch, and be touched by, another human being.

I pet my cat, but it's not the same.