Tamarika

Looking Back and Thinking Forward

Saying goodbye to Buffalo.

Understanding that feeling unlovable does not mean being unloved.

Bidding farewell to the past.

Moving ahead to claim "me."

I shall be released.

Hearts drawn backwards

Quote of the Day:

... as we sit at this window table on this brightly coloured morning, with easy laughter exchanging our present lives, our hearts drawn backwards down a long corridor of memories - Jean

"One of the best things for me about blogging," I explained to friends last night, "Is the literary quality of writing. There are people out there with enormous talent that in the cut-throat world of "who's best" we would otherwise, never, get to read."

I find myself, once again, in an environment of people who, as Danny would say, just "don't get blogs."

When I arrived back at the hotel Richard's post about his favorite age aroused memories for me of days gone by. Last night my dreams were enriched with a cast of characters from many different periods of my life. Of course they were also enhanced by the fact that I am back in Buffalo meeting people who have, already so quickly, become part of my past. I cannot get over how just three months ago friends and colleagues in Buffalo were connected to my present and future, and these past two days as we wine and dine, our talk is a nostalgic reminiscing about yesterdays together.

I can't help but think about getting older these days. My birthday is coming up, Richard talks about favorite ages and Ronni explores what it's really like to get older.  I wonder why we reach back to our past memories so much as we get older. Has looking to the future become frightening to think about? Or is it to remind ourselves of who we were so that we can be sure of who we are now?

Born Again

Lately I have been talking to a few different people about reincarnation. It seems that many people believe that after we die, we return over and over again until our "karma" is played out and we achieve ... perfection?

Leanne once suggested to me the Pope might return as a pregnant woman. I asked her, "What about me? What will I come back as?" She said that I'll come back as a Tibetan but that I would have to be healthy because it is so high in Tibet I would find difficulty breathing and might become dizzy and faint. She said as far as she knows humans return as humans, not animals or plants.

Marion agreed. As we walked around Delaware Park this morning I asked her if I could return as a toad or perhaps a flower. She thought that humans return as any kind of human, gender, color or creed. Just not animals or plants.

As Nian and I ate lunch this afternoon I shared these discussions with her. I told how Leanne had suggested I would return as a Tibetan. Nian gasped and almost shouted: "Oh, it's very sad to put you in Tibet!" she exclaimed, "Nobody is going to see you there. You will return as a superstar of course," she went on, "You will be acting, singing, dancing! People must see you!"

Hmm ... I wonder what I was before I became me?

Don't Worry

This morning as I awoke in my hotel room in Buffalo I thought about Charlie. Returning to Buffalo is sad for me, I realized, not because I have left home to go out into the world of Philadelphia, but because Charlie is not here when I return. He has not been here since July 2001 and yet it seemed like he was always here for me when I lived in Buffalo. How could he not be? He was my friend.  I met him when I took my first statistics course at the University at Buffalo in 1988. He was the instructor and as he taught us about probability and variances he shared his life story and political philosophy. What a teacher! He had us on the floor counting pennies, building blocks and working out probabilities of the November elections. Statistics became relevant, interesting and achievable for many of us non-traditional students and undergraduates who had difficulty believing we were able to understand such a subject. He even told us about his nervous breakdown in the seventies after which he attended gestalt therapy groups and as a result claimed that all men repress their feelings. Charles was an emotional and passionate person, breath of fresh air, kindred spirit and the kindest man I have ever met. He was also an anarchist, socialist and walked the talk. We became close friends instantly. I joined him as he arranged a demonstration against the terror in Tiananmen Square. We stood at the steps of the Albright Knox Art Museum and sang "We Shall Overcome" with Buffalo legislators. I had arrived in America (I thought)! This is how it was going to be. Charles was an idealist. He had faith in all human beings no matter who they were and he understood the human condition. We shared pain together. We shared the pain of his cancer together. Two days before he died he called for me very early in the morning. I arrived at his bedside as fast as my car would drive me. He told me that it seemed he was not doing very well. I said, "Yes, Charles. This is it. The end of the road. We will be moving you to Hospice tomorrow." We were silent and I held his hand, moving in close and holding his gaze. "Are you afraid?" I asked. He nodded and said softly, "Yes." More silence. And then he turned back to me and asked, "And what about you?" Tears rose in my eyes and throat. I held his hand tightly and replied, "Oh Charles, I am going to miss you so much. I am so sad. I love you." He seemed satisfied. Charlie nodded his head and said, "I love you too."

After he died I could feel his presence in the trees as I walked daily in Delaware Park. It seemed that I was able to commune with him, tell him things and had a sense that he was with me. Of course I became sure that there is no after-life when Charles died. He would have returned to tell me about it, because we discussed our atheism so much. During the last weeks he teased me with the idea that he might turn to God before he died. He asked what I would do if that happened. I replied that was fine with me. I would love and accept him no matter what he believed. He would chuckle as if his thoughts were mischievous or provocative in some way. We would sit on his porch him sitting in his beloved newly acquired, white, wicker chair overlooking the street watching the passers by.  Ada sits in that chair now in my study in Chestnut Hill. It is her favorite place to curl up and sleep. I know it is placed right next to the left of my desk, therefore bringing her in close proximity to me as I work. However, I like to think she senses his presence too.

Charles would definitely have returned to describe what happened to him after he died. He was just that kind of friend. He would never keep that type of information to himself.

On Friday, as I was heading out the door to the airport the postman delivered Julia Darling's book of poetry that I had ordered less than a week before. What perfect timing! One day after I heard she died. In haste, I pushed the book into my bag and as I sank into the seat on my plane to Rochester I pulled it out. I seemed to devour each poem. On the back cover Jackie Kay sums it up:

Here are poems about a difficult, scarey subject, cancer, that circle around it lightly, on light dancing feet, and every so often whack you on the head. Oddly enough [it] is compulsively readable. The poems are funny, irreverent, moving and never sentimental. You can recognize yourself in them, recognize your family. They are warm, full of compassion ...

As I read each poem in Sudden Collapses in Public Places, I thought about how Charles would have enjoyed having me read them to him. He would have loved every one. I read them to him silently as I flew to Western New York. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I dedicated my reading to Charlie. I missed him and realized that he will not be in Buffalo waiting for me.  If I walked up to his office in Baldy Hall, he would not be there, jumping out of his chair the instant I appeared at his door, no matter if students were waiting for advisement or even if he had an important meeting - he always had time for me. He always expressed delight and joy at seeing me. I read the poems to him.

As I prepare to see Mar-Mar this afternoon, for I hear she is weak, tiny and fragile as a small bird now, I read the poems for her too. I remember her dancing, swaying and clapping for the children in our infant rooms at the Child Care Center, her raucous laughter and burgundy lipstick kisses on the babies' cheeks. I heard she loves maple-walnut ice cream now. I will take her some and we will put it in a blender. Apparently, two teaspoons will suffice. I can't wait to take her in my arms.

This Download julia_darling.doc is one of the poems that felt meaningful to me on Friday and this morning, too.

Isro Hair

Hmm ... how strange ... twenty or more people, randomly, from all over the country and across the world have "googled" the term: Isro Hair these past 24 hours, and they keep coming up with this. Because of Amba's comment: "(Nappy Jewish hair:) Back in the day, hon, they called it an ISRO!"

I wonder why? Is/was it "Isro Hair Day?"

On the Road Again

Well tonight I fly again.

First stop, Rochester, New York for the NYSAEYC conference where I'll be presenting tomorrow morning, on "how our own emotions get in the way of working with children’s behaviors." Am not sure what kind of presentation it will be or if I will get much sleep tonight though, because there are a number of old friends I want to visit with as soon as I arrive. If we hit that old hotel bar we might be having a really good time ... if you know what I mean.

Next: onto - yes indeed - Buffalo, my old hometown for a whirlwind three days of seeing friends, having my hair trimmed (because obviously I cannot find a single new hairdresser anywhere in all of Philadelphia these past three months), visiting with Bob my therapist (and we have so much to talk about, process, observe, cry and laugh about), and spending time with Mar-Mar, who I am overjoyed to report, is home with her daughter and grandchildren.

Finally: On Wednesday I will drive to Syracuse, New York to give a couple of presentations for the Onondaga Community College and its Child Care Center teachers and staff.

Home on Wednesday night. I will try and keep you posted. I might even need to chat with you because going home always raises some feelings for me.

My question to you is this:

Will you still be here?

A Caring Child

Just in from CCIE:

Author and lecturer Leo Buscaglia once talked about a contest he was asked to judge. The purpose of the contest was to find the most caring child.

The winner was a four year old child whose next door neighbor was an elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife. Upon seeing the man cry, the little boy went into the old gentleman's yard, climbed onto his lap, and just sat there. When his mother asked what he had said to the neighbor, the little boy replied, "Nothing. I just helped him cry."

Is it grief or honor?

Oh my! How I've changed.

I dedicate these pictures to Richard - just because.

Feeling Safe (update)

And Quote of the Day (with thanks to Amba):

A Romanian proverb, "You'll die . . . but not in May." 

Many thanks to Plumbing the Deeps for this ...

See below for an updated anecdote received as an e-mail:

In Scolding:Why It Hurts More Than It Helps, Erik Sigsgaard talks about the psychological effects of scolding. Amongst the damages caused by scolding he names, humiliation, guilt, shame, anxiety and stress. He describes philosopher Logstrup's phrase "the zone of the inviolability" or Goffman's "intimate space."

These terms describes a zone that every person has and where others have no admission. [It] is usually respected in the normal social life of adults. If on occasion it is violated [it] is perceived as unpleasant ... while adults normally intuitively respect each other's zone of inviolability, that is not the case in relations between children and adults.

Lately I have been thinking about what it is like to feel emotionally safe with someone.  Does everyone have a person they can feel emotionally safe with? Can a person feel emotionally safe with everyone? What are the qualities and attributes of a person we can feel safe with? Is it the fact that they listen without interruption? Is it their body language? Do they lean forward attentively coming in closer instead of backing away in fear? Do they criticize, analyze or judge? Do they accept and reflect? Is it the way they look? Their age? The shape of their hands or look in their eyes? Do they remind you of someone you know who made you feel safe when you were a child? Is it their smell? Do they touch too much or not enough? Is it something to do with the way they laugh, smile, cry with you or don't cry with you?

For example, hands were important for me when I was a child. The look, feel, texture, even the length of fingers. When I was eight and my mother had to go to hospital to give birth to my younger brother I agreed to stay with a friend of hers only because she had similar hands to my mother. Her hands made me feel safe. They were strong and capable.

What does it mean: emotionally safe? Is it that you can express yourself emotionally and the other person will not be afraid? Is it connected with being allowed to express anger without fear? Does it mean that you can talk about uncomfortable topics like death, divorce, hatred, love, jealousy, disappointment, anxiety, fear, success without worrying that the other person will leave you?

For example, as I was growing up the dominant view in my family was atheist, scientific and rational. Opinions of the significant adults in my life were intellectually cynical about religion. When I was twelve I felt safe to ask only one of my sisters: "Do you believe in God?" I knew she would not laugh at or tease me for asking that question. She was sitting at my bedside as I was going to sleep. I spoke softly so as not to be overheard. She replied, quietly, seriously, respectfully: "No, Tammy. But I know that some people do."

Has emotional safety got anything to do with people validating or believing your experience, or trusting them to tell you the truth?

As I get older and especially since Charlie died I think about who I would feel safe to die with if I became terminally ill. Of course I would want Tom and Gilad to be ever so close by. However, there is one person who I know would be able to tell me the truth about pain, illness and dying. She wouldn't try and make me feel better or cover up the reality and placate me with white lies. She would tell me what was really going on, with love, caring, without drama or sentimentality.

Appropriate emotional guidance is crucial for young children's emotional, social,cognitive, and physical development. I wonder about how teachers view emotional safety for themselves or how they were supported to feel safe when they were children.  I think about how their feelings of emotional safety affect guidance of young children's behaviors and, specifically, expressions of feeling.  Do teachers make connections between guidance of behaviors that make them uncomfortable and their own emotional experiences as children? And if not, how can we help them do that?

Have we all been brought up and educated by adults who have used scolding to shame and humiliate us? Does this make all adults wounded to some extent? How does this affect our interactions with children as we care for and educate them?

These questions are important for me as I proceed with writing my next book. Many of you are parents, all of you have been children, and some may be teachers. Do you have any thoughts, ideas, information or opinions that might answer my questions or generate different ones?

This just in as an e-mail from a teacher of four year-olds:

Great blog entry today. Am still thinking about it. Made me think of the big "religion" talk I had to have with my class a few years ago, among other things. It was the year I had O. in my class, who was being raised atheist, and several children who spoke frequently of the things they had been learning in Sunday school. The one thing I will never forget (and I have the exact conversation written down somewhere) was this exchange:

One child was using a "bad" word or calling someone a name, like stupid or poopyhead (can't remember exactly what it was). Another child said, very seriously, while painting at the easel, "God punishes you for using words like that." (some discussion about that followed) O. speaks up: "Well, it's not like that for me because I don't believe in God." ("YES!", I said to myself!) I think I interjected at some point with something like "Well, different people believe in different things and that's OK." (I use this line a lot!)

Time passed and the religious talk continued.  O. became really interested in some of the things they spoke about, particularly the notions of angels and heaven. Her dad became concerned and spoke to me about it. I came to you for advice and then had a "religion circle" that went very well, I thought, even if it did ultimately veer off into talk about Hercules (when I mentioned people that believe in a whole bunch of gods) and Disney movies. The gist of it was that "different people believe in different things and that's OK. When you're a kid, your parents want you to believe what they believe. When you become an adult you can decide what you want to believe in."

(We had started off the year like I always do talking about how everybody is different but inside we're all the same (we all experience happiness, sadness, need love, etc.) and reinforced it throughout the year.  There are many children's books about this but my personal favorite for that topic is Mem Fox's "Whoever You Are." Simple and to the point with fantastic illustrations. I think it helps children understand or respect individual differences to spend some time talking about them at the beginning of the year.)

Moise David Israel

This is my grandfather. He was the Chief Rabbi of Rhodes Island, Greece.

Ronnie, my new-found cousin, sent to me this painting he created from an old photograph. It arrived yesterday on a CD from London.

I reach for a copy of the Old Testament, published in 1939, that was given to me by my father. At the back of the book, Ezekiel Israel (my father) inscribed in fountain pen ink his genealogy stating that he was born in 1894.  In the "autographs" section my brother signed his name: Harry Terence Israel, 17th April 1944. Underneath I signed mine as a thirteen year old girl: Tamar Israel, 29th August, 1963.

The name of my grandfather is hard for me to read. I am not sure of the first name. I think it might be Hezkjah.

Moise David Israel is clearer.

I am inspired about Stories for the Infinite Future.

I dedicate this post to Shimon Israel, Ronnie Israel, and Gilad Barkan with love.

And Know That Place For the First Time

Why do I blog? This is not exactly the same question as "what is the meaning of life" but it feels similar today. I am still not sure about this blog's purpose. That is to say, my purpose.

There is no overriding theme like world peace, political opinion, news watch/reporting or developmental life stages in my blog.

Journalling is a private matter. Is that what I'm doing? Who cares what I think? It is interesting for me to see how the Internet connects me to different parts of the world but I have no illusions or aspirations as to how many people will "tune in" as a must-read of my blog.

Anyone who thinks they are going to get the readership of Daily Kos, Instapundit, kottke or Doc Searls without putting in about half a decade delivering compelling, well-written, cogent ideas from a unique point of view on a daily basis needs a new, perhaps less demanding hobby. A good blog is work and the whiners would do well to tend to their own blog knitting, says Ronni.

Well, it's not that I'm whining, Ronni, but do I want to do the "work?" And what is a "good blog" anyway? And as for "well-written, cogent ideas" ...

Often I read other blogs that are days and weeks, miles and months, years and light years away and beyond so much better than anything I have ever written or even thought of writing. They make my dismal attempts of literary experiment seem so stupid and benign, irrelevant, frivolous and, yes, even shamefully inferior.

I don't feel like I'm whining and am not in the mood to return to "knitting" although when I was young I knitted, creating gorgeous, intricate sweaters and cardigans for all my boyfriends, lovers and husbands, as well as an exquisite shawl, teddy bear, and kangaroo for my new baby Gilad when we lived in Manchester that year, 32 years ago. I am not looking for encouragement or "attention" regarding why I should, or what is the purpose or meaning of my blog.

This is a personal exploration, a self-indulgent navel-gaze as I feel that my life lately, hangs, suspended in space.

And yet, as I share thoughts, feelings, ideas and opinions with "cyber friends" or shadows swinging on the airwaves of the blogosphere I feel curiously tuned in and part of something so much bigger than myself - a virtual universe of fellow travelers on some strange, ephemeral journey to who knows where. It becomes exhilarating and exciting. I even lose my voice through the sheer joy at singing self-expression silently.

We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time. T.S. Eliot

Must I conclude, therefore, that I blog for pure, selfish, unadulterated pleasure?