Mining Nuggets

Feeling good is good enough

I must say that lately it seems that feeling good has become relentless ... I mean, it just keeps coming back stronger than before even and in spite of the obstacles I try to put in my way.

Indeed, I am amazed at how versatile my mind is in coming up with ways to make me feel bad essentially only minutes after I feel empowered, joyful, or just plain happy. Headaches; anxiety attacks; chest pains; regrets; guilt about being a bad mother, pet owner, wife, friend, human being; general nostalgia and longing; self-loathing; fits of desperate hunger, only moments after I have eaten a full meal; and tensions in my neck and shoulders so deep that a massage therapist recently almost broke her wrists trying to drive out of me!

I am beginning to understand the full extent of the power of my mind-body connection, and it is awesome. As if on a bumpy roller coaster ride, noisy, painful, and even terrifying at times, I soldier on through pushing any ailments or rising negative feelings aside, allowing myself to feel good over and over again.

This is it, I imagine. If I am able to weather this storm long enough with as much courage and strength as I can muster, I am bound to reach peaceful waters, where I might float quietly, bobbing and up and down with a few mild ripples caused by a gentle breeze only now and then.

Eight years ago at Tamarika: Oh, may they hear me calling (Update) & I dream of Dali

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Foreign flower

Roots run deep (Update)

This winter, one of the potted plants that I have had for the past eight years could not take the cold out on the enclosed front porch. As the months passed by, I watched as its leaves turned from yellow to brown and sagged sadly downwards. This bright and sunny, brisk, spring morning as I busied myself with my Sunday watering plants ritual - you know, lighting candles, burning incense, and playing relaxing music (the type of music my son calls "alternative to music") - I decided it was time to pull up the plant and bury it in the yard outside. Kneeling down on the floor by the large, green, clay pot it has been housed in all these years, I dug my hands into the soil around it and started to tug at its roots. There was an intense network of them thick and large burrowed down deep into the soil. I tugged with all my might as bits and pieces came up in my hands. Once or twice I almost fell over as the roots seemed to stubbornly dig themselves in deeper the harder I pulled.

As I cleared the pot of all the lingering smaller roots closer to the surface, I realized that moving to a different country, town, or even a new home, feels a lot like the struggle I had with those plant roots. Indeed, it almost felt as if I was pulling the heart and soul of the plant out of its pot where it had resided all these past eight years or so. Each time I transplant a flowering plant or tree I watch as the flowers wilt and sometimes it takes days, even weeks for it to settle into its new pot or spot in the garden. It is a lot like that for me too. Each time I moved between continents or even between states, I found it took days, weeks, and even months for me to settle in, feel familiar and tentatively put down my roots in my new space. Sometimes I felt myself withering and wilting, needing just to sleep or cry until I felt at home again - found the corner store for bread and milk, or the nearest post office to send a card to the people I had left behind again and again. 

When Ada died, or sweet little Oscar, there was nothing to pull or tug at.

Just emptiness.

Silence ... and a large hole in the space around.

Perhaps the roots of animals or people are the memories they leave behind, for it feels as if they have burrowed into my brain and heart, and settled deeply there forever ...

... or, at least, until I finally slip away.

Update:

I received an email response to this post from an old friend, who agreed that I post it here:

Tamar, so melancholy!

I think about the roots we share often, the severing of them and the re-planting of them. It used to be a heart-wrenching topic for me, but in my mature years, it has become a sober and necessary metaphor to explain the crux of my personal history.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Healing dimensions: Part IV

Eight years ago at Tamarika: This little yogi went wee, wee, wee all the way home

Memoir

Once again I find myself wondering why I want to write a memoir.

Recently I realized that both the books I wrote for early childhood educators are, in fact, types of memoirs, because I share my story so that teachers will feel comfortable exploring their own. I do this because I want them to learn self reflection so that they may improve their relationships with young children. Time and again I am surprised when readers of my books let me know that they are inspired by my story. I guess my surprise comes because that was not the original purpose when I wrote my books. My goal was to model self reflection, and show how "internal ethnography," as I call it, can help us (as teachers) improve our understanding of why we do what we do. Thus, we become more aware and intentional about our actions and behaviors, and are less inclined to unwittingly humiliate or hurt children in our care.

When readers are inspired by my story, my surprise also comes because I cannot imagine my story as inspiring anyone. After all, I have lived it all my life. It is old, familiar and habitual. My life script was written into the emotional memory templates of my brain decades ago, and my struggle to alter it has, indeed, been a challenge. But it was my challenge - still is - and even struggles and challenges are old, familiar and habitual by now. And yet, somehow, others are inspired by my story of resilience and how I survived and overcame my childhood trauma. As I start to see my story through the eyes of readers of my books, I understand differently what, in fact, I went through to become the person I am today.

And so, I guess that one of the reasons for writing memoir is to tell a story about how we survived trauma.

We are inspired by stories of resilience, because seeing how others are able to overcome trauma gives us hope to survive our own.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Benevolent dictator

You must ask for what you really want ...

Quote of the day:

"The breezes at dawn have secrets to tell you
Don't go back to sleep!
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep!
People are going back and forth across the doorsill where the two worlds touch,
The door is round and open
Don't go back to sleep!" 

—Rumi (Found at Elizabeth Gilbert)

So - it's the asking for what I really want from myself, significant others, and the Universe (?) - that's the hardest part for me.

Starting small, though, this poem is what I really want right here and now.

I buried Oscar's ashes this morning ...

... up close to the grave I had created for Ada in October, last year. As I arrived home wearily from the writer's workshop with Natalie Goldberg at Villa Lina, I found the box of Ada's ashes waiting for me by the front door. We had both arrived on the same day. I remember feeling a twinge of pain reverberating through my heart strings, when I discovered the box on the front porch as I dragged my suitcase up the steps. I took Oscar's ashes out to the back yard and dug a hole in the cold dark ground around Ada's grave. I spoke to him in my mind assuring him of Ada's company and the coming of warmer months. Breaking open the plastic bag that held his ashes, I poured them into the earth, and then laid some daffodil bulbs on top. They had bloomed for a couple of weeks in my office during the last weeks of February when I needed to cheer myself up and onward through to the end of winter. 

When I came back into the house, Mimi was waiting for me by the back door. She mewed sweetly and smelled my hands, licking them over and over again with her raspy tongue no doubt checking out where I had been without her as she sat by the window watching. I said out loud, "Mimi, I buried your brother this morning." 

Then we went upstairs to my study. Mimi jumbed up into the soft, white bed I placed on my desk next to the computer. She curled up, first looking back at me as I began typing. She purred as I put my hand out to stroke her.

I sensed Ada and Oscar close by looking on with approval. 

I looked up at the computer screen for a moment and then began writing:

I buried Oscar's ashes this morning ...

Healing dimensions: Part VI

Quote of the day:

I don't why it is we are in such a hurry to get up when we fall down. You might think we would lie there and rest awhile. Max Forrester Eastman

There are two different dimensions that help me understand my early childhood in two equally important ways. One is cognitive and rational, realizing what the adults caring for me were going through at the time. In that way I become aware that their behaviors were not personal in the sense that they intentionally meant to neglect me emotionally. It is an understanding that develops over time supported by life experience and knowledge of the human condition in general. It is also a type of forgiveness that develops only after I am able to process the first aspect. This one is emotional, derived from the earliest emotional memories in my brain and requires that I learn to allow myself to validate my feelings. That is to say, validate how I felt as a young child experiencing emotional neglect within my brain, body and soul. The former cannot be authentically achieved unless I am able to validate how it felt as a child. At least, that is how I see it working for me. 

My mother's life was chaotic and filled with anxiety when I was born. She was heading into her third marriage, and I understand that I arrived at a bad time for me - and certainly for her. Her mind was preoccupied with a new, unpredictable stage in her life. She was clearly emotionally overwhelmed. Partly because of the effect of her own early childhood experiences, and partly because of the facts on the ground: making a life with a new life partner, wanting to please him, and having his child late in her life. She was an intelligent woman, who loved children in general, and probably loved me too. She certainly provided me with basic physical needs, shelter, clothes, food etc. However, she was unable to give me what I needed emotionally: Attention, acknowledgement, and a sense of worthiness. 

My older siblings were just that - older - and leaving the house to find their ways out in the world. I remained behind, feeling like an unwanted appendage to a small family unit: my mother, her husband, and their new baby, who seemed like a miracle child to everyone. And so, my experience growing up was of great and deep loneliness, accompanied by longing and yearning to be someone's - anyone's priority. 

These past few months, therapy has brought me face to face with those early childhood emotional memories. It has been excruciatingly painful to understand where my deepest feelings of loneliness spring from. Alone in my study, or during the long commute back and forth from work, I have wept and raged as I remember how it felt during those early years. And somehow I see that the more I allow myself to shed years of emotional repression and validate my feelings from back then, the more I find it easier to forgive my mother for the pain the emotional neglect caused me.

Indeed, I am also starting to feel less lonely, and even more worthy! It is strange and new for me. Exciting as well as peaceful. It almost seems as if new doors are opening within me. At times, I become frustrated that I understand all this so late in life, and so naturally it brings up feelings of regret. But these pass swiftly in light of what lies before me right now. A sense of personal power and, finally at the ripe old age of 63, the ability to discern what I want and need.

Eight years ago at Tamarika: Waiting for a bus

Dedicated to my therapist

Okay. I must admit. Therapy is working. I am allowing the deepest emotional stuff of my early childhood to rise up into my consciousness. Indeed, I am allowing myself to experience emotional pain in a way I have not done ever in my past. It is cathartic, and it is good. These feelings bring with them clarity, forgiveness, and understanding, and at a certain level, peace of mind. 

I could not have allowed myself these emotions had I not felt completely safe and validated to feel them. That, I believe, is the truest gift a therapist bestows on his client. Emotional safety and validation. 

Yesterday, in preparation for my class tonight, I re-read a passage in my own book, and came upon a quote by Alice Miller. It was like Eliot's famous quote about knowing the place for the first time, for even though I had used Miller's quote in my own book some six years ago, knowing at some level of consciousness that it pertained to me - yesterday I felt her words to the core of my being. I found myself nodding in recognition, smiling with gratitude:

Only by knowing the truth can we be set free. Only in this way can we free ourselves from the fears and anxieties we knew as children, blamed and punished for sins we did not know we had committed, the fateful fear of the sin of disobedience, that crippled anxiety that has wrecked so many people's lives and keeps them in thrall to their own childhood. Alice Miller. (In, Jacobson, 2008. Page 101)

Even as I know that no therapist can work his wonders, if his client does not eagerly participate in the exploration, in fact, this post is a dedication of gratitude to my therapist. Very few words, I must say. But none can really sum up how thankful I truly am. 

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Ten minutes about weight loss - go:

Retaining the joy

Quote of the day:

Right now, in this moment, there are so many things that are good, that are right in your world. Focus on those. Notice what changes. Geneen Roth

For one reason or another recently I felt especially joyous and triumphant, and as the old self-punishment habits for happy feelings crept up on me, I found myself in a metaphorical game of tennis with them.

Reaching up high I made a powerful serve sharing my joy with colleagues, friends, and family. If my joyous serve was returned with anything other than positive responses, I pulled back slowly, sized up my feelings, and then with great confidence and strength, firmly planted yet another strong stroke into the opposing court. With each come-back I scored a point sending fears, guilt, or feelings of shame out of there. And every time I scored, it seemed as if feelings of joy grew stronger. Sometimes into elation, and even pride and self-worth.

Joy eludes as fast as it arrives. And yet this week I was able to retain it for days. 

Seven years ago at Tamarika: Mercury Morning

New adventures, new territory

Even though it feels a little daunting, I have started writing a third blog called: The Good Mother: A Handbook of Guilt for Parents.

Expectations and the complexity about how to be a good parent has been on my mind for some time, and recently I realized that I am now psychologically ready to explore it further in a blog with a format all its own. I am hoping that people will comment and share their views about what I write, because after all, what constitutes a good parent for most people is deep and personal. Early childhood feelings are embedded in the emotional memory of our brain. No doubt about it, we remember how we were parented for the rest of our lives. Of course, what we choose to do with all these memories is where it becomes intriguing and exciting for me to think and write about. 

Yesterday at work, I walked down the hallway and mentioned the title of my new blog to a couple of colleagues. They exploded with encouragement and then immediately began sharing their own expectations and standards about good parenting. Before long, they were reflecting on how they were raised as children, and the ways that affected the way they were mothers to their own offspring. I thought to myself, "I just have to mention the title, and the subject takes care of itself!" Indeed, most likely everyone who is a parent has thoughts and feelings on the subject. I am not alone in this!

So, now I am excited. It's like packing for a new adventure, heading out into new territory. A road stretches out in front of me and, quite frankly, I don't know where it might lead. As with all travel I have a general idea about where I would like to go, a few expectations, and some imagination. I will, of course, continue to write, right here on Mining Nuggets, reflecting and ruminating about life in general, and the development of my psyche in particluar.

And I say to all who take the time to read my ramblings: "Stop by! Welcome! Come on in and join the fun!"

Bath time ruminations

I look across the classroom at the faces of undergraduate students. I think to myself,  “I wonder if they realize that I was a child once.” For, now I must seem old to them. My short gray hair, cheeks sagging a little, and there is a slow limp to my step. I stand before them talking about syllabi and schedules, expectations, and attendance grades. They take notes and gaze in my direction. Some seem alert and even pleased to be here. Others look weary and lonely; probably wishing they were anywhere else but here. I think about ways I might connect with them so that they will believe me when I try and teach them about compassion and kindness for all young children in their future classrooms ...

Revelation.

I have been going to therapy for years for self-alteration. To become a better person. Not to become happier. Indeed, therapy was a perfect avenue for me because I could say to myself over and over again – there is something wrong with me and I need to fix me. Now my therapist explains in a way that I can hear. He says he is always telling me (at times he thinks it must seem as if he is trying to bash me over the head) that I am more than okay. He goes onto tell me that this information should make me feel better, and yet I argue with him. Over and over again he has been explaining to me that it is other people who have hurt me over and over again. Instead of me realizing that and allowing them to own their behaviors and insults to me, I take on the problem as if it is my fault. I tell him that I came to therapy to fix me, and now he is telling me there is nothing to fix, nothing to alter.

He says gently, clearly that for me to change would be to realize that I am okay. No need for self-alteration. Just to accept myself as I am. Not that I am without flaws. But, that I am human and more than all right. Oh, and, by the way, it is not my fault.

This blows me away. For days after our session, I wander around in a daze not fully understanding what was said to me recently. I look back on my life and think of all the times I ran away or missed out on chances for happiness because I kept on thinking, “There is something wrong with me.” Whenever emotions became strong or pain unbearable, I thought there must be something wrong with me. If people hurt me, I thought, it must be my fault, and, yes, I deserve it! And now, what is my therapist telling me? That it wasn’t my fault? What do I do with all these years and years of feeling to blame, unworthy, unredeemable, or in need of serious alteration? I wonder how long he has been trying to explain this to me, and why it confuses me. I realize that I have been unable to hear him, but for some reason this time, I hear him – loud and clear. It strikes a chord, hits a nerve, and penetrates my brain. It taps into my ancient, emotional memory.

And now, I feel free, vulnerable, wide open, and without defenses. Flapping in the wind, flying and tumbling about wildly way out somewhere in the universe.

I pull myself out of my bath and wrap a large, white towel-like robe close to my body enveloping me in comforting warmth. Water is still dripping on the floor as I almost run up to my study to my computer. How strange. Sun is streaming through the window, where snow was blowing just a short while before. I look up at the wall and see the note Wendy wrote for me in Villa Lina last October: First in Hebrew, she wrote, "To Tamar, with love," and then:

"In one ancient language the word memory derives from a word meaning mindful, in another, from a word to describe a witness, in yet another it means, at root, to grieve. To witness mindfully is to grieve for what has been lost," (and to be present for all that is - Wendy adds). From, Freeman House, Totem Salmon

I am in unchartered waters ...