self-awareness – Page 3 – One Woman's Quest

Day 227 “Life is Love”

It is nap time and I am lying on the bed with my three-year-old granddaughter who pushes her rosebud lips up against my face, squishing my cheeks with her chubby baby hands. She snuggles so close and with such intensity, it is as if she wants to merge her little body with mine.

I adjust her position so that she is now cradled in my arm, her head resting on my shoulder. Taking slow, deep breaths, I close my eyes. I can feel her intense blue eyes staring at me, and then she too starts to breathe deeply and I peek to see she has succumbed to sleep.

We will lie like this for two hours, her baby hair matting as she sweats in her slumber, and I marvelling at this little soul who has brought so much love into my life.

Earlier, she and her two-year-old cousin collected fallen leaves in the backyard and I pressed them so we could make Thanksgiving collages. The world, through their eyes, is wondrous and new, and all the leaves are beautiful no matter how torn or blemished. The enthusiasm is contagious.

After nap, we will all sit down to a traditional meal and the babies will chatter non-stop, and giggle at their own nonsensical language.

Then both granddaughters will scramble to sit on Grandma’s lap whilst I read a book and we discuss its content as if its the most important thing in the world. (Really, I will do anything to prolong the scent of their baby hair and the feel of their sloppy kisses.)

Hours after they leave, I will lie in the dark and replay each delectable moment over and over in my head, and Grandpa and I will talk about all the little developments and beam with pride.

There is no mistaking the fullness in my heart after time spent with my “babies”: life is love!

Day 226 “Resistance to Change”

The magician rehearses and I, alone, observe from the front row of the theater.

Assisted by two women, he plans his piece de resistance: the illusion of transformation, one woman appearing to give birth to another. Dark, terrifying, and magnificent.

In the final run through, one woman walks away, and because of my proximity, I am drawn in. The part is now mine.

“No!” I protest to no one listening. “I don’t know what to do. I’m not prepared!”

Everything around me turns to chaos: the stage manager suddenly falls ill, as does the stage hand. I am alone and the curtain is about to rise, and I have no choice but to play the role.

“Improvise”, I tell myself. “You can do it!”

Concealed beneath the cloak of mystery, my partner and I merge and appear as one entering the stage. Strobe lights cut through the dim atmosphere and the magician begins his spell, gesturing and waving cloths, and just at the right moment lifts the cloak and I’m pulled off stage, out of sight, and the new woman emerges: transformation has occurred – suddenly, magically, efficiently – and only those behind the scenes know the fear that led to this moment.

* * * *

The dream repeats itself again and again, and I toss and turn trying to shake it loose.

It makes no sense to me at first consideration, but then I see it: “All the world’s a stage,” Shakespeare penned, “And all the men and women merely players.” Reluctant players at times, as I am in the dream. Improvisational players.

No matter how much we prefer to sit in the audience and watch others perform, time comes when we are called to play our part – or as, in this case, the part chooses us.

Is this what this illness is about? Am I being called to transform myself, give “birth” to a new woman? Is this an opportunity? Or am I just participating in a grand illusion?

Change is never easy. I have certainly been dragged against my will into my current state, and I know I fear that my self is lost.

I do feel as if I am playing someone else’s role; this is not supposed to be happening to me. And yet it is. And why not me?

The woman who walked away – whose role I filled – she did so because she felt too vulnerable and didn’t want to be exposed. I didn’t have that choice. I had no rehearsal. I get one shot at getting it right. What pressure I am putting on myself to succeed at this illusion of transformation.

Thank goodness for the magician’s skills. I couldn’t do it without him.

Wonder who this magician is that makes change appear as easy as 1, 2, 3. I could use some of his magic.

Day 221 “The Soft Overcomes the Hard”

I learned about love from movies, and novels, and my parents’ marriage.

Love Story etched in my heart the message that true love endures hardship, and illness, and even death.

Wuthering Heights taught me that love can be dark and punishing, but it is inevitable: not to be ignored.

These were stories of passion and romance, and I yearned for that feeling from the age of eleven.

My parents taught me about the kind of love I wanted to avoid: love born of convenience, fraught with oppression, fear, and denial. “He loves me in his own way,” my mother would say, and I despised her for being weak.

“You are waiting for your white knight to come and rescue you,” one of my high school friends told me. “It’s never going to happen.” Her words stung. I was too young to see the faults in my own brand of idealism.

I married the first chance I got. He was classically handsome, loved to dance, and girls flocked to be around him. I couldn’t believe he was mine. We were nineteen. When the pale pinks and blues of our wedding day faded, reality set in. Unable to hold down a job, my charmer slept till two o’clock each afternoon, then moved from bed to couch, where he consumed packs of cigarettes and watched television. He seldom came to the marital bed, but when he did, he made it clear that it was my fault he stayed away – he despised me. “Life is so easy for you,” he would lament. Working two jobs and running our household did not feel easy to me, and I told him so. The marriage was over before our second wedding anniversary.

“You couldn’t keep it up,” my friend told me. “You were burning out.”

My second husband swept me off my feet with sweet talk and limousine rides. “I don’t want to just live with somebody,” he told me. I interpreted that as a proposal, although he never actually said the words: Marry Me. We’d stay awake for hours and talk about our dreams, and before I could blink we were living together, then married, and having children. He was in a hurry, you see, to ‘have it all’ before he turned thirty. I didn’t see just how convenient I was.

The courtship ended once we were married, and I soon felt very alone, tending house and children. “At least he’s not abusive,” I’d tell myself. “Could be worse.” Even though I couldn’t see it, I was doing the dance my mother taught me, denying that something was missing. I wanted so much for love to work, to be a real thing, that I was a part of, and he played on that, telling me how “if I’d been more loving”, I would be something that I was not. In the end, when he left me, I was convinced that I was not good enough for love.

“You were dying inside,” my friend kindly told me. “I watched your spirit dwindle away.”

I grieved, then raged, but eventually found level ground, where, for the first time in my life I considered loving myself. It was a broken relationship, for sure, and I had to start with simple things, such as: What did I like to eat?

Through therapy, I realized that in trying to avoid my parents relationship, I had actually just recreated a different version. If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it is a duck!

Loving myself, I decided would be the opening for true love to enter my life. So I played a game with myself, a game I called: What would it feel like?
I bought myself flowers, and allowed myself to feel the simple pleasure that such a gesture offered. When responsibility and obligation started to wear me down, I’d draw a bubble bath and pour myself a glass of wine, imagining that this is what love would do: offer solace rather than complaints. I even went as far as to visualize what it would feel like to be truly loved, not for what I could do for another, but because I am.

Accepting myself, just the way I am, and my life along with it, brought a sense of inner peace and I stopped longing for more. Maybe, I thought, this was the love I was looking for all along.

When Thor showed up in my life, it was already full, and his presence threw me off balance. I allowed the excitement for a couple of weeks, and then, to quote him, ” I kicked him to the curb.” I didn’t need this.

And yet I did.

Curiousity got the better of me, and so I invited him back in.

“These are the ground rules,” I told him at the beginning. “We will hang out for a year and see how it goes. There will be no talk of ‘us’, and no plans for the future. After a year, we’ll see how it goes.”

“What you see, is what you get.” Thor shrugged. “I am afraid I’m pretty vanilla.”

With Thor’s compliance, a friendship began to take shape, as well as a genuine, mutual, fondness. Most importantly, with Thor, I felt appreciated and acknowledged.

We married in a small, personal ceremony, exchanging our own, heartfelt vows. And on our honeymoon night, as I crawled into his open arms, he uttered the words that summed up all my years of searching:

“Let me be your soft place to land. No matter what life throws at you, or how harsh life can be, know that coming home will always be safe.”

Day 218 “Rule Your Life”

My five-year-old feet twisted and slipped in the dusty soil of the farmer’s plowed field, making my journey a challenge. Normally, I would take the long way, through the neighbourhood backyards, but today the hazy humidity was too thick for even the slightest breeze, and the sun beat down relentlessly, a I just wanted to get home. Inside it would be cool, and I could play with my toys. My hair clung to my head, a tangle of sweat and dirt from the morning’s adventure. Reaching the back gate, I jiggled the catch impatiently, my tummy grumbling with hunger and an urgent need to relieve myself. With one last burst of energy, I sprinted across the silent yard and stumbled into the back door.

Our back door was actually two doors: the first a screen door with a stubborn latch that you had to hit to open. For me, this meant balancing precariously on the top step while reaching up and slamming my palm against it, all the while hoping I wouldn’t lose my balance and fall off. This feat accomplished, I reached for the knob of the inner wooden door. It was locked. Again.

I pounded my little fist against the door, yelling for someone to come quickly. It was my sister Lorraine who answered the door.

“Shush!” she said, blocking my way.

“Move out of the way! I have to go pee!”

“She can’t come in here!” I caught sight of my oldest sister, Lily, in the kitchen feeding the baby. “Keep her out.”

“She has to use the toilet.” Lorraine was soft-hearted. I was sure she would give in.

“Alright. But make it quick! And not a sound, you mind!”

Lorraine held the door for me and ushered me into the small two piece bathroom just inside.

“I’m hungry too!” I told her. “I want to come inside.”

“Take these and get out!” Lily shoved a sleeve of crackers at me.

“But it’s hot outside, I need to cool off!”

“Look,” she said, leaning over so her face was right in mine. “Mom is suicidal, and the last thing she needs is you around!”

“What? Then I should go to her.” I tried to push past, but Lily was too strong.

“You want her to kill herself? Then you better get out now!”

Lily pushed me out the door and I heard the lock slide into place. Slumping onto the back step, I stuffed two crackers in my mouth and gobbled them hungrily, not worrying about the crumbs; then realizing that this was all I had to eat, I started to nibble them slowly, sucking each morsel until it slowly turned to mush in my mouth.

I thought about what my sisters had said. Would my Mom really kill herself? And would I be to blame? It must be true, I thought, because I was the only locked out of the house.

I didn’t want my Mommy to die, and I didn’t know what to do about it. Tears and snot mingled with my soda crackers, but I didn’t brush them away. A new understanding was dawning and it made me feel deeply saddened, afraid, and alone. I had the power to make my mother take her own life.

My mother didn’t take her life that day, but as I grew older, the lesson I’d learned was reiterated and reiterated.

“Don’t make your father mad!”

“We must be nice to your sister, or her heart will get worse.”

“Don’t upset the baby!”

“Don’t tell your mother, it will only disappoint her.”

And on and on.

The burden of keeping my family happy became an impossible task that I somehow took on as my own. Of course, I was a failure.
But I kept trying.

I didn’t question the fallacy of this belief until I became a mother myself. As a parent, always trying to please children is a no-win situation. My role, I knew, was to make the tough calls, and say no even when my child would rage or cry. It hurt me to have always be the “bad” guy.

But it wasn’t until my fourtieth birthday that I really understood how wrong I had been all those years. As she had every year, my mother tried to downplay the importance of celebrating my day of birth.

“I don’t imagine you need anything,” she told me days before. “You’ve got more than you want, but I suppose you’ll be expecting something from me.” It was the same thing I heard every year. Weeks before each of my siblings birthdays she would begin planning, calling me up to make sure I didn’t forget. But she’d forgotten mine on more than one occasion, always excusing it by saying my needs weren’t as great as my siblings.

Something in me snapped that day. Something in me decided that I had feelings too, and I was going to express them.

“Mom,” I said. “If you don’t want to celebrate my birthday, then don’t, but don’t taunt me about it. I have feelings too, you know.”

“I’m just saying, you live a very good life, Beth. What could I possibly give you that you don’t already have.”

“A card, Mom. A token of acknowledgement. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

“You don’t have get like that about it.” My mother didn’t speak to me for a week.

I told my therapist that I was a bad daughter; that I had hurt my mother.

“Aren’t you all powerful!” he declared.

I was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“Try as I might, I’ve never been able to make anyone feel anything. How someone feels is a personal, emotional response. Pretty sure you can’t choose that response for them.”

The truth of what he said hit me like an arrow shattering all those years of defeatist delusion. “Of course, I can’t. You mean my mother feeling hurt is her own choice.”

“She can choose to be hurt, angry, self-righteous, belligerent, whatever. You can do nothing about that. You don’t have that kind of power.” He let that sink in. “The only power you have is choosing your own response in any situation. What is important here is that you validated yourself by expressing something important to you. How she received it is out of your control.”

And all these years I thought that it was me keeping her alive.

“Rule your own life,” he added. “It’s so much easier than trying to rule everyone else’s.”

Day 217 “Leadership”

My father died on December 23rd and. because of the holiday, we were only able to post an obituary for one day before the funeral proceedings. It was a blustery Christmas that year, with the weather fluctuating between freezing rain and snow squalls, making driving a hazard. We had little expectation that anyone would come out for the service.

Surprisingly, many came, and we stood in line for hours greeting people, and listening to tales of our father. Friends I remembered from my childhood days appeared and fussed over how grown we all are, but many of the faces were unfamiliar. Regardless of the connection, the stories all expressed a common thread.

“If it wasn’t for your father,” one man told me, “I don’t know where I’d be today. Your father took me in at time when even I didn’t believe in myself. Hired me when he could have had a hundred other, younger, more experienced men.” I listened politely, as the man still clung to my hand. “I even asked him why me? You know what he said?” No, I shook my head, trying to picture my father even having this conversation. “He said I was a regular guy, down-to-earth; that people would relate to me. He said he couldn’t train the young whipper-snappers (definitely my dad’s words) to have what I had. I’ve been quite successful too, thanks to your dad.”

“Your father found me sleeping on a bench in the train station.” Another man told me. “I had hit rock bottom, didn’t know where to go next or how to carry on. I had one suit draped over the bench behind me. In your father came, grabbed up the suit in one hand, and literally pulled me off the bench. ‘Come on, Man!’ he said. ‘You’re too good for this. I’m getting you a job.’ He was my angel.” I knew this man. He’d been far more successful than my father in his life. I never knew about the role my father played.

“Your father always had a way of motivating us,” one man told me. “We were his team, but we were more than that. He made us feel important, like family. And he never asked us to do anything that he wouldn’t do himself. We felt respected.”

“He fired me once,” another man chuckled. “But you know, I deserved it. Told me to come back when I grew up and got my priorities right. I did, and we worked together again. I credit him with giving me the kick I needed. He never held a grudge, and neither did I.”

It was difficult through it all not to picture the tyrant that had ruled our household with terror for so many years, and yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, I had always seen this potential in my father.

He had been a great leader in his field, as witnessed on this stormy December day. The many who dared to come despite the weather gave us a wonderful gift that day – a new understanding of the man we called ‘father’, and a new purpose to our grieving.

I, personally, grieve that the type of leadership my father practiced in his working life seldom made it home where it was sorely needed.

Day 216 “Living with the Unknown”

“We don’t know what causes this illness, and there is no cure or course of treatment other than management, and that is mostly trial and error.” It is the standard answer from all healthcare providers when it comes to ME/CFS.

“I am flat out frustrated,” I tell my therapist. “I can’t seem to find a regime that works. I can have one or two good days and then, wham, I am knocked down for no apparent reason.”

“That seems to be the way with this disease. How are you managing emotionally?”

“Okay, mostly, but on the worst days I find myself always on the edge of tears.”

“There is a grieving process that accompanies a diagnosis of chronic illness, you know. It has to do with the loss of your normal life, and all the things that go with being healthy.”

“This feels more like fear. I know it’s irrational, but this feels very much like fear.”

“Are you afraid you’ll never get well again.”

“Nnnoo…….I know I can do that – I’ve gotten through worse before. It’s just….it feels almost as if it’s coming from an old place – a younger me, if that makes sense.”

“It does actually. Whenever we are hurt or vulnerable, we often respond from a wounded part of ourselves, and that usually relates back to childhood. How old does this make you feel?”

“Nine!” I respond immediately. “I can see me, sitting in the corner of my childhood bedroom. It was my favourite hiding place. I spent hours and hours there as a kid.” Wishing someone would come find, but they never did, I remember to myself.

“Can you talk to her?”

Little Me sits with her knees drawn up tight, arms hugging them to her, eyes wide open and hyper-alert.

“What is it?” I ask.

No one will want us, her fear says.

The emotion hits me violently. She was told over and over again that she was an unwanted burden. “Unwanted” is the key word. We can handle any other pain than that.

“We have a burden complex,” I tell both her and my therapist.

Both nod, but Little Me’s terror and tension doesn’t ease.

“Go on,” urges my therapist.

“A burden is something, not someone,” I explain. “You are not a burden. You are a child, and by that fact alone, you have certain rights – birthrights – among them the right to have your needs met, the right to be looked after and cared for, and the right to be loved. NOT: You have to earn these rights! NOT: You are unworthy and therefore undeserving! You exist, you are born, those are your rights!”

My therapist nods throughout, and more importantly, I see Little Me is listening, and her shoulders have dropped a bit.

But Mom says…., she begins.

“I know what your Mother tells you: Don’t wear out your welcome. All she means is be polite and stay a reasonable amount of time when visiting your friends. She is not commenting on your likeability.”

Really? What is a reasonable amount of time?

“Discreetly leave before supper is ready unless you are invited.”

“Yes, yes,” the therapist nods.

Little Me considers this. Then why does she rush us off to bed at night as soon as Dad gets home? Isn’t it because we’re a burden and she doesn’t want to remind him?

“NO! It has nothing to do with that! I cannot emphasize this enough! It is something you will understand as an adult, but for now, know that you being sent to bed is your parents’ issue, not yours!”

What about Thor? Won’t he find us a burden and leave us?

“Ahh!” says my therapist warmly.

I feel my throat catch and sigh. “Some things in life are uncertain.” It’s not like I haven’t thought about it. How do I begin to address this? “We have many things that Thor is looking for,” I offer. “Last year, we looked after him. We are patient, loving, and good listeners. These are important to him. He is wounded too, you know. He needs reassurances. Our insecurities will push him away more than anything, especially if we pretend not to have any.”

The truth of this last statement hits me. Little Me loosens her posture and now looks at me quizzically. Confession time.

“One of the things I have done in my life – right or wrong- is to develop a tough exterior. It hasn’t always served us well. Much like our Mother sending us off to bed early, I did it as a form of protection.” I pause to feel the weight of the revelation. “It doesn’t work anymore.”

The silence from within and without encourages me to go on. “Part of my healing process – our healing process (I add for Little’s sake)- is to replace that characteristic with a healthier one.”

What will that look like? Little Me echoes my therapists thoughts.

“Not entirely sure, but I know how it will feel: safe enough for you to come out of the corner and engage with life. You, we, have a lot to share, and we can’t do it when we hide ourselves away.”

I am strangely comforted by this conversation: lighter. “I have my homework cut out for me,” I tell my therapist.

“You do! But this is a good start.”

“Life is full of uncertainties,” I tell Little Me, on our way home. “Some good, some bad; it’s just the way it is.”

Kinda like an adventure?

“Yeah, it kinda is!”

Day 214 “Divine Spark”

The emerald waters
of my crystalline personality
are only a reflection
of an external light.

Lurking below the surface
the murky waters
of self-deprecation
create further illusion.

Dive deeper,
beyond the cold chill
of darkening thoughts
and threatening despair

Weed through the silt
of bottomed out desires
and find an opening –
black and foreboding.

Enter with an open heart
and find the chest within
rusted from neglect,
unguarded, with open latch.

Brush away the cobwebs
and with respectful caution
lift the dusty lid
and behold the divine spark

My true essence,
Tucked there in the darkness
an eternal flame
vibrant and vital.

Release it for me,
be so kind,
to light this dismal patch
and set my waters aglow again.

So that the emerald waters
of my crystalline personality
would reflect my inner
divine light.

As a Tree

Confined for hours at a time to my bed, I cheer myself by contemplating the trees outside my windows. There is something in their stoic beauty that both calms and inspires me.

Be as the tree a former meditation instructor taught me.

If I were a tree
my roots would run deep into the earth
and spread in all directions
grounding me.

Present.

My trunk would be wide and solid
weathering all storms
supporting other life
a tower.

Strong.

My branches would reach up to the sky
and dance with the breezes
and bend with the changing seasons
and bow to Nature.

Flexible.

If I were a tree
I would be calm, yet strong;
have heightened awareness, yet be rooted in reality.

I would yield to change,
yet stand proud in my own existence,
growing with grace.

If I were a tree
I would live in harmony
with Nature.

Present, Strong. Flexible.

Fully alive.

(Image from: www.nbcdfw.com)

Day 208 “Undivided Attention”

Undivided attention.

Two words that brought me hope as a parent and caused me a deep sense of guilt.

I just had to talk on the phone in the presence of my children to know that it was my attention they wanted, without any distractions, and I knew if I could deliver that, they would behave. It gave me hope.

In reality, I had three children, four and under, and a house to run, and a job on the side, and a husband that was never present, and a family who perpetuated drama – not to mention a desire for a life of my own- so giving the children my undivided attention seemed like an impossible task and caused me enormous guilt.

I was never good enough in those years. (Is this every mother’s lot?)

Then, as a teacher, I realized that my students, like my children, were starved to be seen and heard, and I strived to give each one my full attention, if only for moments at a time, but it was never enough and I felt inadequate.

Now, challenged with this illness and unable to give much of anything to anybody, I realize that it is I – my body/mind/spirit – that needs me to be fully present and aware.

It is no longer okay to feel not good enough.

Guilt, you have no place here.

I am learning all over again about the benefits of undivided attention.

Day 207 “Discovering Your Purpose”

Yesterday, my husband lost all of the contacts on his computer, frustrating him immensely as it represents decades of business contacts, all friends, family, and commonly accessed services. In their place was a list of contacts from someone in the New Orleans area. Late into the night, Thor worked to restore the list.

Then this morning, we were awoken by a phone call, checking to see if he was okay. An email had gone out to everyone, marked “Urgent” and asking for money as he was “stranded in Italy.”

By the time we figured out what was happening, the phone was ringing incessantly, and texts and emails were flooding both our cellphones. It was overwhelming to say the least.

In the midst of this calamity came an email from a former employee of Thor’s saying he had tried to get through to the number in Italy, but was having trouble. He sent his cell number so Thor could contact him. Our initial reaction was disbelief that people would fall for this sham. Especially John, who Thor had not seen for decades, but whom he described as extremely bright.

“Why would he even thing you would ask him for money?” I wanted to know.

Thor called John and thanked him for his concern. It had actually happened to his daughter, he explained. She had been stranded overseas and needed to put a call out for money, so he didn’t like to take chances. Then they caught up on life since the last time they’d talked.

“It’s been way too long,” Thor told him as they ended the conversation. “Let’s do lunch soon.”

“Isn’t that nice that he would go out of his way after all these years.” We both agreed it was. More than nice. Heartwarming.

More messages came and a neighbour even came to the door, all checking that Thor was safe at home.

I know this post is supposed to be about “Discovering Your Purpose”, but purpose is that elusive promise that keeps our hearts and minds focused on anything but the here and now. I prefer, instead, to ask how can I live purposefully? How can I make each day count?

John did that today. He reached out to someone who once gave him a hand up in life, and risked appearing foolish, or worse, being defrauded, and brightened our day. He made a difference in someone’s life: small, but noticeable.

What if we all made that our purpose? To dare to help another, to extend a hand, and just say, “Are you okay?” To forget about ourselves for a moment, and the make the world a better place.