Sudden clarity rocks
my inner landscape;
breakthrough under –
standing that what has
formed my foundation,
as woman, as human,
has been marred by
mixed messages, lack
of healthy boundaries;
sheer absence of self-
preserving beliefs has
contributed to a legacy
of abuse and translated
into guilt, shame and
intolerable self-loathing.
(Image from paddle8.com)
It’s time to call a meeting of the troops.
“Gather around, everyone. We need to talk.”
The air is cool in the cave, sheltered from the hot August sun. A small fire provides light and a focus for our gathering. I, Self, am seated where everyone can see me clearly. I want to make my point.
“I have called you here, because there is a thief amongst us, and I am angry.”
“Oh!” the exclamation echoes around the circle, then a mumble of agreement – this is serious.
“I woke up this morning, full of anticipation and plans for a wonderful day – the kids are coming for dinner, and my granddaughter is staying overnight. I planned to make goodies, and soup, and a special dinner. As I made my shopping list, Thor added to my excitement booking a flight for our next big excursion abroad. I couldn’t have been happier, then…..” I paused for effect, “….one of you came in and stole my joy, leaving me in this state of raw anger.”
The nervous shuffle of feet was accompanied by a shifting of eyes and lowering of heads. No one wanted to fess up, I could see.
“We see that you are upset,” a kind old woman stepped forward, “and in the interest of inner harmony, we would like to get to the root of the problem, but we’ll need more information.”
Heads bobbed in agreement.
“When did you first notice that your mood had changed?”
“When I was baking. I noticed that my happy thoughts were missing, and I was ranting inside my head.”
“Just like that, all of a sudden?”
I thought about it. “Well, I did start to feel really tired just before it happened.”
“What do you suppose made you tired?”
“I was up early this morning, getting work done so I could enjoy my family, so I was thinking that was catching up with me, but then I realized I was probably hungry, which……”
“Would effect your mood,” she finished my sentence.
“Well, true. So, that is no one’s fault. But then I started to eat things that weren’t good for me, and I knew I only do that when I’m trying to bury unwanted emotions, so I started to think about that, and then I realized my happy thoughts were gone, and that’s when I got angry and decided to call this meeting.”
“Was anyone else present when all this was happening?”
“I was,” a little voice piped up. “I was excited that we would get to play with the granddaughter. She’s so cute and fun and makes me happy. But then Mae called, and she called again, and again, and someone started pushing me out of the way.”
“Really?” The women turned towards the others. “Does someone have a problem with Mae?”
“No! Well, yes,” said a shadowy figure huddled in the back. “She can’t help it that she is mentally ill, I know, but she stirs me up.”
“How does she stir you up?”
“She reminds me of all the times I was pushed aside for the others.” I recognize her now; it’s my twelve-year-old self. “My parents only had time for those who were broken, never for me. They never helped her; they encouraged her to be that way. They liked their children to be victims so that they could rescue them over and over again. It makes me angry.”
“So you stole my joy?”
My question seemed to jolt her out of her self-indulgence. “No! I mean, I had to protect you. You’ll just get hurt again. You should know better. Just when it seems that everything is good, and going our way, someone will destroy it. You know it! That’s how it always is.”
“Oh dear,” the little one plopped down, head on her hands. “Here we go again.”
“What! Why are you all looking at me that way. You all know it’s true. Why won’t you admit it!” Twelve was getting hostile, almost hysterical. “I hate it that life is unfair. I hate it that we work hard, and try hard and always get the short end of the deal! I hate that other people don’t have to work hard and life just gets handed to them and everyone caters to them. I hate it that my sister wasn’t strong enough to fight them, like we did.”
“Amen to that,” said a large, blob of a character, who didn’t look very bright, but was happily stuffing his face. Ah, I thought, you’re the one I feed when I feeling emotional. If I’m not careful, I’ll start looking like you. Â
“Can I say something,” a slighter older teen spoke up. I recognized my independent self. “I don’t mean to sound cold and radical here, but if you keep venting over what you can’t change, you are going to die an unhappy soul.”
“What do you know about it?” Twelve was on the defensive.
“I know that life is full of many opportunities beyond the limitations you experienced in your home life, and I believe that while we can’t change where we’ve come from, we can make new choices for the present and the future. Do you want to be unhappy all your life?”
“Well….no, but don’t I have the right to be heard? Don’t I deserve justice?”
“We all deserve to be heard, and while we’d all like justice, it doesn’t always work out that way. I’m just suggesting that you are robbing yourself of the joy of life.”
I could see Twelve wrestling with herself.
“Twelve,” I offered, as kindly as I could. “You say you hate victims, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you are kind of acting like a victim yourself, no offence.”
“What do you mean?” her fists balled up instinctively.
“I just mean that while you rage and wait for someone else to deliver justice, you are like a victim – giving the power to someone else.”
“What do you suggest I do?”
The Wise Woman stepped up, putting her hand on Twelve’s shoulder. “Express your feelings, certainly, because we all care. Can I ask you something Twelve?”
“Fire away.”
“What would help ease your rage? What do you need?”
Twelve fell silent. I don’t think she’d ever thought of that. She shrugged.
“What could anyone possibly do to make you feel better?” the young woman asked. “Do you think everyone is suddenly going stop being themselves, see the predicament, and apologize?”
“Maybe they’ll stop being nice to your sisters and spoil you!” the little one chirped in.
“That’s absurd!” Twelve scolded.
“Is it? Isn’t that what you want?”
Twelve thought about this. We all thought about it. Then one of us started to giggle. I’m not sure who, but soon the whole room felt the relief. It was a ludicrous thought.
“I feel like a fool,” said Twelve.
“No hard feelings – you’re only a kid!” said the slightly older one.
“And you always look out for me,” said Little.
“None of us blame you,” another added. “We all went through it, you’re just the one who held out for justice.”
“Is there never any justice, then?” Twelve asked, confused.
“Oh there is justice: but you need to look for it in other ways,” Wise Woman offered.
“Like embracing life’s blessings despite the strains of the past,” Independent Self offered.
“What she’s trying to say, I think,” I added, “Is that if you continually refuse to be happy because you don’t like what happened long ago, then you rob all of us of the joy of the present. Can you see that?”
“I can, but I just feel so angry sometimes.”
“I know, I know, so do I, obviously. That’s why I called this meeting. And Twelve, I suspect you’ve been hanging out with someone else, who is the real thief here.”
I could tell by the look on her face, that Twelve knew exactly who I was talking about.
“Jealousy is not a friend to any of us,” I addressed the crowd. “I suggest we do our best to keep her out of our circle.”
“Here! Here!” came the cry of approval.
“What about me?” said Emotional Eater, pausing mid-bite.
“Wouldn’t hurt you to eat a little less” came the unanimous response.
“You should try therapy,” added Little. Everyone laughed.
“Thanks for talking this through,” I concluded the meeting. “I hope we all feel better. Little, Twelve, we got some things to get ready, our guests will be here soon!”
(Image:Â dymir.org)
The call came just as I was falling into a deep sleep, which didn’t help my mood. Neither my husband nor I recognized the number. After the usual formalities, Thor handed me the phone. It was a man who had tracked me down earlier in the year, looking for psychic counselling. Although I don’t practice anymore, I had made an exception for him.
“I need your advice,” he started. “I feel like things are shifting, and I have a new woman in my life. I think she is my soulmate.”
“You are not going to like what I have to say,” I interrupted. “I don’t believe in ‘soul mates’.”
“You don’t believe in reincarnation?”
“Yes, but not that there is only one person for us.” I really didn’t want to get into this right now.
“I think I have been downloaded several times.”
“Are you still there?”
“I don’t know what that means.”  The conversation was becoming very irritating. ‘Downloaded’ was a new one to me, but I had heard lots – ‘walk-ins’, ‘star children’, among others.
“I am very pragmatic.” I warned. “If the idea or information is not practical, I avoid it.”
I cut the conversation short.
I understand the drive to find answers to life’s mysteries. I myself spent many years exploring different philosophies and theories, looking for one that would help me understand and feel in control. Truth is, none exist. No matter what we believe, or think we know, life is full of uncertainty, and yes, risk.
This caller, like many before him, wants to know that the choices he is making will lead to happiness and a better life. He wants to avoid pain and heartache, and above all, loneliness.  He wants to believe in magic over common sense.
Whatever answers we seek, we need to be able to weigh them against some practical form of measurement.  We need guidance for living a good life, not a promise that we will meet a ‘soul mate’ who will fulfill us, nor a foolproof plan for ensuring eternal bliss. Sound advice for slogging through the hard stuff, simplifying our lives, and being true to ourselves are the answers we should be seeking.
(Image:Â macpeanut.wordpress.com)
My husband always tells me that I am failing my way through life with an A+.
It started when I returned to university to upgrade my degree. I would sweat over every assignment, proclaiming uncertainty about the expectations and certainty that my efforts would fall short. I would get the paper back with a mark in the nineties.
Despite my high marks, the insecurity persisted. When I graduated from the Faculty of Education, I didn’t even notice that it was with distinction until my stepdaughter asked me what that meant. Surprised, I responded: “It probably means that I was the oldest.”
The assumption behind all this angst is that I am not capable, and that every task is designed to trip me up. Of course, this is nonsense, and when I spell it out like that, my rational mind can see that it is. Yet, somewhere inside me is an insecurity that my success is phony; that I am a fraud.
I am working on moving towards an easier approach to life. I am trying to be consciously aware of how I complicate things with insecurity, and replace those thoughts with simplicity. I’m trying to take a step back before responding.  Reassessing a situation usually does reveal a simpler solution.
I am with my son’s friend, and we are headed to meet John downtown where he will be competing in a skateboard competition. John is a very gifted skater and the odds are good that he will win, but he is nowhere to be found. As time passes, I feel more and more anxious that something has happened to him, and begin to search in closets and corners, anticipating I am going to find him dead. Suddenly, a car pulls up, dumps a body, and squeals away. A crowd gathers, and as I make way through, I know it is John. He is not dead, but severely beaten, enough to stop him from competing.
I wake up, immediately afraid for my son, but once I am conscious enough to remember the focus of today’s writing, I realize the dream is about me.
I was eight-years-old when school officials began to pull me out of class and subject me to a series of tests. “She is gifted,” they told my parents,” and we would like to accelerate her one grade and enroll her in a special class with her peers. She will have to attend school across town, and transportation is not provided.”
My mother didn’t know what to think. I was a girl, and according to her, girl’s who were smart did not do well in life. (Doing well, in my mother’s eyes, was being a stay-at-home mom with a husband who made a lot of money.) My father supported the decision.
Gifted children often feel like an anomaly, and I was no exception. I knew I didn’t fit in at the regular school, but I somehow always felt like they made a mistake with me and I didn’t belong in the gifted class either: these kids were so smart and, well, geeky. I didn’t think I fit the mold. Academically, however, I thrived. The self-contained classroom was far more engaging and intellectually stimulating. I loved school!
After school was another matter. While I was driven across town each morning, I had to take two city buses home each afternoon, arriving long after my old classmates had been dismissed for the day. The bullies waited for me, and I soon became game for their taunting, and physical abuse.   When we moved out of town in the middle of grade eight, I was thrown in with the regular population and the rift was apparent. A town thug was hired to beat me up one day after school.
I learned to hide my abilities, and refrained from competing with others. I developed the expectation of being beaten, both literally and figuratively.
As I’ve mentioned before, John shares my introspective side – that part of me that doubts, questions, and turns things over and over. The friend that accompanied me in the dream suffers from depression and delusions. I have that side to myself also. Combine the introspection with the inability to see beyond negative thinking and there is an expectation of futility: why try?
John is a gifted skateboarder, and if the dream was real, I would encourage him to hire a bodyguard and go for it. By objectifying the issue, is the dream telling me the same? While you may have been beaten at times, you still hold the same bright potential, so don’t give up. Just let go of the expectations.
Ice, c’est Radio Canada. Il est neuf heures quinze, et maintenant…..
“9:15! If traffic goes my way I can be at work by 9:30, and with a half hour lunch, be done by 5:00”, I calculated while racing through the yellow light. My day had started early with a brisk power walk to get me going, a quick shower, breakfast for the kids, then off to morning French class at the University. Fortunately for me, my job offered flex time, so I could catch the early class before starting my shift.
I strained to catch the gist of the radio program. Something about the funding of English schools in Quebec, and a debate about immersion.  A hole opened up in the line of traffic to my right and I weaved around the slow driver in front of me, just grabbing the tail end of a yellow to turn the corner and enter the parking lot. I would make it to my desk with two minutes to spare.
“Bonjour!” I greeted my co-worker on the other side of the cubicle. I had been thinking in French since I left school, and forgot to switch back. “When is my mind going to shut off?” I wondered. It seemed like it was always racing these days, but I did have a lot to juggle.
I landed this job in early February, at a time when most corporations were not hiring. I got lucky. Just as the receptionist was turning me away, the Human Resources Manager was walking into the room and caught my eye. “What are you looking for?” she asked. “Can you speak French?”
“As a matter of fact, I can.”
“Follow me.”  She grabbed some papers off a nearby desk and led me into a conference room. “Write these tests,” she said pushing the papers towards me. “There is a job freeze on right now, but if you do well, I’ll keep your name on file.”
The call came that same afternoon asking me if I could come back for an interview.
“No one has ever scored so high on the tests”, she said. “We’d like you to start right away. There is an eight to ten week training program you’ll have to do first in Toronto. We’ll put you up, all expenses paid.”
I was both excited and anxious. I hadn’t worked full-time since the my first baby was born, and I while I was happy to be able to provide for the family again, I wasn’t sure how we’d all manage. I’d made the promise to my husband though, that I would support the family while he took some time off to establish a new business. He hadn’t been happy for some time, and so we decided to swap roles.
I completed the course in five weeks, wanting to reduce my time away as much as possible. A year of training on-the-job proceeded the initial training. I was exceeding all expectations within months and at the approval of my manager enrolled in a fourth year French course to be paid for by the company. A pay increase followed as I was now their bilingual representative. I was moving up in the world.
My husband was not having the same success. Caring for the house and children turned out to be harder than he thought, and he finally admitted that it just wasn’t “his thing”. I found a sitter, resumed the cooking, housework, shopping, and laundry. He bought himself a race car. He was looking into starting a mail order business. Worrying that my income wasn’t enough, I picked up a job working weekends at a restaurant.
Sometime in the middle of all this, my oldest sister’s health took a turn for the worse. The doctor’s wanted to hospitalize her, but she refused, saying she wanted to die at home. A nurse was assigned for eight hours a day, but she needed around the clock care. In the beginning, the family rallied around, and we all did our part, but that was waning. Now it was only my mother and I who were committed to seeing her through.
“Can I see you in my office?” My boss’s voice brought me back to the moment. I followed her brisk walk down the hall. “I have been reviewing your work and there are a few areas for improvement.”
I couldn’t believe it. “I don’t understand,” I protested. “I thought I was meeting all the quotas.”
“You are,” she said, matter-of-factly. “There is always room for improvement.”
Driving home from work that night, I felt particularly exhausted. What more could I do? I arrived home to realize I had forgotten to pick up the kids. It was Wednesday night. Stuart wouldn’t be home till late. He was meeting with the car club.
Don’t ask me what happened next; the night, like many others, passed in a blur of cooking dinner, trying to keep the kids from killing each other or themselves, completing homework, baths, and then bed. Then when my husband got home, I’d grabbed my schoolwork and headed to my sister’s for the night shift.
I don’t remember Thursday at all.
Friday, Stuart headed off to the racetrack for the weekend. He’d be gone five days. It was the Thanksgiving long weekend. Even though he had a cell phone, he didn’t anticipate it would work where he was going, and the track did not have a contact number. I would not hear from him again till Tuesday evening.
It was later than usual before I got all the kids to bed that night, and even though I still had work to do, I just couldn’t face it. I decided to go to bed early. I was asleep within minutes, but not for long. I was jolted out of my sleep by an all too familiar image – myself alone with the children, living in a townhouse complex. Although I had dreamt of this place many times, with no emotional attachment, this time I woke up crying. What was wrong with me? The tears just wouldn’t stop.
Saturday was recreation day, and each of the children were enrolled in different programs. Marie was taking art, Ester dance, and John was attending some sports clinic, all held in the same building. This had been our Saturday morning routine for two months now, but somehow after I loaded us all in the car, and set out on our way, I could not remember where we were going. I drove up one street and down another, and with each miss, grew more and more anxious. Ester began to scream in the back seat. Marie asked me what was wrong. I didn’t know. I started to tremble. The tears started to come again. I turned the car around and headed for home. Our street ran off a main road, and all I had to do was turn left and we’d be there, but suddenly, I froze, mid-intersection:  mind, body, and emotions no longer under my control. Ester screamed louder and the other two began to cry. A siren flashed behind me and a police officer stepped up to the driver’s side.
“Is there a problem, Ma’am?”
I looked at him through a flood of tears. “I don’t know where I am.” I handed him my license. He was young, and I could just tell he hadn’t expected this.
“Ma’am, your license says you live just down this street. Do you want me to follow you there?”
“Yes, please.” I don’t think I’d ever felt so humiliated.  We crawled down the street and into the driveway.
“Is there anybody you can call?” he asked.
“I don’t think so. My husband’s away, and my sister’s dying, so my parents aren’t available.”
“Well, you need to call somebody.”
“Thank you, officer. I will. I’m so sorry to have bothered you.”
In the end, I called my Dad. Between choking sobs, I told him I needed help. He came right away.
That was the day I discovered that I have limits. In those days we called it a breakdown, but in retrospect it was a breakthrough: the beginning of a new way of being, one that took me out of the rat race.
(Image:Â fineartamerica.com)
Good, better, best.  Never let them rest. Till your good is better and your better best.
Dad made us recite this whenever he thought that we were giving less than our best effort. Like the time I came home with a 96% in OAC Relations and Functions. If I could get 96, I could get a hundred; I just wasn’t trying hard enough.
The message I heard was that if wasn’t the best, I wasn’t good enough. I told myself that there was no point in trying, but under it all, I just wanted his approval. Of course, I couldn’t be the best, so I learned to act like I was better by putting others down. As a young woman, I was constantly angry and intolerant of stupidity or lack of common sense. I had no patience for weakness, and though I hate to admit it, I found fault with anyone who I thought was better than me.
Lucky for me, I learned the importance of humility. Not all at once, but over a progression of events.
The idea of humility was first introduced to me by my Religious Studies teacher, in university. He said the humble man was the happiest man, because he could just be and appreciate life. I didn’t quite understand, but the idea intrigued me.
My second child added to the learning. Baby number one was a calm and very manageable baby: a testimony, I thought, to my excellent parenting skills. Other people clearly didn’t know how to parent, I told myself when I would see a screaming child. Then Ester came along, and shattered that illusion, humbling me in the process.
Perhaps the greatest lesson came at the age of thirty-one, when my mind snapped. A mother of three, I was working full-time to support the family, taking courses at the university to improve my qualifications, caring for my dying sister, and trying to find time to work out and diet so I would be more appealing to my husband. I thought I could do it all. I couldn’t it. The walls of my carefully constructed existence came tumbling down, and I was lost in a black abyss of nothingness, unable to function.
It was the best thing that ever happened to me.
Clawing my way out of the pit of despair, I came upon this quote (author unknown):
I turned to God when my foundation was shaking, only to find that God was shaking my foundation.
“Get off your high horse, and come down to earth where you can be more useful!” Not God’s words, but my interpretation.
Do you know what I discovered? Letting go of having to be the best meant I could start to celebrate the successes of others rather than try to bring them down – a much more rewarding use of my energy.
Oh, and I let go of the fear of not being good enough.
In fact, I decided that I am good enough.
No, scratch that. I am good.
Wait, even that is overstated.
I am!
Excuse me, but it seems I have been carrying around an extraordinary amount of baggage for some time now and I’m thinking it’s time to unload, so pardon me but I’m going to dump them out here, and do inventory.
Wow, what a pile of stuff! I don’t know where to begin.
Black lace catches my eye. I pull it out of the pile. It’s a woman’s hat, with a black face veil. I know this one. It is the veil of self-loathing. While I try not to wear it in public, I take it everywhere with me. It keeps me humble. The veil whispers: Don’t believe what other people say about you; they’re just being kind; they really don’t know you like I do.  Boy, looks like I should have done this sooner; I think I’ll just set that aside.
Ah, there’s my graduation cap; my teacher’s cap. It’s a keeper. And my mother’s apron. That can stay too. My reading glasses, my writing pen, my friendship necklace. All those parts I want to keep. Oh, and that teddy bear – all Grandmas need teddy bears – definitely carrying that around with me.
What’s this big, woolly, grey thing? It’s heavy, and to be honest, it stinks like cigarette smoke, stale alcohol, and mildew. It reeks of shame. I’m not sure this is mine, but I’ve been carrying this around forever. Wouldn’t be surprised if it stunk everything else up. This needs to go. I might even have to get a new suitcase to start fresh. I’ll just put that one out in the trash can.
Better make sure the smell hasn’t lingered. Sure enough, the lining of the case has absorbed the stench. I’d better air it out also. Wait a minute, what’s that in the lining? Something is sticking out. It’s silver and pointed. Looks like a brooch. It’ a very delicate piece: silver leaves swirling around a peridot stone. Is this mine? It’s beautiful, but I don’t recognize it. Just my taste though, I’m more silver than gold, and I love the peridot green. I wonder how long it’s been here? I should try it on, and see how it looks. No, I’m not ready for this. I don’t have anything to go with it. I’ll tuck it back away for another day.
Will you look at that! A pile of mismatched socks. So like me, to carry around odds and sods hoping to make sense of them sooner or later. Thing is, young people don’t wear socks or stockings anymore, so all these do is date me; they don’t serve any other purpose. I think it’s time to let them go.
Wow, look at that! It’s a rusty old paintbrush. I used to love art – even won the award in grade eight – but I was advised against pursuing it – not intellectual enough – so I set it aside. Could this still be in me? I’d like to know.
Oh! A feather. I know why it’s here. I tucked it in here to remind me of my spirituality. I’ll keep that too.
My cookbooks can stay. Here’s an old ship in a bottle.  It’s pretty dusty, and the vessel inside is covered in cobwebs. I’m thinking whatever dream that was has long past; no point carrying that around anymore. Time for new dreams.
This is kind of fun. Can’t remember the last time I took inventory of what I’ve been carrying around. Here’s some comfy yoga pants. Those need to come out more often. I can just hear my body screaming yes, please.
Hope you don’t mind if I carry on without you. I can see a few more things I’d rather deal with in private.
What have you been carrying around?
(Image:Â ok-woman.com)
One Woman's Quest 