Brief Reflection on a Daughter’s Graduation

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When she was four, she graduated from Hayes Nursery School. She was growing up fast. The children sang their songs, got their little certificates, and we eased into summer.

The next 9 years were reassuringly graduation-free. Time seemed to stand still a little bit because of the lack of ceremonial transitions. For a number of years, she would stand alone on the talent show stage and sing, a cappella, one of many multi-verse Irish rebel songs she had learned by osmosis from her dad. Standing stiff and straight, she’d launch into a song, crisply enunciating lines like:

“What will my local brethren think, when they hear the news 
My car it has been commandeered, by the rebels at Dunluce”
“We’ll give you a receipt for it, all signed by Captain Barr
And when Ireland gets her freedom, boy, you’ll get your motor car”

When you have a small daughter who does that, as you, her dad, and everyone else in the room stares in awe, you sort of get the idea that things are special around here. That tradition—of singing a rebel rousing song at the end of May every year—became a kind of passage-marker as she “graduated” from kindergarten to first to second to third and on up through the ranks.

I have been blessed to know many children who really liked school. As a teacher at a very special school, I saw them every day in my classroom. The ones who did not like school were quite rare. My son really liked school. He enjoyed the camaraderie and the sports and the hours spent in the art room or the science lab or learning guitar with a cool jazz musician on Thursday mornings.

With my daughter, it was different. If living life is partly about finding “the flow”—school was definitely part of her “flow.” She stayed in the flow through her 8th grade graduation, at which she spoke, with wisdom and a droll humor that kept everyone laughing, her high school graduation, cum laude etc. etc. and then, ever the educational traditionalist, college, after a mere four years of #crushingit.

It’s a funny thing to sit, surrounded by strangers and family, as several hundred names are read out, and several hundred beautiful 22 year olds stride proudly across a stage at the Saratoga Performing Arts Center, where, for a variety of reasons, your daughter’s college holds commencement.

All those years ago, we chose a name for the baby who got herself born in record time due to having “been there, done that” so many lifetimes’ worth (I am convinced). We gave the name to a small human we made. It was our second gift to her, after life itself.

She wrote that name on her pictures, poems, and papers, on her notebooks, baseball gloves, riding helmets, applications, résumés, water bottles, and social media accounts. Then one day someone says that name into a microphone and yet another birth happens, as the human we made moves through yet another passage from what came before, to all that still awaits.

 

Hairdresser Goddess Guru Kindred Spirit Soul Sister

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She’s about six feet tall with the face of a goddess, yet nothing about her intimidates. Radiating warmth, Molly (not her real name) is a woman in touch with herself as much as with others.

My relationship with Molly started the usual way, through the recommendation of a friend. Despairing, I had all but given up on my once lush, silky hair that had turned into sparse straw on my head. My fall from “great hair” status had taken its toll on me, I’ll be honest. I was struggling, as I passed deeper into middle age, to come to grips with lots of stuff, but when my hair betrayed me it was almost too much.

At first my interactions with Molly were entirely professional. She exuded confidence and set about fixing me, hair-wise. And she did. Not all at once (after all it had taken years for life and me to destroy my hair). But within a year, I was a new woman. And my hair looked better and better. It was obvious that this woman is very very good at what she does. As well as very good at… being a person.

Molly trusts and honors her own instincts, always. She dresses the way she wants too. Confident style. When I first knew Molly, her hair was shortish, and sometimes white blond and sometimes shimmery brunette. Eventually, her hair grew long and she used it as an art medium when she took it to full, glorious dreadlocks. That transition made me fangirl even more, if that’s possible. But her beauty, tawny youth, and loving smile are nothing compared to… what shall I call it? Okay, her soul.

She is an incredible single mom. She is a seeker. She is an artist and she loves life and her own journey with powerful feeling. She has deep wisdom that has been forged, at least partly, in the cauldron of busy past life cycles.

The more we talked, the more we realized how profoundly we understood one another on many levels. I have opened up to her about things I have not told anyone else. And it’s not just that she’s safe, because she doesn’t know the people I know, blah blah blah. You know, the dynamic you get when people open their guts to the bartender, realtor, or, okay, well… hairdresser. It’s not like that. Once a month I show up in her chair and we pick up wherever we left off. We both share from somewhere deep inside. We both listen. We are interested. I want to know about her process, her journey, her exciting view of the world from where she is.

We support one another with clips of wisdom, fit into the time slot allowed—between the color and the wash, the snipping and the blowdrying. She has texted me once or twice, at crucial moments, when she knows I’m about to face something particularly difficult. She has seen me at my very worst. She’s seen me high on life. She’s seen me cry. Hard. She gives hugs, and accepts them too.

She got a call from me one afternoon as I sat by the side of a road in Texas deeply afraid I’d never be able to drive again, so shattered did I feel in that moment. Yes, I called Molly. Somehow, she was tuned into a particular part of my inner journey in a way no one else was, or could be. She talked to me for an hour, probably. Got me back on the road. And then we did not see one another till I was back in New York and had my next appointment. Another effortless chapter in our serialized relationship.

Molly is young enough to be my daughter, but mine is not a motherish feeling, and hers is not a daughterly vibe. Sisters find each other in the most unlikely places, at the most serendipitous of moments. She is a healer, a visionary, a friend. Molly’s gifts come in all colors and work in all seasons. She has a lust for life and she is simply determined to make the best of the one given to her. She is a competent, independent woman with strong ideas, a superb mind, and a huge heart. I am her biggest fan. Not only does Molly have a vocation, she has a big round universe full of everything else—all the things you might not realize when you see her standing behind the chair, scissors in hand. Unless you are really looking.

Road Trip Yummy

Crossing the GW bridge.

Crossing the GW bridge.

On the road.

I can do anything. Stop at every Starbucks on 95, even when the latte I got at Vince Lombardi’s rest area is still half full. I can take a pee break every 45 miles with no one making wise cracks about how much water (and coffee) I drink.  I can get off the highway in favor of local roads and less convenient conveniences. Listen to Classic Vinyl on Sirius for three hours straight. Pull over at a rest area to take a nap or write something down I happen to be thinking about. Randomly decide to stop halfway to my destination at a funky motel with lavender shutters and no wifi. Change my plans! Make new plans! ANYTHING.

As Ms. GPS ticks down, reminding me when I’ll arrive at my “final destination” (at least for this leg of my trip), I might throw the little minx a curve ball. Ask her to find a nearby Apple Store. The glitches I’ve been living with on my phone are suddenly two exits away from being solved. While I’m strolling across the strange parking lot, I think about what living in this city would be like. “Wow, this mall has an Anthropolgie. I can see living here.”

I like to drive past university campuses. Work, read, or write in local coffee shops. Type local coffee shop passwords into my computer and tell it to “log in automatically.” I could be back here one day, after all.

Friendly barista.

Friendly barista.

I imagine that, instead of driving south into the lowering sun, I head to the lecture tonight about the “emergence of eco-critical art history.” I ask the barista for directions to Mitchell Hall. As I walk out with my tall black decaf he says, “Enjoy the lecture!” I get back in my car and head for the highway.

The sun falling low in the sky is almost as thrilling as the sun on the rise, glamouring the horizon at dawn when I launched this trip. Long, long ago this morning, or yesterday…. Or last week. Long shadows make me sad, but mostly happy.

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When I am on a road trip by myself, I pull over often to get out of the car and take pictures. The trip I’m on as I write this, spring emerged before me as I headed south. Any roadside bush with its branches fuzzy with baby leafbuds is worthy of my attention and immortalization via iPhone. The sun falling slantwise on a clump of crocuses or the green-gray of an awakening field. Sometimes these small moments feel like a fist slamming into my chest to awaken my heart.

The gift of crocus.

The gift of crocus.

Getting there might be the best part. But being there—that is wonderful too. When I am there, I am elsewhere. Mysterious and new, or familiar—a place from my past, perhaps, elsewhere excites me. Later on, when I head home again, elsewhere will whisper in my ear, “There is noplace like home.” By then, I’ll be tired of my road trip and ready again to believe that truism.

But while I’m in the sexy arms of another city, another state, or another stretch of road, I’m damned fickle.

Oxymorons for a New Age

This is my now.

This is my now.

Living in the now has become a buzz-phrase lately. A standard bearer for logic and linear time might wonder, “If we are alive, and unable to time travel, what other damned moment would we be living in?” To someone so tapped into “the flow,” even “now” might be too fluid a concept to pin down and actually live in.

But let’s not overthink this. The point I’m trying to make is that buzz-phrase or not, there are plenty of helpful bits of advice being turned into memes and tweets and book blurbs all over the place these days. There are driven people out there who actually think that being busy equals being important or being stressed is somehow cool, but who want to be up on all the latest trends (like “living in the now”). They have heard stress will kill you, and they get that. But the killing part comes later, after they have retired from being stressed and thus can stop death in its tracks by hiring a meditation guru or learning Qi Gong. They’ll live in the “now”… later.

A strange conflict emerges as smart people try to put relaxation and now-ness on their to-do list.

I’m trying to play more.

It seems to me that play just sort of happens, or should. I mean sure. We can head to the gym for that weekly pick-up game of b-ball and play our guts out. Or we can put “game night” on the calendar and invite our most irreverent and funny friends over for a rip-roaring round of “Screw Your Neighbor” but play is so much more than that. Play is a state of mind. You can play in your mind, with yourself, as you re-wonder about things you’ve already wondered about. I think that laughing out loud at your own clumsiness is playful, or turning spilled coffee into a game to see who can get to the floor first, you or the drips. Play is by definition impractical and gives pleasure. I need more of it, that’s for sure. Here’s what I think: don’t try. Just play.

I’m struggling to let go.

Believe me, letting go is often not easy. Whether it is letting go of lost love or a bad habit, easier said than done. But it seems to me that the struggling and striving we do to let go causes us to hold on harder than ever, without meaning to. I picture someone (like me, many times) straining under the burden of …letting go, so that nothing at all is released and implosion is the only natural outcome. I’d prefer to lie down on the sand inside my mind and open my palms to the sun, until whatever I am holding onto just drifts off on the wind. No struggle necessary.

I’m straining to understand.

Strain and strife are antithetical to understanding in many ways. Most of my “aha” moments come when I am open, mind, body, and heart, to the messages available to all of us. Believe me, I’m as guilty as anyone of squinching up my face in an effort to make a round thought make sense in my triangle brain. If I just wait till my brain gets a little rounder, it all makes sense. Suddenly and completely with no squinching. I’ve decided that instead of “trying to understand,” I’ll just allow understanding to fill me.

So much of life today intrudes on the very concept of today. I want today to be itself, a whole 24 hour moment of now that fits nicely with yesterday’s now, and tomorrow’s now. I’m working on it.

 

 

Big Rambling Houses, Cliffs to Jump Off, and the Power of Flight

After more than a decade during which I almost got used to the fact that access to my sleeping mind had been cut off, I’m remembering my dreams again. There is more than one way to tap the unconscious, but dreams were always my fallback. The membrane was reliably soft and easy when I awoke, and I could ease back through it, take a look, and know what my message for myself was that day.

Well, it is all there for me again. Over the years, I had invited my dreams back now and then with not a lot of success. They say you can train yourself, but I think there is more to it than that. I guess I’m ready for them again. Ready to hear what they have to say and see what they want to show me. (In other words, ready for what my higher self needs to teach me.)

Lately, my dreams have had three common threads. Aside from a series of dreams in which I see someone I badly miss, I’m dreaming about rambling houses, edges off which I jump, and the power of flight.

As a child, my dreams of flying were so constant and so real to me that I spent a few years around the ages of 6 or 7 secretly believing I really could fly. I just though I wasn’t good at controlling it while I was awake the way I could when I was asleep. I have not flown like that in my dreams for over 30 years and I have missed it very much.

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Flight. In childhood, I usually flew to save myself, in an often-narrow escape from someone or something. And sometimes I flew just for the joy of it. Now that I’m flying again, the frequency is reversed. The occasional “good thing I know how to fly so I can get out of this freefall” but with a lot of “damn, I can FLY” kinds of dreams that I wake from feeling good and filled with a glorious POWER.

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Big rambling houses. In one recent dream sequence, the staircase to the basement was made of empty wine crates. (Hard to navigate but begging the question: where did all that wine go?) I made my way down that scary staircase, without fear. My cats are occasionally with me, familiars even as I sleep, and they often do a good deed or exhibit impressive supercat skills, sort of the way I superhumanly fly all over the place. Not to be sidetracked by the props and minor characters  — these dreams are about dank basements, endless hallways, doors…and me, always faced with a CHOICE.

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Precipices. In one badass dream lately I took a bad guy (faceless, nameless, but menacing) by the hand and jumped with him off a cliff. Even though it looked like the edge of a porch, it was indeed a very intense cliff, and we ended up plummeting through dark bottomlessness until I conveniently let go of his hand and flew to safety. Though I made the choice to exert my power and avoid termination at the bottom of that particular precipice, cliffs are about risk and facing fears and, in my mind, they are about MAJOR CHANGE.

moon

The recent full moon (which was ruled by Virgo, as it happens) still holds sway over us all. And over me, telling me that change is inevitable, that it is time to live truthfully if I’m not already, that everything I’m going through inside and outside of me is prepping the stage for my future. Sure, I know that every act and thought and feeling is, in a sense, doing that. But we all know when the shit that’s going down is BIG and when it’s not. This feels big.

So I look at the dreams (and so much more) and conclude that I have the power to fly. I can fly away, I can fly up, down, or in. I can save myself, and I can let go of what is not serving me. And I can fly just to fly, for the joy of being weightless and free. And I have choices and they are forcing themselves into my consciousness so I’ll make them. Not all of the choices are easy, not all of them are safe. Just like the big houses. Scary basement or door number three? And I am on the brink—of something. The very knife-sharp edge of whatever it is, I can make the leap… and be okay.

goddess power

 

 

 

 

Scarlet Words—How Women’s History and Power Was (partly) Stolen by Changing the Language

 

Ishtar--Queen of Heaven/Whore of Babylon

Ishtar–Queen of Heaven/Whore of Babylon

The other day I woke from an undifferentiated dream with the words, “verbs, nouns, and scarlet adjectives” in my head. When I considered this word cluster, after a cup of coffee, I determined that its key word was “scarlet.” I pondered the word “scarlet” over the next few days. My train of thought, Google, and most importantly The Woman’s Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets by Barbara Walker all reminded me of an enormous cover-up perpetrated by the Judeo-Christian patriarchy.

Not to put too fine a point on it.

Scarlet. I asked myself, and several other people, what that word conjures. Literally everyone said either The Scarlet Letter or “a scarlet woman” or both. Scarlet + woman = fall from grace, shame, sin. In other words, whore, harlot, hussy, slut. The original scarlet woman, it turns out, was the woman who has come down to us as the Whore of Babylon. In Revelations, chapter 17, we are told just how horrific this woman (spoken with dripping scorn and indignant rage) was. A few choice quotations:

  • “Come hither. I will shew unto thee the judgment of the great whore that sitteth upon many waters with whom the kings of the earth have committed fornication, and the inhabitants of the earth have been made drunk with the wine of her fornication….”
  • And shortly thereafter: “I saw a woman sit upon a scarlet coloured beast, full of names of blasphemy…. And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet colour, and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, having a golden cup … full of abominations and filthiness of her fornication.”
  • And last but not least: “And upon her forehead was a name written, MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH.”

But let’s back up a bit.  Like 3 or 4 thousand years. Harlot, the word so contemptuously used by the writers of the Book of Revelation in the Old Testament, was originally the name for the sacred priestesses who served the Great Goddess Har, also known as Ishtar. From the word “har” came other words, such as “hara,” a Hebrew word for great mountain or pregnant belly, and Harmonia, a daughter of Aphrodite and bringer of peace. The Greek “horae,” the Persian “houris,” or the Hebrew “hor” (“synonym for the sacred prostitute and the Goddess she served”*) are all etymologically linked to the word “whore.” But the fact is, sacred “harlots,” and priestesses of the goddess Har, or Ishtar, were powerful and honored, in fact revered, members of pagan societies.

Pagan priestess in full possession of her power and her sexuality.

Pagan priestess in full possession of her power and her sexuality.

Words that mean one thing for thousands of years: co-opted and degraded in a matter of a few hundred years by one male-dominated institution.

Let me continue. The scarlet woman—often seen wearing the red (and/or purple) of divinity—was first of all the great Ishtar, aka Queen of Heaven aka the Great Whore of Babylon. She called herself “a prostitute compassionate” and she and her priestess harlots were “honored like queens at centers of learning in Greece and Asia minor.” Despite her reverenced position throughout the ancient world, she comes to us via the Bible as “the mother of abominations,” among other things.

Some of these priestess-whores actually did become queens. Justinian’s bride, Theodora, was a temple harlot before she said, “I do.” The Emperor Constantine’s very own mother, now canonized (St. Helena), was a harlot before she became an empress/saint. Gosh why don’t Western histories tell us this stuff?

Priestess-whore/divine feminine

Priestess-whore/divine feminine

So, countless ancient yet sophisticated cultures including the Egyptians, Babylonians, Greeks, Persians, Hindus, Japanese—all revered women whose lives were spent in temples, as hierodules (representing the goddess on earth) having sex with men (often priests), who were honored as healers (their vaginal secretions and spit were said to have healing powers), and who were valued as brides when their service in the temple was over. Very, very cool.

That was back when sex was not a sin, women were not only allowed to be sexual beings but adored for their sexual powers, and when “virgin” meant unmarried woman. You’ve probably heard of the “Vestal virgins?” Well what you were not told is that most if not all the priestesses who looked after temples were virgins. Meaning they chose to remain unmarried. And have as much sex as they wanted in their roles as priestess-virgins.

Now, of course a “whore” is a term of degradation and contempt. Young women are hog-tied by the idea that “virgin” means “girl who does not have sex” instead of independent woman who is allowed to make her own sexual choices. Rethinking the mother of Jesus—we were told she was a virgin when her womb quickened with humankind’s savior. Well, according to the meaning of “virgin” at the time (aka the original meaning of that word), that meant she was not married. It did not mean she had not had sex.

How did this complete co-opting of language (nouns, verbs and scarlet adjectives) happen? Easy. The rise of the Christian church put the kibosh on anything that smacked of feminine power. Whores held significant status in pagan culture, so they had to be brought low. Powerful and influential men literally stole the truth, rewrote history, and at a time when literacy was low and there was soon a church in every village, the redirection of language was achieved efficiently and brutally.

Typical example. The horae of Aphrodite—her “celestial nymphs, who performed the Dances of the Hours, acted as midwives to the gods, and inspired earthly horae (harlot-priestesses) to train men in the sexual mysteries”*—were magically transformed by the church into virgins (the kind who don’t have sex), martyred, and turned into three maiden saints—Agape, Chionia, and Irene. Done.

Sacred horae

Sacred horae

Another example. In Iceland, a very matriarchal society at that time, every woman worshipped the goddess in her own home, on her own hearth. This woman was known as a “hussy,” and typically shared her “hus” (which meant both home and place of worship) with more than one “hus-band.” But when Iceland agreed in about 1000 AD to become Christian, guess what? The word hussy became a derogatory term. Done.

The Christian patriarchy seemed to be all about taking the power to choose away from women, a woman’s power over her own body being a prime example. At first glance one might think, how can anyone take one’s power to choose, or to control what she does with her body, away from a woman? We all know how it’s done today. Through public opinion, rape and the perpetuation of rape culture, legislation, and any number of societally accepted norms (from pay scales to product marketing) that marginalize and diminish women, or try to. And often succeed.

As the Catholic orthodoxy rose to prominence in Western and Eastern Europe, a woman with a lover became indistinguishable in the eyes of the church from a professional prostitute. Both were considered “whores.” In fact, women who gave their love and body freely to a lover were tortured in hell as viciously as the reviled prostitutes. St. Augustine and others depicted the torments reserved for sexually active women (whether lovers or whores) as being among the very worst—greater than those for murderers, for example.

We have inherited this twisted view of women and language—whereby both the women themselves and the words that described them have been repainted by a society hell-bent on destroying the truth and keeping women “in their place.” Though no longer considered the property of men, women are still either actively treated as objects or allowed by much of the bystanding populace to be objectified day after day on billboards, on Twitter, by Hollywood, you name it.

It would be lovely to reclaim our “nouns, verbs, and scarlet adjectives” in the pursuit of a genuine equality. It bothers me, I must admit, that history seems to begin, in the minds of 99% of the world, after women’s power was systematically stolen from them. Part of empowering women and men is to resurrect the truth and at least have a working knowledge of what the words that are used to shame, control, and demean women actually mean.

Scarlet. The color of a woman’s power, a woman’s sexuality, a woman’s direct connection to the divine. It has become my favorite word.

*from The Woman’s Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets, by Barbara G. Walker, entries on Horae, Ishtar, and Prostitution. Much of my information came from this source and I highly recommend this book to you if you do not have it.

Four Women and a Starting Place. Add 30 Years.

The 4 of us.

The 4 of us.

In Charlottesville, Virginia, humid late August 1977, two girls met in a shared suite in a dorm at the University of Virginia.

That was me and Molly, forging a friendship that was, for a time, like two people wearing the same sweater. There was the closeness of oneness and the parallel discoveries and experiences of a lifetime. First love, first hangover, first bong hit, first writing workshop, first apartment, first sex, first predatory professor, first job – all of it shared together if not in words, then in simply showing up.

Eventually I got Molly a job at the place I worked – she became barmaid in the dance club behind the restaurant where I waited tables downstairs, and men we found easy to fall in love with worked upstairs inside a golden circle, or behind the bar, shielded by cigarette smoke. There was not much we did not do together at first, and as we split off to live our own lives, nothing really changed about loving each other. She had a perfectly expressive face, animated eyes, eloquent long fingered hands. She wrote poetry and was learning Chinese.

Me, Molly, and our friend Bridget, outside the Cottage-of-Many-Parties.

Me, Molly, and our friend Bridget, outside the Cottage-of-Many-Parties.

She loved to eat and drink at bars with me, or sit at coffee shops imbibing hideous coffee and smoking hideous cigarettes as we talked about everything from Modernism to sexy guitar players we had a thing for. Molly represents the period in my life when I was figuring out who I was (or starting to), choosing my path, taking risks (as she puts it so lovingly) with my heart. Then she moved to Taiwan and I never saw her again. Until three weeks ago.

In Charlottesville, Virginia winter of 1982, two young women met in “The Cave” – an interior space in the bowels of Cabell Hall that served coffee and snacks.

I was introduced to Anne, a young MFA student, a poet, a girl with thick black hair held back by a barrette. Soon enough, she was coming to the little cottage in town that I shared with a mutual friend, Bridget, for pot luck dinners and round-robin back rubs. This friendship grew gently. It was allowed to do so because we were both settled, secure in our circles of friends, ready to get to know one another and we had time to do it.

I remember those years. There was so much time. Always enough time, to sit and be, go to work, go to class, write lots of papers and stories, hang out with other people, play silly games on bar napkins, dance till 3 a.m. and walk home sweating and alive only to have more time the next day. I remember showing up to meet Anne one day at the Virginian. I had just left the woods where I had been picnicking with my boyfriend. The strap on my shoe had broken. I saw her at the bar and I walked up, holding one sandal in my hand. She laughed. That was a perfect moment.

Her earnest, joyful, loyal friendship has seen me through … a lot. Her lush, alto voice is sure to help me feel centered, no matter where I am, or how I’m doing. We were in each other’s weddings and then…. For years, as we raised families and started careers, we rarely saw one another, but at some point I was reminded that, for me, Anne is a lodestone. Now, I see her whenever I can.

Anne and me in 2014, enjoying an afternoon visiting a couple wineries!

Anne and me in 2014, enjoying an afternoon visiting a couple wineries!

In Charlottesville, Virginia, fall semester 1983, I met Sarah in one of two classes we, by chance,  were taking together – a seminar dedicated exclusively to George Eliot and Charlotte Bronte (I know, heaven, right?), and a Lit Crit class.

Sarah had just moved back into the town. She had grown up and attended high school in Charlottesville, and now returned to finish up her college credits at UVA. I was still where I’d been since 1977, finishing up my college credits. And now, we got lucky – fate brought us together.

To say that my young twenties were fraught with some painful passages (some the usual kind about a broken heart, and some less usual, involving being stalked by a mentally ill parent), would be a glib sidestep, but that’s what I’m going to say and leave it at that. Sarah was the North Star smiling right into my face as I tried to put my head down, determined to get my diploma. We used to joke that we had parallel lives, and in some ways we did. We certainly were drawn to the same writers, and we both had “difficult” mothers. Sarah was the person who, no matter what was going on, would reach out to me. Years after I’d left Charlottesville, when she saw my missing-for-months mother wandering a street in Bethesda, MD, she called me immediately, knowing how much it would mean to me.

When something hurt me, or I was holding on too tight to my control, it was Sarah’s level gaze that would gently ease me into recognition, out of denial, and it often involved copious, painfully-relinquished tears. Sarah has remained my external hard drive, holding onto memories about my life that I have unwittingly let go. She can summon anger at a man who hurt me, or a job that demanded too much (like when I had to constantly cover for the coke-fiend diva who employed me), when I cannot because I have pushed things down too far. Sarah will hold me accountable to the events that transpired in those last years in my favorite town where so much good and bad happened.

When Sarah and I reunited in person after a 12 year gap. 2010.

When Sarah and I reunited in person after a 12 year gap. 2010.

None of these three women were friends with one another. Anne and Molly took a poetry class together at one point early on, and may have crossed paths through me. I used to love to open my house up to everyone I knew for pot-luck parties that had as much insanely good conversation as shitty wine and yummy food. We don’t think Sarah ever met either of them until she met Anne at my wedding in 1986, then, years later through me again, in Charlottesville. All of us had our circles of friends, and like a typical Venn diagram, there was some overlap. But in the Venn diagram of me, Molly, Anne, and Sarah, the little piece in the middle just had me.

These women were, like others I was fortunate to know in those formative and exciting years, absolutely central to my life and are intricately woven into who I am.

A few weeks ago, because Molly was going to be in the states (Richmond, VA to be exact) for a vacation—all the way from Taiwan—I drove down to Charlottesville with my daughter. Molly drove up from Richmond. We were pulled to reconnect for the first time in 30+ years. Sarah and Anne, who live in Charlottesville, Molly, my daughter, and I, gathered for dinner one night. Four sets of memories, four ways of knowing me, four versions of my past… and The Past. And I knew each of them in a particular way, at a particular time. We had found one another for particular reasons.

I think of certain women, scattered across my life, as my chosen sisters. Or my found sisters. Whether we come together to fulfill a pact made in a past life, or to continue helping one another grow on a continuum that predates and will postdate this lifetime, or by chance alone, it doesn’t matter. For that weekend in Charlottesville, January 2015, I was content to be the hub connecting these women to one another at this time and that place.

We met for dinner and we were just four women and a daughter. As we sat together around the table, sparklers twinkled at the edges of my vision. Was this a magic trick? Or life so sweet? Was it simply as it was meant to be? Yes to all.

The Privilege of Self-Improvement

privilege

Not that I’m the poster child for personal evolution and self-discovery, but I sure do feel privileged. Why? Because at  every point in my life when I had the urge to take a step into my unknown mysterious calling – whatever it was at the time – I could take it.

This rather obvious fact hit me over the head the other day. With privilege comes both time and money – both of which are quite helpful when we want to self-improve. Whether it is the Reiki training I suddenly felt called to, or the shamanic training I’ve received over the last ten years, or the hours spent across a table from a dear soul sister sorting through the latest spiritual bushwhacking we’ve participated in – I’ve been blessed.

Sure I work hard and sure I strive and toil – a fact which unites us all on some level. But a still, sun drenched winter morning spent with one of two Tarot decks at my disposal is within my realm of possibility. If I hear about a book that I know will kick my butt, or amuse me, or guide me to a door that needs opening, I buy it. If I have to head up to the mountain top that is my journeying spot, I head there (either in reality or otherwise).

Sure I’d like to travel to Greece and do a goddess tour, or to Italy to seek details of a past life – not every privilege is “easy” for everyone who is privileged, but I’m pretty confident I’ll be able to make these trips happen, as well as a week or two among the Celtic mysteries in Scotland and Ireland. Something to aspire to. And I can.

  • Because I don’t have to aspire to get my GED because I didn’t have to drop out of high school. I got a kick-ass education because I grew up assuming that was important and that I could. Even though I put myself through college and grad school, I consider that a privilege too. I knew how to support myself and had done so for 10 years by the time I was done with my education. And that is a kind of empowerment many uber-privileged children are denied. Things can come too easily, it turns out.
  • Because I was empowered enough to know I had choices. I did not have to bear a child when I could not do justice to one. I was able to choose when to bring my babies into the world – and they waited for me to be ready.
  • Because I was born white and middle class, to an ambitious, upwardly mobile (if mentally unstable – can’t have everything) mother. Not only was I clad and shod, fed and taught, there were books on the shelves and records on the stereo and paintings on the wall. And trips to the Met and MoMA, Lincoln Center, and Carnegie Hall.
  • Because I don’t have to work a minimum wage job, or depend on food stamps to survive, and if I work a second job it is not so I can pay the heating bill, it’s so I can send my own kids to college, or maybe save up for that trip to Greece. Feel me?
  • Because I have health insurance.
  • Because I have the luxury of thoughtful opinions, know that my vote matters, and have time to speak up, opine, march, fight for my rights and those of others (with words, anyway). Single moms living in tenements have no such luxury, though voting is power and everyone has that privilege…. At least for now.

When privileged politicians use their positions to look with contempt on those less fortunate, I realize they are not using their privilege to self-improve, but to self-aggrandize, and worse. Their karma is entirely besmirched, of course, but I won’t gloat about that. Everyone else pays the price of their comfortable hetero-patriarchal ability to look down on people who are not like them.

I’ll try hard to use my privilege not only to improve upon my small soul, but to grow my large soul. Oh, and love everyone. Even that, it seems, is a privilege.

Body of Gratitude — Reprise

gratitude

I wrote most of this blog a year ago. At that point, I wrote about the previous year, and the journey I had taken out of heartbreak. Most of the 30 blog posts leading up to last Thanksgiving’s blog were stepping stones to healing, taking me closer to moments of real happiness. I have come to realize that happiness is, though an aspiration worthy of us, a bonus, like when the champagne pops or they move you up to first class for no apparent reason.

Today I am with my family. This whole week, actually. My entire family, which includes not only my children, but also the father of my children, once so estranged from me that we divorced. There is no accounting for how the heart’s GPS will take you. Eventually you end up where you are meant to be. And for that, I am grateful this Thanksgiving. The rest of this blog is the same as it was before. I liked it then, and think it worthy of another Thanksgiving. I hope you like it….

Some people have a body of work to represent a lifetime of creation. Today, I find that I have a body of gratitude that represents a lifetime of blessings.

Head. Inside my extra-large head there is a brain that works well, most of the time. I have always trusted my brain to get me through. To be smart and capable. It is a quick thinker, and I’m grateful it lets me keep up. I may not be able to remember a lot of life’s details (see my blog on memory), but I remember enough. I remember falling in love with books, acquiring my baby sisters during the dark night of childhood, feeling happiness like bubbles that would surprise me on a Friday afternoon as I boarded the crosstown bus home from school. I remember dancing on the bar, skinnydipping at dawn, road trips at midnight with the friends of the moment. I remember the people I have loved and cleaved to for life: true friends. My head has gotten me into plenty of trouble, don’t get me wrong. I can overthink, overanalyze, the usual roadblocks of a writer and reader. But my brain has always been secure for me, and my friend. I am grateful for my head and everything that goes on in there.

Eyes. Thank you, universe, for not making me blind. I am as close to it as a person can be without actually being blind at all. My vision is appallingly bad – once estimated at 20/1800 by a surprised ophthalmologist I went to. But thanks to modern technology I am corrected to about 20/35 and have seen Swan Lake and The Nutcracker at Lincoln Center. I have seen the Pacific Ocean, the Caribbean and the Atlantic. I have seen a giant humpback whale staring at me from 20 feet below, as she popped up beside my boat. I have seen the faces of students look at me with disbelief, gratitude, pride, exhilaration, realization, frustration, desperation, love, joy, and the thrill of epiphany. I have read books, love letters, and the poetry of my gifted daughter. I have looked down from the top of the Eiffel Tower at the lights of Paris and have looked up at Arenal—a live volcano in Costa Rica, as it spewed truck sized globs of magma down its sides in glowing rivers. I have seen the look of love on the face of a few good men. Best of all, of course, I saw the faces of my children still smeary and blurred with the exercise of birthing. I saw them open their eyes for the first time to look at me, their mother in this beautiful lifetime. I am grateful for my eyes.

Mouth. What is life without the taste of fermented grapes, roasted coffee, or aged cheese? How can I ever describe how thankful I am for deep soft kisses?

Ears. My son is a musician. That alone gives my ears meaning. My father gave me his love by sitting me down in his study to listen to Sibelius, Brahms, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Puccini. Etc. The music of my life, from Joni to Aretha, poured through my ears and filled the spaces inside me like custard in a mold. Soon enough, the music was me. What about the sound of the surf, distant lawnmowers on a summer’s day, the swish of skis on groomed snow, the crackle of a fire, or the song of a mockingbird? Yeah, all of it.

Throat. The chakra spins. Having a voice. To speak, to be. I think with my head but I write with my body – my throat where my voice lives, and my hands that know how to get it all out. I am grateful for my throat.

Heart. There is no real explanation for why the heart works the way it does. I don’t mean why it pumps blood and oxygen to all the other parts of the body (grateful or otherwise)– scientists have that figured out. I’m talking about The Heart – the metaphorical seat of feeling. How does anyone know how to love? How can even the most damaged of souls have a heart of love inside them? I am grateful that loving has always come easily to me. Not necessarily trusting or sharing – but love, yes. My heart does not hold grudges. I loved my sisters on sight and that feeling has never waned. I love so many friends who could ask anything of me. I love my uncles, aunts, cousins galore, without reservation. I have loved a few men in my life. Not many. Enough. That love does not go away any more than any other love goes away. When someone is gone, the love just hibernates in the deep cells of the body of gratitude. I am grateful for those loves. The love a mother feels for the human beings grown in her body, fed from her body, nurtured on her body. Well, it seems obvious and effortless but I suppose it is not. Did my mother know that love? Hard to say. But I am grateful that I do.

Breasts. It took me a long time to be grateful for mine. As a young woman, I resented their asymmetry (which is remarkable and no I won’t put up a picture to prove it), their perky girlishness (was I insane?). Now I think my boobs kick all kinds of ass. They fed two very hungry babies who grew at record breaking rates. They have gained character and given me and others pleasure over the years. And at this stage in my life I am most grateful that they have retained their shape and… uh, elevation. Good job, breasts. Thank you.

Uterus. What can I say? I’m a goddess, as is every woman who contains within her the power of life. I fell in love with my body for positive sure when I grew a person inside me. And then again when I pushed it out with the power of all the love and gratitude any mere human can muster. And then I did it again.

Vagina. The magical mystery of being female. The vagina is a way out – for blood and/or life. Everyone starts life through that flowering exit. And it is the way in—to the center of a woman.  It is a mystery that everyone ponders, some fear, and some love. I am grateful for my vagina. It has given me joy, pleasure, glory, pain, and myself.

Legs. I am grateful for my legs and how pretty they have always been. How they let me dance. How they let me be tall. They ache now and then. My knees creak. But I can still boogie my ass off and hike a mountain and ride a bike and that’s awesome.

Feet. I am not always fearless. In fact fear has overcome me at times in my life. But I have guts. My feet, they walk. I do what I need to do. I go where I need to go, and work as hard as I need to work. Most of the time, my feet don’t fail me. I am grateful to my feet for carrying my body of gratitude through five decades of living. I am also grateful for pedicures.

There is not much in my life I am not grateful for, come to think of it. I even love the pain and heartbreak – how else could I be me without it? And I have food, clean water, health insurance, and a home I am not in danger of losing. I can use my head, my heart, my voice, my legs – to make a difference however small. I can go. I can come. I can say yes. I can say no. I can embrace. I can push away. I can stand tall. I can lie down. I can stay silent. But I probably won’t.

 

 

 

Asymmetry

Jacqueline Rocque by Picasso, 1954

Jacqueline Rocque by Picasso, 1954

I am asymmetrical. Though no one is perfectly symmetrical, they say, I am close to the “odd” end of the bell curve

At certain times of my life, the fact that my two halves are not mirror images of one another has caused me some consternation. Especially in my young years, growing into maturity in a world that values perfect symmetry as the epitome of beauty. Wikipedia puts it clearly: “More symmetrical faces are perceived as more attractive in both males and females, although facial symmetry plays a larger role in judgments of attractiveness concerning female faces.”

I’m not sure why human beings want both sides of an object to match each other in every particular. That desire may be encoded in our DNA. After all, nature designed the animal and plant kingdoms to have bilateral structures. At least on the outside. Nobody actually looks like Jacqueline Roque (whose picture is posted with this blog) in real life.

All the same, I’ve come to love the way my two halves don’t match. My left eye is smaller than my right, and my right eye has a smaller lid than my left. My left lid droops a bit over my eye, too, especially when I’m very tired. My left breast is almost half the size of my right. My nursing babies were not as happy with it – perhaps it gave less milk. My left foot, now that I am no longer so young, is aging more quickly than my right. Its toes curl a bit, and it’s falling apart (literally), whereas my right foot looks as youthful as ever.

The age old prejudice against the left side makes me feel protective of my less idealized left side. The words “gauche” and “sinister” – coming directly from the French and Latin words for “left” – diminish the quirky loveliness of the “other” side.

Not many people comment on my asymmetry. Though noticeable, it does not scream “FREAK!” I have had many men find me beautiful and desirable, something I have always enjoyed. As hard as I can be on myself and as difficult as the aging process is for me, I have always found myself striking to look at and, since my youthful and highly insecure years, have embraced my lack of mirror imagery.

Funny story. Once, a doctor said to me upon doing a visual exam of my breasts prior to the more painful, but much less awkward, touch exam – “Did you know your breasts are not the same size?” His voice was a bit shrill and he sounded quite taken aback. A medical professional no less. Seriously?

I looked him in the eye (not easy to do when your boobs are out) and said, “Why yes, I did.” He quickly covered his tracks, saying that it is not at all uncommon for breasts to be different sizes or even shapes. “Really, now, doctor. Are you saying that this lack of symmetry [I gestured to exhibits A and B] is common?”

“No, not really.”

I am unique! Maybe one side is my “best side” and one isn’t. Maybe I’ll dedicate the two sides of myself to science. I’m not quite ready for the freak show, mind you. Just a quirky Picasso-esque woman with two of everything.