Tamarika

Talking of politics ...

Some might be interested in this.

Nothing to Say Day

Some days I have nothing to say. And then I turn to politics.

Of course I am interested in politics always. After all politics affects everything we do, say, who we are, what our values and beliefs are, what we wear, how we behave, personal interactions, how we bring up our children, what curriculum we design for schools, our moods, standardized testing, future of our country, the world, relationships with other countries, our religion, personal actions, where to take our holidays, family relationships, books we write, books we read, newspapers, magazines, journals we read, testing, speeches we make, speeches we don't make, who we root for and who we don't root for, who we vote for and who we don't vote for. Politics makes us feel powerful and in control or powerless and helpless. It makes us sad, angry, sanctimonious, disappointed, jealous, ashamed, guilty, self-righteous, anxious, afraid, victorious, outraged, happy, gloomy, doomy, joyful, celebratory, mournful, clever, stupid, like, dislike, love and hate. The political is personal, oh so personal. Politics make us socialist, communist, capitalist, right wing, imperialist, environmentalist, independent, dependent, interdependent, left wing, fundamentalist, liberal, relativist, anarchist, atheist, neo this and neo that, conservative, reactionary, radical, activist, apathetic, emotional, objective, subjective, racist, sexist, homophobic, centrist, anti this and anti that, pro this and pro that. Politics makes us right or wrong, good or evil, just or unjust, good or bad, black or white, gray or colorful, funny or humorless, serious or flaky, compromising or uncompromising, intense and passionate or uncaring.

Politics is humankind, compassionate or cruel, selfish or selfless, accepting or intolerant, complex or simple, real or imaginary. Politics is you and me, men, women and children, old and young, cultures, abilities, sexual orientation, Christian, Muslim, Jew, Buddhist, Hindu, Jane, vegetarian, Unitarian, octogenarian, sectarian, weight, height, wealth, poverty, food, water, medicine, hospitals, prisons, schools, parks, animals, sea, earth, sky, space. Politics is Internet, bloggers, cyberspace, blogosphere, message, media, communication, written, spoken, filmed, heard, seen, felt, experienced, yesterday, today, tomorrow, over there, over here, all around, everywhere, right here, right now.

What can I say? I am speechless.

I belong to it all, it belongs to me

Come to think of it, I have always used writing to help me through difficult times.

Thinking about my favorite age lately because of one blogger or another. But also because of remembering the feelings at that time. Strength, empowerment and independence. There were moments when I was confident from within. I trusted me.

I was thirty two.

Life was hard physically, emotionally and financially. Being a single mother, my only means of transport a trusted bicycle and the Israeli buses. As a preschool, kindergarten teacher (ganenet in Hebrew) I made no more than $500 a month.

I wrote a piece about my bicycle:

I like the idea of riding through my life. I jump on my bicycle - blue and silver, gentle friend - you give me strength, stability, you help me share the world around: the sea, the green, warm, spring days, blistering summer wind, cold, wet winter. On your saddle, wheels spinning round you help me realize my own strength, freedom to choose, to act. I love you so for this. I ride with the wind in my hair - free, so at one with all around me, and slowly but surely I build up the shivering, trembling, frightened me. I learn my strengths, my weaknesses, I learn my independence and to love my alone-ness.

There is something beautiful, wondrous, adjoining with the one and All in loving one's alone-ness. One thing that no one will ever be able to do - take me from me. I might weaken, bleed, writhe in pain, but within remain strong, firm, at peace with the sea, mountains, plants, sky, sands, sun, moon, stars - I belong to it all - it belongs to me. And whoever leaves me - cannot take away, won't ever destroy That within me.

I wrote about separation:

There is something so beautiful in sadness - in parting somehow. Pain of parting is also in anticipation for the new, the unknown. Anticipation and pain together make the over all feeling beautiful and enriching in a way. Fear of feeling, however, sometimes clouds beauty and enrichment.

To bid farewell to past sorrows and resentments is also to hail the newness to come. I feel a reaching out into the unknown future with so much hope that within me something opens up, up, up and out like a flower blooming in the spring - a rebirth. And I tremble with the joy, hope, the anticipation of it.

Eleven years prior to this I wrote a number of poems at the end of a passionate love affair:

It was not a long while ago

That when I turned my head

I was whole.

That the hand that clasped mine

Was, in fact, my palm.

It was not a long while ago

When friendship was true

And warm.

And that two souls

Blended and met quite naturally.

And yet. It seems

I lie and exist as half.

As half a soul I hide

In cold and

I am deceived

By the strength of time.

And this one ...

Rays of moonlight and sonata

As the blue dark envelopes

And caresses.

Soft, gentle blue,

Deep and intense as moonlight

And stars seep into the soul.

Entwining, enclasping, enfolding

As the room spins and twirls

And the thick blue waves

And enriches.

Deep, dark, blue sobs

And an eternity of forever.

Those were sad and lonely times. Writing accompanied me, giving the support I needed to understand the pain and move on.

Last night I had a thought:

If I became completely in confidence what would this blog become about?

Like therapy, should I hang on to neuroses and pain so as never to leave my therapist?

Do I have to stay out of confidence to continue my blog?

And who are you to think otherwise?

I guess if this blog has a purpose or a theme it has been for me to explore feelings of self-worth. Hence the title: In and Out of Confidence. I enjoy looking at how I came to be me, out there in black and white, and placing that much distance between myself and my reflections. Indeed, previously, I was such a work-aholic that there was never any time to really deal with the pain of how I actually view myself. By being forced to be alone these months, this time for me has been a culmination of years of therapy to confront these feelings head-on. 

Recently, I received an e-mail from a friend reaching out to me after reading about my feeling "unlovable, undeserving and unworthy." I was given permission to share parts of the letter with you as I am sure there are others who might identify with both of us. I appreciate being able to share this personal communication with others, for I value this letter so much. As you read on, perhaps you will see why. Here follows:

You speak so frequently on your blog about your "in and out of confidence" and feeling unworthy. You remind me of me years ago. I found it so debilitating - emotionally, professionally, within friendships and relationships - that I determined it just had to stop. No way did I want to go through my whole life feeling so awful about myself. I suspect you and I differ to a large degree on this: I tried therapy a few times to work this through, but gave it up for a bunch of reasons, among them that I never found a therapist helpful in this endeavor, that they mostly indulged my feelings rather than constructively helping find a way out. They always wanted to go into great detail about my childhood to find out where these feelings came from.

I always ended the therapy with various practitioners when I couldn't stand the navel gazing anymore. I want to understand myself as much as the next person, but digging around in the minutiae of my behavior doesn't seem to be the way to do it for me. What I did do on my own, was practice listening to my internal chatter: "You're not pretty enough." "You're not smart enough." "What makes you think anyone is interested in your opinion." "Don't introduce yourself; there's no reason (s)he would want to know you." "Don't ask; you don't deserve that promotion." And so on. Hundreds of little demeaning messages to myself all day every day.

So I learned to catch myself when those thoughts were running through my head and turned them around. I practiced every day and over time, caught more and more of them. It felt forced and not real. It wasn't changing my "real" feelings about myself, but I couldn't come up with a better idea (and no therapist certainly could) so I kept it up - until one day out of nowhere, a light bulb went off and I had the most amazing thought sequence: ALL my feelings of unworthiness - every one of them - stemmed from my constant comparison of myself to others who seemed to have virtues and attributes that I couldn't, in my unworthiness, possibly possess - and were about being liked. I wanted EVERYBODY to like me.

Which led to: Who are you to think everyone on earth should like you? And, who the hell are you to decide you're not as good as anyone else? It's not up to you. Other people will decide your merits or lack thereof to them. Some will like you. Some won't. And so what. You have your own attributes, they are different from other people's and they are inherently valuable. Enjoy the people with whom you find simpatico. Tolerate the ones you don't like but must associate with (like work colleagues). Ignore the ones you don't like. And accept the idea that some won't like you. Just bloody get on with living your life and stop comparing. It seems such a simplistic, obvious idea now when I write it down, but it was a revelation to me the day it happened. It changed everything. Not over night, but quite quickly, along with dropping - with no effort on my part - my bad feelings about my failings. It seemed to be a corollary to all this to accept the not-so-wonderful stuff about me without feeling I was a bad person.

I used to envy people I knew who seemed naturally to believe in themselves and who always had. Who had never questioned their place in the world, their right to any endeavor they could manage and its rewards (I hadn't remembered that envy in years until just now, writing it. It's gone.) I wondered if my parents had behaved differently with me, I would have had confidence in myself from day one. I thought for awhile, my lack of self-worth had been their fault. But of course, it is not. Did I wish they'd raised me differently in some respects? Yes, but they did the best with what they had to work with, just as we all do. We are each dealt a deck of cards and I suppose none of those decks are a full 52; some cards are missing. And so, we must just get on using what we've got to the best of our abilities.

Tamar, you are smart and sensitive and caring and obviously accomplished ... You're a good person who deserves as much as any other person born on earth.

And who are you to think otherwise? [My italics]

In my reply to this letter I wrote:

I read [your letter] as a sharing and caring. A sharing of your self and process, and a caring about me and the wretched time I am wasting with all these feelings of unworthiness! I appreciate you taking the time to do this for, with, to me.

Not everyone benefits from therapy. I know that. It is such a long and tedious process - after all it took years to become who we are and so much of what we learned, for whatever reason, has become part of our survival repertoire, including defense mechanisms and protective shields from intimacy and vulnerability. Giving up valuable survival skills can be terrifying - especially since survival means life or death. In addition, it is really difficult to find the *right* kind of therapist. I've had a few "doozies!" Bob, my therapist, has been very good for me. He has been relentless in helping me focus on pretty much exactly what you discovered for yourself! And I am *so* close to "getting it!" Believe me. When I saw Bob in Buffalo after these past three months I realized that my journey with him is done. Returning to work, new job, new me (thanks to Bob, my "cave," the blog, and people like you) in August is going to be such an interesting time. Even now, my presentations seem different to me - more mature in some ways and I think I have become slightly more approachable. More stuff for me to explore, I guess!

I concluded:

I take it as an act of love and friendship and am not only grateful, but humbled that you would take that kind of time and trouble for me as well as entrust me with your personal stuff.

Grass and resurrection

Molly loves to eat grass. Not bits and pieces but tons of it. Our old house in Buffalo had a yard that extended way, way back. Molly would walk slowly towards the end chewing all the grass she could handle all the way down. Molly also likes to chase birds and slap the air with her paws as she attacks flies, bees, moths, or butterflies. But mostly she just loves to eat grass. Our yard in Philadelphia now is much smaller. It takes Molly half the time to circle the area as she munches the new green shoots of our lawn. Ada and I sit on the patio and watch her. She chirps at the birds that fly by and keeps me in her view. At first I would cry softly to myself as Molly completed her grass eating rounds so swiftly. I was sure that she was aching for her old house and yard. Now, I just sit and watch her.

In 1982 I visited Hamburg with my second-husband-to-be (how's that for a name, Richard?) to meet his father. When we awoke early in the morning after our flight I told both men that I was unable to feel comfortable in Germany unless I first paid my respects to a Concentration Camp. We went directly to Bergen-Belsen. The air was still and silent with pain. Vast mounds of mass graves extended as far as the eye could see. However, growing softly all over the earth was a blanket of purple heather, which shuddered when a breeze occasioned by.

Since that time I have always longed for a pot of heather. Finally, eighteen years later in Buffalo I bought one. Soft and purple with tiny, green, fern-like leaves. The heather loved our yard and grew strong and healthy amongst the other plants.

As we packed up to leave for Philadelphia I ran out into the garden. Scooping up the rose bush Charlie had given me, along with its earth where I had buried some of his ashes I put them in a large bucket. Then I dug up the yellow flowering plant (I can never remember its name) that Susan gave me after Charles had died, and placed it in a different bucket. Finally, I gathered the heather and planted it together with my beloved lavender in a large, round, clay pot. I was ready to go.

This morning, while Molly chews on her grass and Ada sits on the patio watching, and chirping, I walk around my new yard. I see: dark skies holding back the rain still to come; Charlie's rose bush sprouting leaves after I planted it, his ashes and the yellow flowering plant whose name I cannot remember, in a new rose garden created two weeks ago; lavender in the clay pot is as green as can be. Recently I have been watching the heather closely, anxiously, as it looks dead to me. However, this morning, underneath its dead, brittle, skeleton, I find tiny green leaves struggling to return.

I think to myself, "Resurrection," and I must have said it out loud because Ada takes her gaze off Molly and glances at me. Resurrection reminds me immediately of a small, scrub-like bush that grew on the rocks of the Matobo (Matopos) outside Bulawayo in Zimbabwe. When I was a child and adolescent girl, I would gather up dead and brittle sprigs of the Resurrection plant, and put them in a glass of water at night. The very next morning fresh green leaves were sprouting up and down its spine. I always loved the way that little shrub came back to life so easily with just a few drops of water. There was something mysterious, magical, spiritual, hopeful about its seemingly return from the dead.

Spring in Philadelphia is glorious with cherry blossoms, daffodils and forsythia. As Molly becomes used to her new munching grounds, I sigh with joy. The heather is returning bringing with it connections to Hamburg, Bergen-Belsen, Uri and Edu, Tom and Buffalo, Bulawayo and Matopos, tying them all together for me as I peek outside my cave and embrace a new life.

Prayer Cycle

Evening is falling. Molly and Ada sit by my side. They are watching the birds at the feeder taking their last bite before calling it a day. Cardinals and Blue Jays pipping and shrieking. Jonathan Elias' Prayer Cycle accompanies me as I light candles and incense and pour myself a really good glass of Pinot Noir. I salute the first night of Passover and sense those ancient rituals of our oral heritage all around somewhere up and down the East coast. My family in Israel are done with their dinners and gatherings, probably asleep by now. I think about one sister far away in the Congo, another crossing the Atlantic on her way to ... my son traveling to visit friends in his very first newly acquired car, and my life partner winging his way home. The air is still with a rich earthen smell from strong spring rains. Dark skies expectant and heavy with still more to come.

Prayer Cycle has reached the part where James Taylor sings:

Father won't you carry me for the ocean's wide ... Father won't you carry me for my boat is so small ... Out here in the darkness help me find my way back home ... Someone watching over me - over me. Father won't you carry me ... home.

I remember the yellow daisies and red poppies at Passover time in Israel, neighbors banging their carpets on washing lines as they did their spring cleaning in preparation for the holiday, shopping for gifts and crisp new clothes. Sunshine and warmth, and driving up and down the little country rushing to arrive at family dinners before sundown.

And now Ofra Haza warbles Middle Eastern style in Hebrew accompanied by Nusrat Fateh Ali Kahn as he wails in Urdu. They sing of forgiveness and mercy.

I raise my glass to us all tonight: L'Chaim!

I return to Kushner once again this week:

Bye now. You are fabulous creatures, each and every one. And I bless you: More Life. The Great Work Begins.

It's like bird watching. You see what you know

Do you remember Feeling Safe?

This morning I found this reply to it in my e-mail:

What a beautiful confidence you gave me.  When I read in your blog that you would feel safe with me if you were dying, I got that special tingly feeling. My breathing slows, my face glows, there's a warm tingle up my spine--a bit like having a back rub. One of your great gifts is giving tingly feelings. You may go in and out of confidence yourself, but you're very good at giving confidence to others.

You have me thinking about safety.

Safety does have something to do with honesty. A person with an honest self-assessment is a tolerant person. When I unflinchingly look at my foibles and failings, I realize I don't have any reason for self righteousness. The more I honestly inventory my own gifts, the more I pay attention to other people's talents. It's like bird watching. You see what you know.

Looking life square in the face is part of safety. People who love life realize it is finite. Or is it the other way:  people who understand life is finite, cherish life.

No doubt a good part of my feeling safe is rooted in a safe childhood ... R. and I joke about our families: "suspicious of intensity," boring, consistent, "don't make waves," unemotional. Safe, yes, but with a whole other set of problems.

All the things you are--creative, passionate, intellectual--arise from a very different kind of childhood. So you think about fitting in and we think about breaking out.

The little guys (3 and 5) and I like to wrestle. We have one rule: Wrestling is Pretend. They dream up elaborate choreography. Last week (3) explained one move for me: "You knock me down on the pillow and then I jump up, because I'm knock down proof." I hope he's "knock down proof" all his life. They like the game because I never take advantage of my size and I let them create the game.

So, dear readers, can you feel why I would want to die with this person? (spoken in a whisper)

Lovingly, your son

It is so good to be back with my world of bloggers.  Awhile ago I was visiting Sunshine. She reminded me of Gilad.

In July, 2000 he wrote me a letter (You know - the real kind with pen and paper).

He said:

Dearest Tamar,

... I thought I would wait for the Grammies to say some things but I might wait indefinitely for that ... I'll have you know that you are my first musical influence. From an early age I heard you play and sing. Not only that but your approach to the piano, to music (to life), is a great inspiration to me. There's a positive freedom about it that I admire.

While I am fairly adept at the piano, there is a feel and a touch of your playing that I can't emulate. It is original. That is a mark of a musician, so don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

Lovingly,

Your son,

Gilad

I don't know about you, Mom of Sunshine, but I carry his letter with me everywhere I go, always, since the day I received it.

Memories are made of this

Childhood just gets farther and farther away, is all. We enshrine it as the origin myth of the Self, so when we lose touch with it (or just interest in it!) it feels like a kind of heresy, like "losing my religion." But there's nothing especially sacred about childhood, except the slowness of time and the vividness of the senses. Otherwise it's a fairly miserable time of life, as I remember it -- living utterly at the mercy of mastodons.

Amba commenting at Ambivabro

Sometimes, that's how I feel. I see memory enter the room of my consciousness. I feel the richness of a long-gone moment, I feel the lachrymose joy of bittersweet remembering, and the feeling that I can't look at it hard enough.

True Ancestor

As the years pass and there are fewer ahead of us than behind, pressures abate and memories naturally come forward with their pleasures and pains, lessons learned, knowledge gained and we use those memories to help us determine, in our later years, the meaning of the active, adult lives we've led and to prepare us for an acceptance of death.

Time Goes By

And this little yogi went wee, wee, wee all the way home

I once heard Swami Venkatesananda speak at a Yoga seminar in Tel Aviv. Someone in the audience said that it was easy for Yogis because they could sit alone in a cave all day with themselves while "we" all had to work and interact with others. Venkatesananda smiled and said, "Have you ever sat alone in a cave? It isn't that easy you know."

As I crawl back into my cave, two things come to mind as I begin to think and process about the past few days journeying through Western and Central New York.

First, I rediscovered how much I enjoy presenting. And I surely did a lot of that: four in five days. Sharing stories and knowledge is exhilarating for me. However, the rewards are greatest when people participate and share their story as well. There is always something new for me to learn. For example at the end of each major presentation and keynote, young women (a different one each time) came up to me and handed me a brochure that talked about joining the Christian faith. At the end of my presentation about connections between teachers' emotions and children's behaviors, I was given a brochure titled "Faith Not Feelings" from a Baptist Church.  After the keynote on Confronting Our Discomfort yesterday, "God's Plan For You" from the "Remnant of Israel Ministries" was given to me in great earnest. The young woman looked long and hard into my eyes and impressed upon me the urgency that Jesus would save me if only I would open my heart to Him. I smiled as I accepted their gifts of love and did not try to explain that I am an atheist. In a way I was almost honored that they felt safe to approach me, and remembered the conversation a year ago after the gift of a bible.

Of course, none of this has anything to do with me or who I am. It does not even have anything to do with the material I am presenting. It has everything to do with the evangelical spirit of the heads of our country. The State of the Union and message from our administration is clear: "Fear the valley of Terror. Turn urgently towards - ignorance?"

A dear friend e-mailed me today after we had been "chatting" about this issue. "What on earth is going on with everyone? Have we entered a dark age where everyone is running to the Lord in whatever form they can only find HIM?" I wrote. He replied: "We are entering a new Middle Ages, I think. People have had enough of modernity and uncontrollable social change that leave them confused about what they should believe in --- and, in fact, whether they can believe in anything at all. It's hard not to be sympathetic on some level, but the irrationalism and narcissism that accompanies this state of mind are alternately scary and stupid."

How like the watchful eye of the blog to echo some of these thoughts this very morning as I browsed my favorite blog headlines. I suppose it just is not so subtle any more.

The second part of my recent visit had great significance for me. I realized that as challenging and painful as it has been "meditating in my cave" alone in Chestnut Hill these past few months, it has been enormously important and beneficial. Bob the therapist and I had much to discuss. I basked in his encouragement that supported my recent choices and decisions as I move ahead to "claim me." It has been a lifetime coming. I feel reinforced and excited to face a new era in my life whatever it may bring.

I entered our apartment late last night. Ada and Molly wiggled and purred, rubbed themselves on doorways and between my legs. My life partner away at a conference, and for the first time ever, I will spend Passover completely alone this year. My cave feels warm and comforting. Alone does not mean lonely.

Perhaps I will be able to shed this old burden, antique childhood feelings of being unlovable and undeserving, and become less fearful.

I wonder why - but Prior, in Angels in America comes to mind at the end of Perestroika, somehow weaving together for me, the Pope, evangelical State of our Union and my personal growth:

I'm almost done. The fountain's not flowing now, they turn it off in the winter, ice in the pipes. But in the summer it's a sight to see. I want to be around to see it. I plan to be. I hope to be.

This disease will be the end of many of us, but not nearly all, and the dead will be commemorated and will struggle on with the living, and we are not going away. We won't die secret deaths anymore. The world only spins forward. We will be citizens. The time has come.

Bye now. You are fabulous creatures, each and every one. And I bless you: More Life. The Great Work Begins. 

(Tony Kushner, 1994. Royal National Theatre)