Mining Nuggets

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 ...

Back in time ...

Today, at the University bookstore, I joined a long line of students buying books for the spring semester. I waited to purchase two greeting cards. One was for a colleague's birthday, which I was told earlier this morning we would celebrate later in the day. The second, well what can I say, was in preparation for Valentine's Day. As I stood amongst almost thirty students winding in and out of three lanes, I added up the prices of the cards. I thought to myself, "Is it worth waiting the twenty odd minutes or so for such a small purchase?"

My mind immediately began to wander back to 25 years ago. I had just arrived in Buffalo, and was going back to school, at the huge Buffalo University to complete a BA. In order to register for classes, I arrived at the administration building at five o'clock in the morning. A line was already stretching as far as the eye could see, and further. I joined hundreds of young, undergraduate students - me a Mom, 39 years old, a foreigner, an immigrant from a far off land. We sat together drinking coffee, sharing snacks and chatting about our futures. Six hours later, at 11:00 a.m. I finally made it to the front counter to sign up for all my classes. Indeed, twenty five years ago Internet on-line registration did not yet exist. On-line meant something physical, concrete - literally sitting inside a huge, long, diverse line of human beings - a social, community-like experience, and required enormous amounts of patience.

I must have been reminiscing for quite awhile, for before I knew it, I was at the front of the line and paid for the two small greeting cards in my hand.

I walked out of the bookstore onto the path towards my office still lost in thought, back in time.

Blinded by the sun

What is it about vacations that make me anxious until I settle in and then it is time to go? I am able to travel with much more ease all over the world and country when it is for presentations or meetings. And yet, relaxation and pleasure trips are such a challenge for me. Vacations are a change of rhythm and a time to let go of everyday worries and stressors - aren't they? In some ways I feel that expectations are higher when I take a holiday. I feel as if I must know what I want to do each moment, whether it is where to eat, if I want to walk, swim, or just sit and read in the sun. Shouldn't I want to go out and see all sorts of wondrous places and museums rather than sit still and stare for hours at the sea? Sometimes, to ease the pressure, I wait to see what others want to do, and then resent them for not doing what I want! In short, vacations can be nothing short of torture for me. 

So, this vacation I vowed to enjoy myself. And lo and behold, it is coming to pass. Just learning to chill out with the expectations. Who cares what I do? I am leaving stressors and worries behind, and literally going with the flow. And it isn't too difficult after all. I wonder why it took me so long to realize there are no deadlines, or should's, and if I don't want to sight see - so be it! One thing is for sure. I must soak my toes in the ocean each day. My body and soul need that. I don't care when or how it happens, just that it does. For the rest ... well, each moment I will allow me to find out what my heart desires. 

Just one more thing. Guilt. Or as one therapist I knew many years ago described it: "The big 'G'!" What do I do with that? For it creeps in at all different times during a really pleasurable vacation. It slips into my brain just when I am letting down my guard as I start to enjoy myself. It comes in the form of worrying about "those poor little kittens back home," or, "how hard the housekeeper woman has to work for so little pay, to clean my bathroom as I decadently lounge about the swimming pool slurping away at mango-passion-fruit type smoothies." Sometimes, guilt makes me weep with gratitude that a poor slob like me is fortunate enough to be enjoying her life as much as I do. "What did I do to deserve such kindness from the Universe?" I wonder pathetically.

Ah - that insidious of all feelings - Guilt!

I look up from writing this post and notice sunshine streaming into our elegant hotel room - diaphonous drapes waving softly with a cool breeze as rays shimmer through the fabric, shedding circular beams on the bed, up to the ceiling, and around the carpet with glorious patterns of light. 

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Seven year itch

Exercising my writes

Writing as practice. Ten minutes: Go!

Even as I think about writing practice, I feel an excited burning sensation in the pit of my stomach. Writing is important to me. It is all about self expression. Getting out words that I find so difficult to say in person. It reminds me how I really am uncomfortable speaking on the phone. At every turn in the conversation, especially when t is my turn, I feel an urge to say, "Well, it was nice speaking with you. Goodbye." But still I continue the conversation struggling to find words to describe how I am. For I am never sure that anyone is really interested in how I am. Writing practice allows me to speak freely and not worry if anyone is interested in me. Of course, I am delighted when people stop by to read the blog, or anything else I write - like books, papers, or articles. I certainly enjoy acknowledgement. There is no doubt about that. And who doesn't like a bit of attention from time to time? But, the act of writing is something that is just for me and me alone. I am able to speak my mind, discover memories, and share thoughts, that I might not have ready access to when talking face to face with people. Especially people I care about and whose opinion I value. So, while practicing writing can sometimes seem like a chore, it is also always a little exciting for me. My mind goes blank for a moment but the clock is still ticking. I think a little too hard instead of allowing the thoughts to flow through my fingertips for these ten minutes of non-stop writing practice. No need to edit right now. I can do that later. Just let the mind cough it up. All of it. Practice, practice, practice. That's the way I learn to perfect my art. There are months that I travel and present non-stop and by the third or fourth speech I have it down pat. I am able to discover words and even jokes with ease, and the attendees seem to flow with me in the room. I gave up practicing the piano when I moved to America twenty five years ago. I gave up a lot of things back then. Cooking. Not that I was ever a great cook. Singing. I gave up all housewifely-type things except for, perhaps cleaning, and even that I don't do so much any more. Was I never the housewife type? And yet I struggled so hard to perfect that, and always felt I came up short. Academia seemed to fit with me. Activities of the mind are important for me. But then so is spirituality. Or is it philosophy? I would rather spend time thinking about thoughts, ideas, or discovering the subconscious workings of my mind, than cooking or cleaning - or even baking a cake. I used to bake wonderful cakes. Coffee cream with meringue atop a really light, flaky pastry shell. It was always a success and people would applaud me when I brought it out. Cooking was a way I gave my young child love - no question about it. I remember the day I caught him making his own sandwich to take to school. I was mortified. What? He did not need my love any longer? The whole day I dragged myself around work feeling like there was a vacuous hole in my soul, that the lights had gone out, and that my life no longer had meaning. By evening I realized it was because my son could make his own sandwich, his own food. The need to give love through the culinary life fell away. I would have to find a different way to give of myself. And I began to write.

Reflections on my father

 

Eight years ago at Tamarika: My father sang to me.

It seems odd to me that every January 18th, I wake up with a sensation that something important is happening on this day. It always takes an hour or two, and then I remember that it was my father's birthday. It is one those subconscious things that happen, for usually I have not thought about him for a long time. Just suddenly and suprisingly his birthday comes out into my consciousness, and always is accompanied by a twinge of sadness and nostalgia.

My mother never actually asked me not to love him. Nor did she imply it. When I was a young child, I just assumed, that in order to please her, I had better not show that I loved or admired him. For, she made no attempt to hide her disdain for just about everything about him, including his Sephardic heritage. I took my love for him underground and buried it.

Until he died.

And even then, it was uncomfortable for me to admit it to myself. It would subsequently take years of therapy for me to allow myself to grieve my father's death, and understand the complexity of my relationship with him. Loving the forbidden, and keeping it hidden affected my confusion about loyalties. Not to mention complications about dealing with abhorring the part of me that came from him, which seemed to cause my mother so much pain. 

[Visiting my father in Rhodesia when I was 26]

Nowadays, I find myself wistfully observing my friends and siblings as they care for their aging fathers, and hearing them share openly about complexities of their relationships, and grief that comes with this stage of their lives. I realize how alone I was with regards to my feelings about my father.

In a way I was a little like an only child - only, without the perks and benefits! 

Early this morning, I rummaged through my old photographs trying to find a picture of my father holding me up proudly when I was an infant. It is the only photograph I have of me and him when I was a baby. The image seemed to be clearly waiting to greet me in my brain the moment I awoke. Almost in a panic, searching feverishly amongst my albums and photos, I suddenly stopped and wondered, "Why is it suddenly so urgent for me to find this picture?"

And then I remembered. Today is my father's birthday. He would have been 119.

Arrival? And knowing it for the first time ...

My journey began 26 years ago. The details of how it got started are long and complicated, but not for this particular blog post. Suffice it to say that I was at a crossroads and took off in an academic direction, crossing oceans, shifting and changing my path in dramatic ways. There were companions along the way. Some were welcome and others not so much, as is always the case on a long journey. I confronted major cultural shocks and revelations with country, cities, studies, institutions, and people. At times the way felt treacherous and lonely, and at others it was exhilarating and exciting. Every turn I took, brought new adventures in my path, as well as humps, bumps and obstacles. Mostly, though, I was buoyed up and carried along by the kindness of many strangers.

Recently, it was beginning to seem that I had arrived. A fire burned in my belly as I rounded what I thought might be the last corner on the voyage I had begun more than two decades ago. I could almost touch it, even image it - when guards at the gate waved their fingers back and forth in front of my nose. "Not quite yet, lassie," they exclaimed. "We have yet to test your patience, confidence, and fortitude one more time at least. Can you wait for another six weeks or so? Will you?" 

I thought of the many times I had traveled across the country to make presentations at this or that city. When I arrived at the airport, tired and so ready to reach home, the plane was delayed, or even canceled. I would sigh despondently and throw up my hands. Nothing to do but wait. Let go, and breathe deeply. Inevitably, I would be on my way again, and arriving home the mini despairs and frustrations already forgotten. 

And so, I replied silently to the gate-keepers jealously guarding their turf. "I can wait. Of course. This little bump in my path is a bump indeed. In fact, I will sit by the wayside and have a picnic. Some warm fresh multigrain bread and delicious cheese, a bunch of juicy red grapes and a bowl of hot tea. I think I will invite one or two people to join me so that we can joy away the hours together."

As I look back, I realize how important each part of the journey was in developing who I am today. And surely, this waiting game is yet another gift for me, as necessary as all that went before. It reminds me about being in the now, breathing deeply, and letting go. Indeed, it teaches me to have faith, and gives me renewed hope. 

Let's face it, I have waited too long for this part of the way, and arrival seems irrelevant now. Let it take six weeks or more. I have time.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Patterns of behavior

At the top of the 8th

I have written about my "abyss" numerous times over the years [Here; here; here; and here]. This morning I am reminded of a letter my mother wrote to me over a decade ago.

In response to my having written her a loving and admiring letter at the time, she described her own feelings as:

... there have been many times in my life that I felt I was standing alone on top of a cold mountain with icy winds roaring around ... I am not a morbid person. That is just the way I felt but now your letter has made me feel a warm soft blanket wrapped around me and great security.

I am struck by the difference in metaphors between my mother and I. Hers is atop a cold mountain with icy winds roaring around. Standing high up out there in the open like that seems to me wide and expansive, even courageous. Whereas, my abyss is dark and deep below, quiet, and insidious. The similarities between us being feeling cold and alone. But our expressions of those feelings are different: open, on top, versus hidden below. 

In a way I am always looking for the differences between my mother and I, because there are so many ways I have not wanted to be like her. And yet, as I read what I wrote to her so many years ago, I recognize there is much I am pleased to have inherited from her:

Dear Mom ... I thought about how much you have always helped others and how you enjoy life through all your suffering. I see, in myself, pieces of you ... my strength, determination. The fact that I help anyone - doesn't matter who they are, where they come from - doesn't matter how much it costs or how risky it will be. That comes from you. My ability to not just accept what someone tells me - but check it out (research it!) - that comes from you ... I learned from you that injustice and intolerance is not right. I learned about brutal honesty from you! I learned from you that one could always make things better. Even in my darkest hours, I always find a way out. I learned that from you. Money is no object! I learned that from you. Love of - no not love - passion for music - I learned from you. Passion for drama, I learned from you ... You tirelessly search for happiness and find it in beautiful moments, beautiful gardens, ... books, movies, with interesting people, and with children. You taught us all to love children - to respect children - and to fight for them. Each of us fights for our children - in our family - in deep, respectful ways. Sometimes the love and fight for our children seems weird - but we all know that our children are the most precious. You taught us all that.

Even though I dramatically fear heights, I think I would prefer to stand atop a mountain, than bury myself below the earth. Perhaps when I finally heave my leg over the rim, and pull myself completely out of the abyss, I will stand on top of a mountain, hopefully without icy winds roaring all around.

And so, I enter my eighth year of blogging. As I look back at so many of my old posts starting with my first blog, Tamarika, and then heading into Mining Nuggets, I do sense a change, a shift within me - an opening up. My mother gave me a typewriter for my sixteenth birthday. What a gift that was, even though recently I wasn't sure whether it was her dream to become an author, or whether she recognized that in me. Whatever it was, I carry it with me now, as yet one more way she and I are similar. One more way to cherish.

Eight years ago at Tamarika: Having fun