tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2788054464194759122024-03-13T04:29:11.899-07:00Excavatorexcavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.comBlogger281125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-54527423101811922952018-10-26T11:30:00.001-07:002018-10-26T11:32:27.821-07:00ConnectionRecently I saw a meme on Facebook which purported to answer the question: "Why bother with creative writing?" "Because right now there is someone out there with a wound in the exact shape of your words" (Shaun Thomas Dougherty from <i>The Second O of Sorrow</i>.)<br />
<br />
I realize that there have been many times I've read words like that, words that kind of filled and assuaged a certain shape of inner...pain. Furthermore, I've had the experience of responding to someone's suffering by sensing a complementary shape inside of me. And when I offer that shape, it seems healing to the other person, and it seems to be a two-way healing. It heals me in some way too. There is a light that connects me to the other person, and then penetrates backward into me, and into my past, with healing light.<br />
<br />
How interesting.<br />
<br />
<br />excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-34792769854751049192017-07-29T21:16:00.000-07:002017-07-29T21:16:23.738-07:00A Glimpse Into a Marriage<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tonight Gary came by as Scott and I were getting ready to eat, and I hope I was
able to be an example for Scott of behavior I’d like to see in him:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>calmness, calmly stating boundaries, stating them
again (calmly) as many times as necessary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It actually did seem to be more
effective tonight, and hopefully Scott got an idea that it’s possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He doesn’t have to be triggered into going
out of control with his words or his voice—there are alternatives that are
better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His father grew up in such a way
that feeling out of control feels normal, and he cannot help but
create drama.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That feels like <i>home</i> to him. It can be hard on people around him, especially his family.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gary doesn’t know that it’s possible to be aware of his own feelings, even unpleasant ones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Thus he reacts blindly to them; he does not possess insight into them. </span>He doesn’t realize that being aware of being
aware of those unpleasant feelings takes them into the realm of choice rather than reflex.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He doesn’t know that this can
help him feel better inside and keep him from behaving counter-productively.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the reason he doesn't know this is because the agitated way he’s feeling inside that often makes it so difficult
to be around him—<i>feels <b>normal</b> to him.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When he’s acting from that version of normal, he is driving people
around him nuts, and he thinks there’s something wrong with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">them</i> because they’re so on-edge around him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He becomes the victim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is what my parents do…this is what
authoritarians do—they claim <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">they</i> are
the ones who are victimized!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, I kind
of think they actually believe it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">they</i> are the victims.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He feels himself in this place over and over, mainly with his sons and me because most friends are too polite to call him on this stuff,
and so the situation is contained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>However, they don’t pay as high a price for containment as I would—in
terms of absorbing his contempt and pretending to agree that I deserve
it--because that’s the only thing
that makes him feel right inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
order for him to feel right inside I needed to have never challenged him, or
questioned his actions, even if they were directed in a negative way at
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a while I guess we were both at that
futile game of
<i>the-definition-of-insanity-is-doing-the-same-thing-and-expecting</i>-a-<i>different-result</i>;
me hoping that if I worked hard enough I could find the right words that would
penetrate the shell of hurts that denied him access to his heart and spurred
him to act in ways that were so detrimental to our marriage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>His</i> version of the-definition-of-insanity
game was to keep up a cycle of <i>say-or-do-something-hurtful-then-refuse-to-acknowledge-doing-something-hurtful-and-then-be-angry-when-someone-names-the-thing-that-he-just-did</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That old game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'd hoped that his love for me would maybe
spur him to realize what he was doing and what his behavior was demanding and
allow him to have a moment where he was free to wonder if his
behavior and expectations were reasonable.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Eventually I was forced to give up that hope, and that game. I gave it a good chance, though.</span></span></div>
excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-12681932604203257042017-07-02T14:42:00.000-07:002017-07-02T14:50:28.241-07:00Excavation and Exorcism<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">I woke up to a concept in my brain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got it how it’s really true that my choices
were to do whatever it took to placate and get along with people because the
conditions of my being with them was that I absorb without complaint whatever
they gave me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">It is
true that for my parents to have been the parents I needed, that is, people who
could really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">see</i> me and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">listen</i> to me, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">listen to my deeper intent, </i>they would have had to have parents who
were able to do that for them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">What was
clear with Gary was that I had to absorb anything he threw at me if I was going
to be with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no
negotiation, not because he was particularly intentional about that, but
because he was unable to be flexible of mind for long enough to see that what
he was asking for was not really reasonable to ask:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that I absorb whatever he said or did, no
matter how unjust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that I absorb it
without saying anything about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
think it was the same dynamic, from my childhood to my friendships,
relationships, and marriage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
clear I could not be with people unless I absorbed without complaint what they did or said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How I react inside to what they say or do is
my problem to deal with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were very
strong feelings inside in response to the original situations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was not help offered to help me deal
with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I suppose what made it
bearable was to second-guess the feelings I was having, to doubt myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If it was possible the whole thing was my
fault, then I could stay with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And,
it hurt a lot to believe that I was inherently at fault, and it weighed me down
with great sorrow and shame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it kept
me in relationship.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">I couldn’t
reconcile—I needed them, at least my parents; that was a given.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So when they started doing things, because of
the misguided common wisdom on how to raise good kids (‘show ‘em who’s boss and
make them suffer if they don’t comply—and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">believe</i>/rationalize
that you’re doing it for their own good—and don’t look at how your behavior
affects them, because their preferences are outranked by adults.) I had no idea
things should be different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Telling an
adult that what they were doing was causing you pain only caused you more pain
because it would offend them and they would think you were being insubordinate
in telling them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So they did things that
caused me pain and caused me more pain when I told them that what they were
doing to me caused me pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So there is
no other choice but to conclude that there is something wrong with my inability
to not be deeply offended when they would behave a certain way toward me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I came to believe that I am flawed; what they are
saying or doing is offensive to me because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i>
am too sensitive, or I missed something, or that I have such a mean spirit that
I don’t just put it away from me and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not
allow</i> myself to feel offended.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I
would keep piling on reasons why I was at fault:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was thinking about it too much, I was
‘endlessly analyzing’, I was “attached”, I was “too sensitive”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Basically I was wrong for experiencing their
behavior toward me as noxious in the first place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The early relationships were crucial, and did
set the pattern for others:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>their
expressions of love for me could turn off very suddenly if they were unhappy
with something I’d done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I wasn’t
returned to equilibrium fast enough to not inconvenience them (and I might add,
without soft, intimate <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">assistance</i> to
return to equilibrium)(which meant I never learned how to bring my<i>self </i>back to
equilibrium, beyond attempting to swallow my disequilibrium and through force
of “positive thinking” neutralize it out of existence.) there was punishment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never could, and then I believed
there was something wrong with me because I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">couldn’t</i>
neutralize my disequilibrium out of existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then
I was very sad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then any expression of
love or a hint of closeness with one of these people would feel to me like a
lifeline to my own worth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">I am worth
having my own feelings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<!--EndFragment--><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">I do hope
that I don’t turn into a person who demands of others that they blur our boundaries
and permit themselves to be my Object.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I believe it would be wrong for me to demand it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe it was demanded of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe I had parents who confused
satisfying their own egos with raising good kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe my parents believed that if their
children did something that threatened their internal sense of standing with
their friends, that this meant their children had been wicked, and this had to
be punished out of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A kind of mild
demon exorcism, but cruel from the point of view of the child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think in the medieval exorcisms of old, the
belief that they were engaging with something evil allowed them to loose their
own demons, only they deceived themselves into thinking that they were serving
good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But they were serving their own
sadistic impulses.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">Not that my parents were at all sadistic. They just truly believed that in order to raise good people you had to make children suffer when they did something wrong. The rub comes from defining what "wrong behavior" is.</span></div>
excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-39851425281746257172017-06-25T15:14:00.000-07:002017-06-25T15:14:26.564-07:00Going back in time<div class="tr_bq">
I listened to an interview the other night that <a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/transcript/transcript.php?storyId=533653471" target="_blank">Terry Gross did with Sherman Alexie</a>. He was talking about his love for his children and how devoted he is to them, to demonstrating his love for them:</div>
<br />
<blockquote style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; float: none; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;">
GROSS: Do you hug your kids a lot?<br />ALEXIE: I am overtly huggy with my kids.<br />GROSS: (Laughter) OK.<br />ALEXIE: I kiss them a lot. I tell them I love them. I'm on the road, so I'm texting them constantly. I'm going to start crying again but, you know, I, you know, we like to think that as parents our love for our children is our love for our children as it is. But in being affectionate with my children, of making them aware of how much I love them is also me attempting to fill the absence from my own childhood.<br /><i>In fact, as I write in the book a poem, you know, I wish in the poem that I could defy physics, defy time and go back in time and be my mother's parent and adore her as a parent in the way I doubt she was ever adored.</i> So I adore my children, as you should. (italics mine)</blockquote>
<div>
Such a beautiful thought. For of course, for his mother to have loved him sufficiently, she too would have needed to be adored, as a baby, as a child.</div>
excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-5384861177225792282017-06-04T13:01:00.001-07:002017-06-25T12:15:15.408-07:00<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #0b5394;">I've been wanting to blog again. I'm missing that form of communication, even as I've kept up my steady private reflection, in my diaries.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #0b5394;">I'd forgotten, until I reviewed the last entry, made over a year ago, that I'd already announced that the original purpose of this blog had come to fruition: I'd come to decide that while I admire the sentiments of people who proudly say, "Divorce isn't in our vocabulary", it <i>needed to be in ours</i>. It needed to have been in it much earlier. This blog was meant to help me come to a decision about whether what was wrong in our marriage was my fault, and if I could correct it if it was. It saw me through making that decision, and then implementing it. It saw me through physically separating, and then finally complete the legal process not quite 2 years ago--basically it was a 7-or-so year process if the time it took to come to a decision is factored in. We were living separately for 5 years before finalizing.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #0b5394;">The blog had other functions and gifts, besides processing my divorce and the decision leading to it. Blogging about the divorce helped me to consider the dynamics of the personalities involved, and to realize that there did seem to be a repeating pattern, as if there were a basic template, which influences the shapes of the overlays of experience and people that manifest, mandala-like.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #0b5394;">I've described my understandings of these in my personal writings. But I'm out of practice in blogging, and find myself a little "tongue"-tied. My solution will be to publish some excerpted material in my journals, which touch on some of those understandings I've gained, but haven't quite integrated:</span><br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Got a message from Gary today saying he was bringing the dog
back too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something about needing a “break”
from animals, children, ‘my mom’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
couple of responses inside to that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Gratitude that I am free from anything having to do with these years in Gary’s mother’s life, where she appears to be hardening into the hints she gave
before of her character—which felt toxic to me then and time has shown to be
just that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the fruits you shall know
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I recognized the fruits long ago
that were in a more latent phase (plausibly deniable), but have developed the
way they appeared to be going to me all those years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gary refused to see it then and only blamed me
as being ‘mean’ to his mother, even if at other times, such as after having her
over for dinner or something, he’d comment on how ‘gracious’ I’d been to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But his internal narrative reads, despite the
evidence to the contrary, that I was the aggressor in that I saw her as what
she was, and it ran counter to her own narrative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She never forgave me for that, and continues
to demonstrate that by badmouthing me in front of my sons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(which also demonstrates a total lack of
regard for the feelings of her own grandsons, who apparently she doesn’t
recognize as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hers</i>…she sees them only
as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘mine’</i>, both of which objectify
them and therefore she does not truly love them—for what is love but a taking someone
for who they are, as opposed to only accepting them if they do
pleasing/appeasing things for those who are supposed to love them
unconditionally?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She reveals herself now more
obviously—before it seemed only I could see it...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And without my presence
there is no way that can be impugned to somehow <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i> ‘making’ her act that way—it is clear that she is only who she
is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sam and my sons can see her for herself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just like Trump’s own behavior speaks for
itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> (</span>It can’t be blamed on a liberal
media:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He does things that break the norms of what has been considered to be honorable behavior.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The media reports it.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the truth is not flattering to the Trump
administration, then it is branded as liberal fake news by Trump and
supporters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At this last portion of her life, Gary's mother’s
behaves blatantly in the ways I foresaw she would.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s a small woman.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And, it is a relief, to not have to be dealing with her in
the face of Gary’s inability to set boundaries with her and attempts to appease
her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That would be torture to be living
through without Gary’s support.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t
believe he would have given it to me, though sometimes he kind of leans on <i>me</i>
for support in the face of her behavior and nastiness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He cannot deny that she is very difficult and
demanding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had he and I truly been able
to be allies in that, I could have been a meaningful help and comfort to him as
he deals with the unpleasant parts of her aging (which to me seems like only an
intensification of parts of her that were unpleasant in younger years too).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This of course would have required that he
have the freedom to see his mother’s behavior objectively and concur with the
reality that it wasn’t really normal behavior.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He seemed unable to see it for what it was, or to sustain seeing-it-for-what-it-was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, he saw me,
and my seeing-it-for-what-it-was as evidence of deep wrongdoing in me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: red; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Fun and Games—reggae<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; mso-themecolor: text1;">Great music
playing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">I’ve just
started to feel kind of rested, having a week away from the responsibilities of
parenting—like the juggling of schedules with tennis, the deadline to get him
to school in the morning and having to calculate it against prevailing
conditions (heavy traffic on Barkerstown Rd and no Hillberry Rd alternative)—it’s a
bit of a tax on my energy to have those details to contend with daily in
addition to the effort to get him up and have him behave properly when he’s
tired and irritable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then the whole
homework and grade-monitoring responsibility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><span style="color: red;">Scott, I love you and giving you what you
need is worth the extra effort it may cost me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Forgive my need to be honest with myself and acknowledge that it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">does</i> cost me something, and know that I
am grateful to have you to make this effort on behalf of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In other words I’d so much rather have you
than to not-have the love-obligation to do right by you, even if it means I may
stretch my comfort zone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m grateful
for you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; mso-themecolor: text1;">Good music.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">4/2/17</span></b><span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; mso-themecolor: text1;">Sunday
1327<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; mso-themecolor: text1;">Scott will be
coming home soon so I think I’ll use the remaining time to relax a bit…maybe
reserve the vacuuming until later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; mso-themecolor: text1;">I need to
write the Colorado family to let them know I will be there, most likely with
Scott, and will there be a place to stay and would they like to come to the
performance?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; mso-themecolor: text1;">Inge came
over for breakfast and left at straight-up noon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I called my parents then, but they were just
beginning to eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So they called back at
about 1225 or so; I called them back around 1230 and then we were on the phone
maybe 40 minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I am taking a
break, before Scott comes home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; mso-themecolor: text1;">It’s always
such an interesting visit with Inge; she really calls to my inner intellect, and
I find myself making connections and associations I may not have
otherwise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; mso-themecolor: text1;">I made a
parallel, that is...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">Oh, man, this
is the funniest bluegrass song.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve got
to get the name of it, and the crew that sings it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: red;">Chris Jones
and the Nightdrivers –<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wolfcreek Pass<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; mso-themecolor: text1;">The parallel
I made I attribute to my cousin </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><crediting a="" cousin="" href="http://lavenderluz.com/" my="" target="_blank"><a href="http://lavenderluz.com/" target="_blank">Lavender Luz</a> . She has made Open Adoption her life's work and has published some very powerful posts about adoption from the point of view of the adoptee. An important concept she explains so well is the unique complication for the adoptee of having a "split between their <i>biography</i> and their <i>biology.</i>"</crediting></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I realized there was a similarity
between the adopted child having a split between biology and biography with the
person who is gay or transgender.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">They each have a burden that is intensified by virtue of being who they
are.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">By virtue of being adopted, an
adoptee has been shaped by other factors and demands that a person who was not
adopted doesn’t have, and doesn’t have to even have as a consideration.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was working a bit my theory that the plight
of the adoptee is similar to the rest of humanity (which must ask itself a
question about its own belonging) with an important exception: a history where for whatever
reason a person cannot live with his/her own biological parents.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Understanding the effects that fact would
have on an organism sheds a greater understanding on what all humans need.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Knowing the experience that must be created
for these children in order to shield them from the effects of having been
abandoned (from their perspective) by their parents, one learns that the need isn’t peculiar to
adoptees—<i>we all need it</i>; but their particular biological/biographical split
highlights that need.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It highlights what
must be supplied, and it hints that even people who don’t have that split may
experience other events that mimic, in a lesser way, the experience of having
been not wanted.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Actions have
consequences and effects.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">An adoptee who
was lucky enough to have a family that gave him/her the experience of being
deeply loved and connected-with can basically heal that split so fully that
it’s as if the split had never happened.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A family, or its circumstances, can have experiences that leave their
biological child feeling abandoned—that is, having abandonment at the core of
being.</span><br />
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<span style="color: red; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Allison Krause <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Whiskey Lullaby<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There’s the
experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And of course, there is the
organism itself—how he/she interacts with the experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suppose my charged issue is about perfection; that
I took to heart the overt and covert demands of my culture and parents, for
perfection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I realized I could not
do it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next logical step was a demand to <i>pretend
</i>that I could, and a belief comes from that that there is something unacceptable
which must be erased—my deep sense of failure came from my failure to erase the
unacceptable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Feeling critical of my
parents was one of those unacceptables.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Failing to please them was the first of the unacceptables.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Feeling angry with them when I failed to
please them and they were angry with me was another of the unacceptables.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being unable to change the feelings inside
that caused me to do things that displeased them was unacceptable and I felt
very trapped.</span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: inherit;">I think that's it for today.</span></span></div>
excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-37282066042507946472016-02-27T09:03:00.000-08:002016-02-27T09:03:47.262-08:00Oh, GollyToday I found an email from Scott's Guidance Counselor: <br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I was wondering if we could set up a time to talk? It is anything urgent/crisis but a couple of teachers have talked to me about Scott and I would like to talk about possible resources. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
This can be conference call if this is easier. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Let me know when a good time would be for the two of you.</blockquote>
<br />
Ulp. <br />
<br />
This is a Friday, and it's 3:11 when she sent it, 3:15 when I got it. Gary got it too because he's already replied. <i>He didn't even ask what it was about. </i> He wrote: "I can generally talk anytime during the day. Right after school gets out will be fine too."<br />
<br />
Uh. I'm sure she meant "it is <i style="font-weight: bold;">no</i>thing urgent/crisis...", but she <i>did</i> write, "it <i>is </i>anything urgent/crisis...<i>" </i>etc.<br />
<br />
I put off finishing my work documentation long enough to write: <br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Would you mind letting us know what the teachers have talked about with you? That kind of message usually strikes fear on my heart. Monday or Tuesday might work for me. Around 330? Or I might be able to come in in person on Tues.</blockquote>
<br />
OK. We've been through a really hard last 10 months. It's totally wrung me out. A hideous, awful thing happened last year, involving Scott, and now he's in his first year in high school. He left a small school of about 300 total (K-12) and moved on to a polytechnical high school with over a thousand students. While things went fairly well at first, mid-term he took a nosedive academically. Gary and I spent a few weeks at the end of the first semester working with the counselor in getting him some accommodations through Section 504. With tutoring 2 days a week his rocking boat began to steady. He's had a good start to the first month of the new semester. And now this?<br />
<br />
Oh, and look at that typo. Great. Fear <i>on</i> my heart? How did I not see that before I sent?<br />
<br />
She replied:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I didn't mean to strike fear which is why I am emailing you on a Friday night so you can have a good weekend. The concern is that Scott's focus has been on the "social" aspects of school. Not uncommon with teens and I understand that this is very important. Again, nothing in a "crisis" ...just something I think that we should talk about how to best support him.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Monday after school we have staff meetings and Tuesday I already have booked after school. Anyway you can come in on Tuesday before 3 pm and then we can call Gary?</blockquote>
Thanks.<br />
<br />
But...<br />
<br />
<!--EndFragment-->Sigh. Am I projecting? Her response sounds a little stiff. And, actually it doesn't make sense that if there was nothing to worry about she'd email a message like that on a Friday "so you can have a good weekend." I'm sorry, that seems like a total non-sequitur. You don't send something like that on a Friday afternoon if you're expecting someone to have a good weekend. At least, I wouldn't. And then do I read into it that she thinks that I don't have a cause to feel worried, and that it should have been obvious to me that if, on a Friday, late afternoon, she sends something like this, it's because I <i><b>don't</b> </i>have cause to worry that she'd send it? <i an="" backward="" can="" comfort="" i="" in="" odd="" of="" some="" sort="" suppose="" take="" that="" way=""> I guess that's what I sense; a bit of rebuke, that I should know that if she sends something like that on a Friday afternoon I can rest assured everything is all right.</i><br />
<br />
Then to add insult to injury <i>Tuesday</i> is my day off. My only-every-other-week day off, which I cherish, and try to not do chores-like stuff on. Except the last several of my days off I've had chores-like stuff to do. This upcoming one was already a bit compromised because my car needs maintenance. Apparently it's all-day maintenance because they're going to give me a complimentary car for the day they have mine. I'm taking my car over Monday evening and presumably picking it up sometime before 7pm on Tuesday evening. Scott's school is in an opposite direction from the car dealership, and the other direction from my home. It would put a serious dent in my day off, to be over there at two (not to mention the anticipating of the conversation all day). (Another sigh. I'm being selfish. A discussion about Scott's wellbeing should take precedence over my day off. I'm petty to not have surrendered it already <i>without a thought</i>.)<br />
<br />
This in the larger context, for anyone who's read any of the earlier (now ancient) stuff I've written here, of a prolonged separation and (at last) completion of the divorce in late September last year (and then having to hit the ground running to refinance the house in my name-- and get it done before the interest rate jumped its huge quarter-point--get a new home equity line of credit, sever our joint bank account, take Gary off of my benefits package from work, while doing Thanksgiving and Christmas, whew.). (At least I didn't have to change my name.) Anyone who has read the earlier writings knows that I spent a year or two blogging about my process of decision to divorce, and then my spottier 5 years' chronicle of living separately (I had to get a job, and there went the writing time). Roughly 3 years of our arrangement involved Gary and I doing the switching from apartment-to-house-and-back while the kids stayed in the house. Nearly two years ago Gary moved into his own place on a houseboat and the boys began to do the commute. Now the house is mine, having paid off Gary's interest in the settlement. Scott is two weeks with me, and one week with Gary. That seems to be the best arrangement for him. Connor has graduated from high school, is taking college classes, and has a less formal schedule. He stays with me when it works for him; with Gary when it works for him. <br />
<br />
So, anyone who reads this, would <i>you</i> feel uneasy if you got a message like that from your child's guidance counselor, at the end of the school day? On a Friday? Does it make sense to <i>you </i>that a message like that would assure you of a good weekend?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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</span>
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excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-8071639557651348572014-06-04T15:50:00.001-07:002014-06-04T15:50:19.640-07:00Transitions? Closing Time.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUJdcyKcniAfnXYEFhoOwgxpBXFgWUNY8KJfcKnYZfcv2YqqDmqelCB1W6Fw5IkUe10TpsQ5jwJH4gMrvvropgbo2FiQaUTwndOtN1PozylvfSK9Cf3BnrFbIiO8ysdES8qGzMkmNuJx-k/s1600/panorama+from+apt.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUJdcyKcniAfnXYEFhoOwgxpBXFgWUNY8KJfcKnYZfcv2YqqDmqelCB1W6Fw5IkUe10TpsQ5jwJH4gMrvvropgbo2FiQaUTwndOtN1PozylvfSK9Cf3BnrFbIiO8ysdES8qGzMkmNuJx-k/s1600/panorama+from+apt.JPG" height="140" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I'm so slow.<br />
<br />
My wonderfully intuitive cousin Lori shared one of her <a href="http://lavenderluz.com/2014/06/continuation.html">posts</a> with me, marking the transition of her beautiful daughter to a new stage in life. The post included a couple photos of Tessa, conscious of being on a threshold and meeting what comes next with joy. It's wonderful to see the freedom that radiates from her.<br />
<br />
Lori ended with an invitation to share our own transitions. And a music video for the song by Semisonic, "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xGytDsqkQY8">Closing Time</a>."<br />
<br />
It was when I started packing that I realized that I do, too, have a transition to share.<br />
<br />
We are exactly four years along in the living-separately phase of the divorce. Making it official is coming r-e-a-l-l-y slowly, duh, but it is coming. I only just got around to attending the divorce parenting class mandated by our county. In one of the mercifully few break-into-groups moments one woman said incredulously to me: "Wait a minute! You've been in this divorce process for <i style="font-weight: bold;">4 years</i>??? (I've been rereading an old diary, from 2008, when I first acknowledged to myself that it was going to happen. Then there were at least 2 years ahead of that where I was trying to decide what would be the best course of action. So, this has been a <i>real</i> slo-mo divorce.)<br />
<br />
This may be the last time I stay in the apartment. In the four years we've done a lot of tweaking of the schedule where the parents have been the ones switching back and forth. It's gotten old, but the apartment is too small for the boys to stay for a week. And the rents have gone up so it now costs more than our home mortgage.<br />
<br />
A few months ago I was <strike>fed up</strike> ready and said it was time for him to find a place that would be <i>his</i>. It was no longer working for us to share the house. I was tired of coming home to find I was having to step around and move his stuff in order to live. I'm tired of him operating his business from there, so that even when the house is "mine", he's still in it, working.<br />
<br />
Gary has found a place that he can afford that is big enough for the kids to live with him. He can have his business there. It's a houseboat at a moorage on one of the islands in the middle of the Columbia. He's given notice at the apartment and wants to be out by next week. Since the schedule we've stabilized into had me here every other weekend, it looks like I'm at Closing Time too.<br />
<br />
As I pack to leave I'm taking out a heavier load--the extra clothes I've kept in drawers, a number of my books, my toiletries. I'll be at the house full time now; the boys with me one week, and with Gary the other. No more packing and moving every other week. We may have to do some more schedule-tweaking. Logistics are going to be different. The apartment is only about 10 blocks away from Connor's school, and it's in the heart of uptown with ready access to public transportation. That's not easy to give up.<br />
<br />
So big changes are afoot, but it's time to get to that other shoe. Get divorced, already. Get it done.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-65221034965946131562014-02-12T17:27:00.000-08:002014-02-12T17:32:24.607-08:00Well-Intentioned Trip to California<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>2/11/14</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Tues
912<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">At
the apt at last for some solitude.
I’m stretched pretty thin and grateful for some actual quiet. It’s odd, because it’s not as if it was
that loud at Mom and Dad’s. And
it’s not as if the boys really misbehaved all that much, or even that my
parents (particularly my mom) did.
So it’s a little odd that the boys would be saying that she had driven
them crazy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So,
all of the elements of a very weird trip:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>The
nightmare getting out of here</b>. The suspense and the checking to see if
our plane would be flying at all.
The drive to the airport with the trouble beforehand where the car (a Subaru, but with <i>rain</i>, not <i>snow</i> tires) could not get up our driveway and Gary/Connor had to put on chains. Then one of the chains broke or
something and it was scraping all 3 miles down the steep road to the bridge. The airport more empty than I’d ever
seen it, which I’d hoped was a good sign, but turned out to be bad since there
were no restaurants open and the boys were hungry. Our flight delayed a half hour and moved to another
gate. Getting boarded, only to
find out that we were going to sit in a tin can for an hour and a half, as we had to be de-iced and were second in line. Then we sat there
for 3 with no food service, although the flight attendants offered us water. Arriving in San Jose at 1am after some of the worst turbulence the boys have ever experienced, and up close
to the worst I have. Then Dad had
told David we were coming, so so much for the element of surprising David for his 50th birthday. I guess he felt more comfortable having some company waiting with him at the airport and he thought it was too late for my mom. He went to pick us up around 11, which seems a little odd on my
dad’s part because I texted him when the imminent departure was revealed as a false start and a
cruel practical joke. (We had to put our seat backs and tray tables up and stow our carry-on--to push back 6 feet from the gate!) At 930pm--our original departure time was 755--I
texted him to tell him that the de-icer had run out of solution and had to go
get more, which would take about 30 minutes, after which they’d have to take
another 45 minutes to de-ice us. I
don’t know why he didn’t figure out that the earliest we’d be leaving the
ground at that point would be 11:00.
Yet he said he and David had been at the San Jose Airport since 11. I might have been able to spell it out more but I buttoned my ‘lip’ because when I texted him saying
that I felt like I’d died and gone to hell he texted back, “Keep a stiff upper
lip." And, "This too shall pass." So at that point I decided,
“OK. I’m miserable, there’s
no end in sight, and you’re telling me how I should be taking this? Fine. I don’t feel like texting you any more.” And I didn’t, other than an update at 1050 saying that we still had about another 20 minutes of the 45 minute de-icing
process. At that time they were
probably at their airport in San Jose. But
still, he should have been able to figure out that we hadn’t even left. But maybe if he hadn’t been sending me
irritating platitudes I would have kept texting him and he’d have had a bit more of
a clue. He probably has no idea
how obnoxious that was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>A
short trip curtailed further, as well as the reserves the boys and I were in
possession of: </b>In a perfect world we would have
gotten there before it was too late Saturday. Hell, in a perfect world my brothers' birthday wouldn’t have been the same weekend as Connor’s
competition (which was canceled anyway) so we could have had an earlier
flight. We’d have been rested when
we got up on Sunday and would have had enough time to go bowling or something
before David came over for dinner.
Maybe the boys would have awakened early enough yesterday that we’d have
had time to go do something.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My
dad said several times that he felt bad because they’d “forgotten” how to
entertain kids. I told him that it
wasn’t about them being entertained; it was the circumstances. It was a quick trip to begin with, and
had been severely impacted by the storm in Portland that kept us from getting
to San Jose at a reasonable time, leaving very tired and depleted boys, who
then slept in so late that there wasn’t really time to do anything else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Circumstances
unfavorable to connection and me feeling a sense of responsibility for them
connecting: </b>Sadly, they don’t have the
kind of relationship with my parents where they want to be with them for their
own sake. My parents don’t have an attraction for them where they are happy just being in their company and would be
motivated to get up earlier specifically to have more time with them. So, in a way, their staying in bed was evidence of that. And it would seem that the solution
would be for me to go in there and get them up to force them to go out and
pretend to have lots to say and pretend to want to be in their
company. And I think that’s the
dilemma that I felt weighed down by:
knowing that my parents are wanting to connect with the boys, and
knowing that what they’re looking for isn’t really optional; if the boys don’t
have the kind of feeling toward them which would make that all come naturally,
they then expect them to pretend.
How my kids feel about my parents becomes about whether or not THEY (the kids) are good
people, because GOOD people LOVE their grandparents, and their not feeling particularly loving feelings or desire to be in the company of their grandparents means they
must be bad people. So if you
don’t have those feelings inside of you you’d better conjure them up as an act
of will, and to the extent you fail to fool yourself is the extent to which you
are weak-willed and contemptible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">At
least I don’t feel that K and J’s kids can one-up mine at all as far as
pretending to feel compatibility and coziness with my parents. In fact, I think that my parents, my
mom in particular, are inclined to attribute coldness and indifference to them,
but it’s not really fair that they do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Remembering
something that a guy I knew in high school said once: “Courtesy is given, respect is earned.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>So
the timing of the trip was horrible.
The boys had to leave in the middle of a rare snowstorm and they’d have
just as soon stayed in town and enjoyed. </b>Especially
since school was closed yesterday.
So, it’s like all this cool stuff happened that they missed because of going to Calif, where they were tired and cranky most of the
time. And then they were even
crankier because they wanted to enjoy being snowed in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Then
there was all this history homework that Scott had</b> because he’d failed to realize that what he was doing in
class he was also supposed to be doing at home; and what he had done in class
was spend all his time on 1or 2 elements out of about 10. He had some major catching up to do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">We hadn’t completed everything by the time we left for the
airport (and it had taken a huge effort and lots of his rage lashing against me
to get as much done as we did), and we wasted great big shitloads of time cramped on the plane. He didn’t
want to do any of it at my mom and dad’s.
And since a lot of it was poster stuff, it needed
to wait until he got home. I
suppose he could have finished up the final draft of his Vikings project<he a="" access="" already="" and="" anyway="" be="" but="" close="" could="" d="" do="" document="" easier="" edited="" fix="" for="" forgotten="" from="" go="" going="" googledocs="" hard="" have="" he="" him="" his="" however="" i="" it="" keep="" looking="" me="" meticulous="" my="" needed="" on="" only="" paper="" parents="" put="" remind="" retype="" screen="" so="" that="" the="" then="" thinking="" through="" to="" try="" was="" where="" with="" work.="" would="">, but there just weren’t that
many waking hours.<o:p></o:p></he></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So,
I just feel kind of bad about all of this. I feel bad that the trip timing screwed things up for the
boys; I feel bad that they missed what would have been really fun for them; I
feel bad for my parents who would really like to connect with them and don’t
have the capacity to be introspective about what they need to do to make connection
possible (and come from a background that would put the burden on the boys and
blame them if connection isn’t forthcoming); it was definitely stressful for me
to never be sure whether or not it would spiral out of control between the two
of them, especially with the aforementioned ordeal and late hours in getting
there. It was just another trip
that didn’t line up right for there to be good experiences, and in the absence of
good feelings I’m afraid it’s easier to think badly of my boys, and
more particularly Scott. And Scott
sometimes makes it easy for people to think badly of him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It seems we’ve had a run of
disappointing trips to California.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And
it wasn’t for lack of <i>their</i> trying, either. They really wanted to have some fun things to do with the
boys. And while it seems like the boys
were inclined to blame them, <i>THEY</i>, the <i>BOYS</i> were the ones who
stayed in bed and so didn’t leave time for anything else. And me, I simply didn’t have the energy
to not only just sweep them out of bed, but create the atmosphere that would sweep
away their resentment and help them to at least keep an open mind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I
understand that both boys don’t understand
the bigger context of their discontent, which is that our already short trip had been significantly shortened
further, as had our resilience in just getting there. There simply wasn't time to do some things that might have made for some better memories.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">But
then the coup de grace was finding a message from his English teacher Allie saying Scott had not done any of the classwork that they’d been working on for a week
in their research project. So, in
the past 2 weeks, there’s been an issue with Scott’s math that required a
struggle, the stuff with history, and now THIS? So when I sent an email in response to Allie’s I copied his
science teacher Carolyn too because god knows what else is lurking out there
that he’s supposed to have completed and hasn’t. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I got that message just before getting on the return flight to Portland and decided it
would be best to wait before talking about it with him. <he a="" and="" are="" as="" attendant="" back="" banged="" be="" been="" behaved="" behind.="" but="" chair.="" could="" d="" did="" didn="" done="" each="" especially="" flight="" flying="" getting="" give="" good="" got="" h="" had="" happily="" hat="" having="" he="" head="" her="" him="" his="" i="" immediately="" in="" into="" it="" itself.="" job="" just="" later="" ll="" m="" made="" mother.="" moved="" nbsp="" next="" not="" on="" one="" ops="" or="" our="" plane="" point="" praised="" praising="" reservation="" reserved.="" right="" s="" said="" say="" seat.="" seat="" seats="" selected="" she="" shit="" shy="" side-by-side="" side.="" sitting="" so="" something="" sorry.="" such="" sure="" t="" that="" the="" then="" think="" thinking="" thought="" to="" told="" too="" tough="" two-seaters="" two="" was="" we="" weird="" well="" when="" who="" window="" with="" woman="" wonderfully="" would="" wrong="" you="">
Then when we’d landed and were driving home Scott started freaking out
in the car about how he had too much to do, hates school, doesn’t want to go to
school. Then once we got home he
was demanding that I go talk to him in the bedroom and once I was in there he
was crying and saying he had too much to do and I was feeling like I was going
insane. I was actually becoming
impatient with him and wanting him to just buck up because he was wasting his
time with crying and wailing. I tried to point out that the longer we stayed in there the
shorter was his time to get it done and that he needed to <i>just get started </i></he><damn it=""> and he’d feel better
if he did. So I didn’t bring up
the Allie stuff, and didn’t even bring it up this morning. But, I sure as hell do wonder what it
was he was doing in class if they were doing all this research that was
supposed to be going into his folder and his was “empty”. Did he <i>look</i></damn> like he was working, I asked in the
email I sent this morning. What on
earth was he doing when everyone else is working, if they have stuff to show
for it and he does not? At least
with the history class he did have pages and pages of notes, even if they were only
answering one question instead of about 6 or 7. At least it looks like he was doing <i>something</i>. What was he doing in Allie’s class, and how did she not
notice he’d got nothin’? And, is
it asking too much of her to ask her to monitor him and see how he’s doing with
these classwork assignments? If
nothing else it seems like this is an indicator that you can’t just assume without checking that he is
accomplishing something meaningful.
And it certainly warrants more questions: why did this happen?
Did he not understand the assignment? Did he not understand it was part of a bigger assignment?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I forgot to mention that he’d also hurt his foot climbing a fence at the high school by my parents’ house and was off-and-on complaining about it. He said something about feeling like he had to go to the doctor. There was some mild swelling. He’d been able to get back to my parents'. And while he insisted on using crutches (my parents happened to have some), he wasn’t using them all the time, and he’d do some fooling around with Connor that I don’t think he could have done if he’d injured it seriously. Just watching how he used it unconsciously when he wasn’t thinking about it kind of told me it wasn’t seriously hurt. But periodically he’d think about it and say he couldn’t go to school with it. At one point he said that <i>Gary</i> always takes him to the doctor when he gets hurt (Gary tends to overreact). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">He
was a basket case last night. Kept saying he couldn't go back to school with a hurt foot. And he said I wasn’t being myself,
either. That I wasn’t talking to him
the way I usually do. And I’m not
sure if it was because I was just so depleted that I couldn’t take him to the place
where he seems to regain his equilibrium—in other words a failure of ability on
my part—or if he really <i>needed</i> ‘buck up’ kind of talk. Because he was hurting himself by spending all of that time crying when he could have taken a big
chunk out of what he had to do if he’d just <i>get started</i>. It was a vicious cycle, I think, where he realized that the
crying was keeping him from doing what would make him feel better, and that
very fact—that he was crying and not getting started—made him want to cry more
and made it harder to get started.
I think he was really looking for me to help him find a way to where he
COULD get started, but with an easier heart—rather than the will-driven,
stomach lurching <i>starting</i> when everything in his body is screaming against
it. I have a lot of sympathy for
that, and in fact, wonder if that’s analogous to what’s going on with me where
I can’t seem to get started exercising and finishing up this divorce
stuff. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
It really would have been so much kinder to have had our flight canceled, well before we left to drive to the airport.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">P.S. I actually was proud of my sons. They bore up well under the ordeal of the flight to California and didn't make things worse for themselves or others around them.</span></div>
<br />excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-35205818729663827602013-09-22T12:55:00.000-07:002013-09-22T12:55:28.647-07:00Another possibilityMy counselor suggests this one: Doldrums as Protective Screen<br />
<br />
In other words, awful as this period in my life feels, it's a firewall to shield me from something worse.<br />
<br />
Or, it's like the wall of background radiation from the Big Bang, beyond which humans have been unable to penetrate.<br />
<br />
It does have a bedrocky feel.<br />
<br />
In the world of insight psychology the theory is that the obstacles to living fully are the very defenses we put up in order to adapt to a demanding world when we were newly conscious beings. We warped ourselves in order to placate those we were dependent upon for survival. (Additionally, those we were warping ourselves to please were themselves warped by their own adaptations. So we adapt to <i>their</i> adaptations.) (Not all of us were subservient; some of us warped ourselves in order to <i>defy</i> those we were dependent upon. I myself was too afraid of pain to be heroic)<br />
<br />
If I'm understanding Shannon correctly, my decision to go-along meant leaving my Soul behind. Feeling deadened is in some ways preferable to feeling the full significance of the realization that those we depend upon are fallible and untrustworthy. Apparently knowing fully just how capricious my guardians were was so terrible that I had to protect myself from that knowledge by blaming myself whenever our paths crossed. I had to sacrifice myself in favor of them, and whatever it was I did in myself to account for that set up patterns in my behavior that doomed me to repeating the same patterns over and over.<br />
<br />
And it's true that there seemed to be a cyclical, patterned, almost pre-ordained predictability to my relationships (especially romantic) that were infuriating, yet implacable. In order to keep the people I loved, I had to be different from who I really was.<br />
<br />
So, maybe the Doldrums is about returning to an experience which was a consequence of having renounced my True Self in order to get along with those who needed it of me in order that <i>they</i> could live comfortably within themselves. According to the theory, my next developmental task is to <i>feel the feelings</i> that I avoided feeling by opting for deadening instead. Which I have no idea how to do. I have no idea how to access feelings that hypothetically would have destroyed me to feel as an infant and so hypothetically this preverbal self opted to deny herSelf in order to survive.<br />
<br />
In some ways it sounds like so much shit.excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-57861717031154197872013-09-10T12:42:00.000-07:002013-09-10T12:42:43.075-07:00So is there a cause?I'm three years now into the separation from my husband. Maybe that's a cause of the doldrums, lingering in this limbo.<br />
<br />
We're tinkering with the rotation, where he and I switch between the house and an apartment while our sons stay in the house. For a while making the change on a weekly basis seemed too often; it seemed I was packing and moving constantly. So we expanded the times between to two weeks. It was easier on me, but the boys began to complain. Part of the issue, they said, is that they felt they were spending far more time with Gary than me. And it's more than a matter of perception; they are right. Gary has kept his home office, so even when he lives at the apartment, he is at the house daily. When I'm at the apartment I'm at the apartment. This has been especially noticeable in the summer months when the boys are home from school. Now that school has started there should be some mitigation since they're gone when he's there.<br />
<br />
We decided to speak to their perceptions of the lopsidedness with a 9 days Debora-on and 5 days Gary-on schedule. I have every-other Tuesday off from work, and thought if I had every-other Saturday through Tues at the apartment I'd get my break from parenting, but still be there with them during the important parts of the week.<br />
<br />
This is just a stopgap. There are other reasons the Debora and Gary shuffle hasn't been working optimally and I'm eager to address that by having the boys begin to be the ones who rotate. I think after three years of separation they're prepared. The apartment, however, is a one-bedroom, and is too small for them to spend a week at a time. The rent has increased, and a two-bedroom within the building is out of reach for Gary. It's too bad, since it's just down the street from Connor's high school. That has worked well.<br />
<br />
So Gary needs to find a place that's big enough for the three of them two weeks a month. He's talking about looking in the area of Scott's school, since the light rail nearby would make it convenient to Connor's school as well.<br />
<br />
Before he can find the place he has to have a dependable income. And there's the rub. For at least a year I have been paying the mortgage and household expenses on one place and the rent on the other. He is self-employed and is getting his health insurance from my employment. This hasn't left much discretionary income and I have grown weary of it.<br />
<br />
So it's likely that this is another source of the stuck feeling.<br />
<br />
Gradually this is putting the squeeze on me. The discomfort of doing nothing is becoming equal-or-greater to the discomfort of dealing with the legal minutiae of divorce. It took so much effort just to do the separation that I've basically been resting these past 3 years, and gathering for the next step.<br />
<br />
Two of my friends have passed me by in gathering their resolve, getting their legal ducks and docs in a row, and finalizing their divorces. They've been kind enough to share the benefit of their experiences so I'm not totally reinventing the wheel.<br />
<br />
It's painful how long it took for me to go online and find the website to download the appropriate papers (<i>Filing For Dissolution (Divorce), Co-Petitioners, Cases With Children--form 9A</i>) Eventually I got them printed and slowly I've been filling them out. I'm allergic to legalese and the tedium of wading through. Currently I'm hung up on the child support worksheets. I realize it'll probably be me that pays support since I have the greater income. But how do we calculate his when it's so capricious?<br />
<br />
This is why it's taking me years.<br />
<br />
And maybe it's what's sucking the life out of me, so that while I long to write, I can't. I feel like someone at a party who opens her mouth, pauses, then closes it again. I have the desire to say something, only to find a vacancy. My private writings, my diaries, bear witness.<br />
<br />
Ick.<br />
<br />
<br />excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-19541882590504030232013-09-02T09:28:00.000-07:002013-09-02T09:28:02.017-07:00Doldrums<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">1. A belt of calms and light baffling winds north of the equator between the northern and southern trade winds in the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans; noted for calm periods when the winds disappear altogether, trapping sail-powered boats for periods of days of weeks</span><br />
<span name="hotword" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; cursor: default; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span name="hotword" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; cursor: default; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">2. A</span><span id="hotword" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;"> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">state</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">of</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">inactivity</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">or</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">stagnation,</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">as</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">in</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">business</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">or</span> art</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">3. A</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; cursor: default; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">dull,</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; cursor: default; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">listless,</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; cursor: default; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">depressed</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; cursor: default; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">mood;</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; cursor: default; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">low spirits</span><br />
<span name="hotword" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; cursor: default; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span name="hotword" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; cursor: default; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">All in a hot and copper sky,</span><span name="hotword" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; cursor: default; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">The bloody Sun, at noon,</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">Right up above the mast did stand,</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">No bigger than the Moon.</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">Day after day, day after day,</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">We stuck, no breath no motion;</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">As idle as a painted ship</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">Upon a painted ocean.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Samuel Taylor Coleridge: <i>Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner</i></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span name="hotword" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; cursor: default; font-size: x-small;"></span></span><br />
<dl style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-top: 0.2em;"><dd style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.1em; margin-left: 1.6em; margin-right: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></dd><dd style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.1em; margin-left: 1.6em; margin-right: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">After setting that down yesterday I found myself in the same frustrating paralysis I find myself in today, and indeed have been for months. The winds of inspiration aren't blowing and I put up my sail only to see it sag dispiritedly.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dead in the water.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My writing has come to a standstill and I can barely muster the energy to read books or keep up with the news. Facebook is the path of least resistance.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I remember reading somewhere that a key to ending writer's block is to describe the bricks of the cell one is imprisoned in. Brick by brick.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Truth shall set you free.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Maybe I can take that literally.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So maybe I can generate a little wind by Telling The Truth about what life is like in the Doldrums. it's not an original thought. My counselor Shannon suggested it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The trouble is, this is where I usually fall silent. So maybe this will be the first Truth of the Doldrums. A great big Void.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></dd><dd style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.1em; margin-left: 1.6em; margin-right: 0px;"><br /></dd><dd style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.1em; margin-left: 1.6em; margin-right: 0px;"><br /></dd><dd style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.1em; margin-left: 1.6em; margin-right: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></dd><dd style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.1em; margin-left: 1.6em; margin-right: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></dd><dd style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.1em; margin-left: 1.6em; margin-right: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></dd><dd style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.1em; margin-left: 1.6em; margin-right: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></dd><dd style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.1em; margin-left: 1.6em; margin-right: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></dd><dd style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.1em; margin-left: 1.6em; margin-right: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></dd></dl>
<span name="hotword" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; cursor: default; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span name="hotword" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; cursor: default; font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-58447729730936954582013-03-27T11:43:00.001-07:002013-03-30T19:22:43.080-07:00I Miss...<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I so miss blogging, regularly. I miss being able to count on days with blocks of time to fill with my writing and uninterrupted thinking. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Even when I was an at-home mom and during the school year could count on, with some exceptions, 5 days a week of about 6 hours' alone time, that time seemed to slip through my fingers. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, other than weekends, I have one day off every other week, as I work my .9 FTE schedule (72 hrs every two weeks, vs 80). I left a job that had unhealthy dynamics for one with more professional boundaries, but in doing so had to increase hours to get the least costly health insurance option; also I had to let go of three day weekends since I came in to a large organization with no seniority and all the Mondays and Fridays off were taken.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Funny, the choices that so often mimic the alternatives of The Little Mermaid: to be with the one she loved she had to adopt legs, which hurt her with every step. When I'm a more enlightened person will choices be less fraught, less conflicted?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We're right at 3 years of our separation, my still-husband and I. I've needed this long rest to gather for the next step, which is to finalize and legalize the dissolution of this marriage. Hopefully it won't be too difficult, since Oregon is a no-fault state and I'm fine with a 50/50 split of our assets. The holy grail is to be able to do this without lawyers, just the filing fee. (But you've got to start looking at the forms you've downloaded, Debora!)</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our situation is financially complicated in that Gary does not have a regular benefitted job. He's worked very hard since his layoff to generate a steady income, but has not yet found traction. Thus he can't afford his own household and so I'm supporting two, and we're dipping into savings to stay afloat. This isn't sustainable, and at some point I fear I'm going to have to withdraw my assistance. It would be so much easier if he was already self-supporting.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've learned a lot in these past 6 years as I approached the decision to separate from Gary. Six years ago I would have thought I was going to still be together with him as a (unhappy) couple, trying to live with the misery and largely blaming myself. I had been trained for such a life my entire childhood: doing what it took to belong and blaming myself when I felt bad.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The trouble was, I could see the negative effects it was having on Connor and Scott, and it was breaking my heart. They were beginning to behave like angry children, and I feared for their future.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;">What seems very interesting is that I’ve learned a lot from what I’ve been able to not-do, that is, when it’s come to my boys, I’ve been able to refrain from putting the obstacles in their path that would have forced them to adapt (except for the bad marriage obstacle. Unfortunately, I couldn’t spare them that, and they’ve probably had to make adaptations that are not good for them. I suppose one of my hopes of having separated from Gary so they can really see the components of what made our marriage bad, is that they can clearly see—what makes communication and relationships go bad…and that it’s not them. It’s continuously being up against someone who throws obstacles in front of being True, and who doesn’t take responsibility and instead blames). It’s interesting I could do for my boys what I couldn’t do for me; although in doing it for my boys I was instructed in how to do it for me. That’s true. At every step that I was pressurred to teach my boys to turn on themselves and shut themselves down in the same way I’d been taught to turn on myself and shut myself down, I couldn’t do it. Or if I gave way to the pressure it felt so bad that I had to back away from it and tell them I was sorry, because I was. <i>It was Wrong.</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I miss following blogs. I miss my cousins', my friends from far away, the friends I've never met. I miss the thrill of recognition of kindred souls, who have allowed their minds to run free.</span></div>
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excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-76045442346838876312012-11-19T06:58:00.000-08:002012-11-19T06:58:58.503-08:00Forgiveness<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee'; font-size: 19px; line-height: 28px;"><span style="font-family: "Arial Rounded MT Bold"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“…but now, when I think back to all that
happened afterward, I get angry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Because she may indeed have felt sorry, <u>but regret is not repentance</u>,
and that is what we have not seen in Beulah, <i>repentance that owns its part—</i></span><span style="font-family: "Arial Rounded MT Bold"; font-size: 14.0pt;">that is, like the
Word tells us, <i>at once sorrow and self-knowledge and a changing of the mind.</i></span><span style="font-family: "Arial Rounded MT Bold"; font-size: 14.0pt;">”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(emphases mine) </span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold'; font-size: 19px; line-height: 28px;"><i>Fire In Beulah</i> by Rilla Askew</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee'; font-size: 19px;">My intentions went awry.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee'; font-size: 19px; line-height: 24px;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee'; font-size: 19px; line-height: 24px;">Too early to shop at Good Will for the
pants I need for work tomorrow, so I retreat to the apartment to write.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee'; font-size: 19px; line-height: 24px;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee'; font-size: 19px; line-height: 24px;">Pants I used to fit into easily now don’t.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee'; font-size: 19px; line-height: 24px;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee'; font-size: 19px; line-height: 24px;">Shit.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee'; font-size: 19px; line-height: 24px;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee'; font-size: 19px; line-height: 24px;">And I’m
really not eating that much.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee'; font-size: 19px; line-height: 24px;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee'; font-size: 19px; line-height: 24px;">I do
drink regularly, though, and I’ve wondered more than once that if I quit I’d
naturally lose some weight.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Rereading last night the events surrounding
Scott’s birth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> There's a lot to forgive there.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Martha and I talked a little at breakfast about Family as a
sacralized notion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t really
like the word, ‘notion’, but I don’t
know what to call an abstraction that has become sacralized (god, have I been
using that word a lot.).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An
Article of Faith, maybe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think
it is from that perspective that my father is coming as he plans the Orcas Island family trip next summer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suppose that’s why divorce is so frowned on in his
world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s because it besmirches
the abstraction of Marriage as another article of sanctity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">It’s funny to think of these ideas of
Marriage, Family, God, Country as a sort of pantheon of Beliefs
which I get an image of as being a smooth front presented to the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What goes on behind those fronts is
another matter altogether.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">My insistence is that what’s inside match
the front, so that the bunny is solid chocolate, not hollow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I live with people who are determined that it is the exterior that counts; it’s more important than how
anyone inside feels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We are a
happy family, and that’s an order!” is kind of the imperative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you don’t FEEL happy within the
bubble, then there’s something wrong—with YOU.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are morally bereft if you don’t participate in the happy
family, by trying to make others happy, and <i>being</i></span><span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> happy
yourself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if you’re not happy,
then it’s selfish to let anyone know, because part of making other people happy
is doing a good job of convincing them that you are.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">I can just see how the worlds collide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The abstractions that underpin Family, Marriage, God, Church, Country contain lots of unwritten rules about
what is a trespass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My dad felt
trespassed by Connor’s innocent use of the word “<a href="http://dark-matter-energy.blogspot.com/2009/12/balls.html">balls</a>”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some cherished notion of sanctity was
violated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somewhere it is (un)written that there are Words that are inherently <i>bad</i></span><span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">, so <i>bad</i></span><span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">, that anyone who says them is polluted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that
he, as Elder/Grandfather, has been dishonored because 'the word' was said in his presence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Thus ‘respect your elders’ was violated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Honor thy mother and thy father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">It seems that there are those who take
advantage of the Sanctity of Family and Marriage and operate manipulatively
under cover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My grandfather comes
to mind—he used the umbrella of Family to operate like a jerk, and have it tolerated,
because of the sanctity of Father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He used the abstraction to get his own way with impunity, because to
oppose him was to damage the institution.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It appears that in each family bubble, there are some who feel
free to run rampant and not apply the same rules to themselves as they apply to
others. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">It seems like there are a whole lot more
families that are in the hollow bunny brand of family, than the solid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want the solid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to be with my parents and enjoy
it, not because I’m <i>supposed</i></span><span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> to, but because I <i>do</i></span><span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Whistle-blowers are often mistreated. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee'; font-size: 19px;">It’s easy to see why: they have undercut an illusion that all is well. People are mad at them for undermining their delusions, not at whatever it is the whistle-blower has uncovered.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee'; font-size: 19px;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Secretary of Defense of the United
States, Donald Rumsfeld, was small enough to publicly name the
soldier who did the right thing and turned in the pictures at Abu Ghraib.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> The soldier is now a pariah in his home town and can't go home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">I suppose in a way, that’s what I've been spending years coming to terms with and what has fueled my writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m working through a
realization that my family wants a hollow bunny, and I want a solid one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And me living from a solid-bunny world
in their hollow-bunny one is bound to cause some discord.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think all my life I’ve realized that
there are certain abstractions I’m supposed to be living, and there are
feelings about them I’m supposed to be feeling that I’m not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(I remember<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as a very young child admitting to myself that I didn’t
‘love’ God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt so sad, and so
bad when I let myself know that.).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(I also remember, as a college student, having an awareness that I may
have to ‘leave’ my family; that the life I was choosing would be unacceptable
to them and they may cut me off.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I guess as a very young child it didn’t take long to realize that it was best to go
along and pretend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Then</span> I
felt unworthy when my feelings didn’t match what I was supposed to be feeling:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>worshipping God?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Prayer?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">One solution was to try to conjure up an
intellectualization of what ‘worship’ feels like; what ‘loving god’ feels like,
what ‘patriotism’ feels like, and then ‘<i>feel</i>’ them through will power.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my quiet moments of self-honesty I found they weren’t enough to
sustain me, these ‘feelings’ that required such energy to maintain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">An exception was the time that I embraced
fundamentalist Christianity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
time the feelings felt realer, and I was surrounded by a lot of others to help
me keep on feeling them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wonder if
that really is what happened when we moved to Virginia, was that I lost that support
system—and that indeed was the spring from which I drew my feeling of
relationship with God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hadn’t
believed it, because that was the explanation of my family:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>without the church, <i>that</i></span><span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> church, basically
my religiosity would go away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At 14 years old, I thought that my relationship with God was enough,
and should be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My relationship
with God shouldn’t depend on a certain group of people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was how I saw it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the first time I’ve ever quite
understood the significance of that group.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do remember having an episode in Virginia of what I
called, a ‘satanic attack’, where the core of my feelings about god were shaken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(I’d started reading the
Old Testament, which was pretty harsh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And when I realized that the white people who came and exterminated the
people they found on this continent were using the very rationale that the Israelites had used to invade Canaan--</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee'; font-size: 19px;">in fact, god <i>gave</i> them that rationale--</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee'; font-size: 19px;">, I was horrified.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t reconcile
this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That may have been my first
experience of my faith being shaken by some element of moral contradiction in the
bible, and I was wary about threats ever since.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I r</span>emember in Northglenn in social studies a unit on
interpersonal discussion and feeling so afraid that listening to others in the way we
were being encouraged to do would cause me to lose my faith.)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee'; font-size: 19px;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee'; font-size: 19px;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> In Virginia </span>I reached out by calling a
Nazarene church to talk with the pastor's wife “Mrs. Brown”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was very kind and gave me the name of a girl my
age I could call to talk to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
talked with each of them, Mrs. Brown more than once, I think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then I was coming out of the office
that had the phone (back in the days where they were connected to the wall) and
my father happened to be passing at that moment and he wanted to know what I
was doing in there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it
wasn’t an accident.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe he’d
actually heard me talking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe
he even heard what I was saying; I don’t remember what it was, now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I told him I was talking on the
phone he asked who with and I told him “my Friend”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t remember at which point I went
to hug him and he pushed me away and told me he didn’t understand me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the sound in his voice said he
didn’t want to, either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It sounded
like a giving up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was <i>that</i> kind
of “I just don’t understand you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m appreciating a little the situation the 14 yr old me was in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just moved from a place she loved, with
friends who loved her too, and a support system for her developing
spirituality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The days were long
in Virginia and pretty unbroken, except for some trips over to my parents’ friends’
house to use their pool, or to use the pool at the military base nearby. A lot of book reading and television. Some babysitting—the mother kind of Bohemian who
introduced me to <i>Siddhartha</i> and gave it to me to read.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t, because it scared me. > So
I was bored and shaken by the old testament stuff I was reading and struggling alone to come
up with the answers to the questions that were being raised.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was judging myself for how I was feeling, and I felt like I’d lost my
connection to god.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My father
indicated that he thought I was to blame for my loneliness because I’d “never
made an effort” to go and meet some people my age in the neighborhood of the
house we were living in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were renting someone
else’s home, which had forbidden areas that we’d never had before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were only to be there for the
summer, then my father was going to Viet Nam and we were going to Colorado to
live and be near grandparents and relatives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">I realize now that my father was probably
hurt when he found me on the phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’d reached out to a stranger instead of him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He couldn’t understand that; and he treated it as if I’d
done something wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He pushed a
vulnerable and confused 14 year old away from him and never ever returned to
say he was sorry. He probably thought I was the one who should be sorry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Anyway, that was the context where I <i>did</i></span><span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> have a ‘satanic
attack’ which basically was a sort of peaking of psychic pain and I would cry
and cry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can see now that my
parents thought that the church in New York had scared me, and that I thought
the literal devil was coming to get me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I think that’s what I said when I went to their room in the middle of
the night after crying and crying alone for a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did reach out to them then, and I think I said, something
like ‘he’s’ –I can’t remember the exact words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I said ‘he’ was ‘tempting’ me, or ‘testing’ me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I almost get hold of the word, and then
it disappears..<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t my word,
it was the word or words in a small booklet I’d read by an evangelist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kept it in my little diary; wonder if
that’s still there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it was,
‘testing’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it was ‘trying to
tempt me away.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They wanted to
know <i>who</i> and I said, ‘Satan’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So they probably didn’t realize I was feeling under attack at a
spiritual, core beliefs level—not a literal devil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That would make the things my dad said at some point make
sense; where he criticized the church I’d given my heart to, said that God
doesn’t want us to be ‘scared’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
thought the church had ‘scared’ me with visions of hell. That misunderstanding intensified my isolation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">I’m just realizing how very alone I felt,
and actually was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that was
when I started seriously writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some enduring part of me was born in
that time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">I should probably pause here and go over to
Good Will which is surely open now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Before I go, though, I remember that that
time felt like a very terrible time to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt forsaken by god.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The doubts I was feeling were tearing me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember finding bible verses that
gave comfort; I read religious books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Bought one at Walgreen’s bookstore:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“How to Find Peace With God” by Billy Graham.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bought another; can’t remember its
name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a while I looked back on
that time as a sort of standard to measure psychic pain against.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw it as having been, really, really
bad and I feared ever feeling that way again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">It’s true my relationship with god was
never quite the same, though I tried to make it be for quite a number of years
before I gave it up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I did
surrender, it was actually like a physical sensation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember having read in “Zen and the
Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” about Phaedrus having felt a ‘slipping’
inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was how I
characterized the sensation inside me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><a href="http://dark-matter-energy.blogspot.com/2008/02/revisiting-road-or-who-is-that-guy.html">Perhaps what I had nearly 6 years ago</a> was
one of those experiences—a peaking of psychic pain, a satanic attack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It came after a while of thinking I could make things work
with Gary; with his mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a while I believed I could cover myself with a membrane where their behavior wouldn’t penetrate
and wound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I could make myself
impermeable to the things that were making me so miserable with them—their
expectations, their demands that they get their own way and be able to act with
impunity and expect me to be the one who would give way, and betray no hint
that it was their demands I was giving way to—if I could do that, then at least
50% of the conflicts we were having would be gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought I could do it then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, I was ready to stop counseling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought I’d achieved what I’d come
into counseling for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought I’d
achieved what I was lacking—some inner serenity and a certain ability
to slow time to observe in slow-motion what was happening so I didn’t have
my options limited by my reactions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I blamed myself for that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
began to realize that I had to become nearly enlightened to be around them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So that if Gary treated me as if I’d
just done something wrong when I hadn’t, rather than react I might be able to
say, “would you like to restate that?” or something artfully deflecting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or I might be able to say, “What are
you really wanting?” or “what are you mad at?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">I guess those were my choices to paths for staying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Go numb, or get enlightened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let Gary have the privilege he seems to
be claiming, and his mother claims—the right to never have their actions
questioned while they did things that were hurtful in service to themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">He honestly doesn’t seem to think that it’s
an unreasonable demand, not even request, that someone else see the world so
perfectly through his eyes that they would behave as if they <i>were</i> him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He doesn’t seem to see that it's not reasonable to treat questions like challenges—mutiny, even.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or criticism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And he doesn’t seem to realize that these are the things that caused the
erosion of the bonds that tied me to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And, Marriage, Husband, Family, as sacred abstractions aren’t enough to
keep me in it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">And so that puts me at odds with people who
see the Institution as primary, and that people exist to serve the institution,
and not the other way around.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Perhaps this is part of the next evolution
of culture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s why the quote
from “Fire In Beulah” appealed so much to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If institutions and Religion and God and Family and
Marriage<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and Church are meant to keep
human beings together, paradoxically, they are perpetuating separateness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because the much vaunted ‘forgiveness’ (which is usually demanded of the victim with no demands on the perpetrator) really <i>only works when it’s a meeting and unity of two</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the self-knowledge, repentance,
and genuine sorrow of the one who owns what they’ve done and sees what effect
it has on someone else that initiates a process of opening hearts and
restoration of unity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was thinking
about going to the grocery store a little later and wanting to go through the self-serve check-out to
avoid meeting whats-his-face snotty checker when I was reminded of an odd
encounter I had years ago at a mountain shop that used to be at the Uptown
Center.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a family-owned business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think it might
have been a misunderstanding between a son and me where we had sharp
words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I walked away—it
had to do with my crampons, they were in that shop for some reason.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe to get new strapping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I asked when they’d be ready and
he assumed I was criticizing him because they weren’t ready already.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I paused outside of the store,
then went back in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps I
realized the nature of the misunderstanding; something made it seem like a good
thing to turn around and go back in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I think I did it right away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I don’t think I just came back later to get the crampons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we both had a genuinely smiling
reconciliation where he admitted his mistake and I mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was real joy, real unity there
with a stranger I never saw again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But I realize that to be so honest, and vulnerable--that’s
what’s demanded of the new humanity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Evolution has funneled humans into community in order to
survive, and religion is a mechanism that evolved to keep humans in community (if
tribally). Ironically at this point it perpetuates separateness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had more oneness in the moment with
the guy in the outdoor store than I’ve had with people who are supposed to be
close to me:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dad, Mom, Gary, Gary’s
mom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s not to say that those
moments of true meeting and forgiveness haven’t happened with my own family,
but they <i>didn’t keep happening</i></span><span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> They were the exception. </span>What's unspoken is, ‘we can’t bear to see what we’ve done, and so we’re
going to blame you if you try to make us, and what we want from you is that you
forgive us without our having to see what we’ve done or participate with you in
the forgiveness process.’<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Plantagenet Cherokee"; font-size: 14.0pt;">I suppose the best I can do is live my solid-bunny world within their hollow-bunny world, and have faith that I will be able to deal with the fall-out. And I'll cherish a hope that I can find other solid-bunny people who want their relationships to be authentic.</span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-45371513702211583832012-07-14T19:14:00.001-07:002012-07-14T19:45:39.120-07:00Time CapsuleScott was preparing to depart on a trip and he didn't want to go. Spring break, long drive to north and eastern Washington with Gary and Connor to see Grandpa, Gary's father. To put it mildly, Grandpa Gary is <a href="http://dark-matter-energy.blogspot.com/2009/12/balls.html">not a storybook grandpa</a>, the unconditional-love kind. Scott was adamant that he not go, and I gently told him that I had to work and could not be home with him and so he had to.<br />
<br />
When he'd regained some mastery of himself we walked toward the door. I told him I'd be waiting for him with open arms. His head snapped up and turned so he could see me. "What? What did you say?" I repeated, "I'll be waiting for you with open arms." He said, "What does that mean?" I opened my arms and told him it meant I would be waiting to put my arms around him again. He nodded to show he understood, and seemed different as he climbed into the car. His frame of mind seemed different, and that change took much of the suffering out of leaving. I could feel it.<br />
<br />
I talked with both boys a number of times while they were gone. On one of the particularly trying days I was trying to comfort Scott, when suddenly he said resolutely: "<i>Remember</i>, Mom, <i>open arms</i>." I repeated back to him, "Yes, Scott. <i>Open arms</i>."<br />
<br />
It's become a sort of talisman between us. When we say goodbye we'll briefly hold out arms open and mouth, 'open arms' to each other.<br />
<br />
The other day in the course of my job my route took me past an Adventist Church: Open Arms. I told Scott later that I'd thought of him when I drove past. He said, "That must be a nice church."<br />
<br />
Since this is birthday time for him I was thinking of him the other day as an infant, napping on our bed. I heard him cry through the monitor and so went upstairs to get him. I opened the door, and through his tears shot a look of pure joy. It was like a river running into the ocean. Laughter and smiles even as he was carried by the momentum of crying.<br />
<br />
These are my desert island memories. If I was to be stranded on a desert island and only had a few images to keep with me, these would be among them.<br />
<br />
That, and the moment that Scott's teacher Rob read this to him at his 'graduation' (from 5th grade to middle school):<br />
<br />
<br />
<h3 style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="color: navy;">How to be Scott Deborason<o:p></o:p></span></h3>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Thonburi Bold';"><i>You need to have a deeply inquisitive mind. But you also<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Thonburi Bold';"><i>need to be willing to be patient. You discover new things<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Thonburi Bold';"><i>and you think about them for a long time. You must let<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Thonburi Bold';"><i>things mull over in your head and more specifically your heart<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Thonburi Bold';"><i>until they feel like they will explode from your chest. But make<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Thonburi Bold';"><i>sure that you always find a way to share what is in your heart,<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Thonburi Bold';"><i>it lets others see you in a way they never imagined.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Thonburi Bold';"><i>Make sure you are willing to work hard and deal with
frustration.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Thonburi Bold';"><i>When frustration comes make sure that you don't tell anyone for
a while.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Thonburi Bold';"><i>Make us pull it out of you. But make sure you know that you'll feel<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Thonburi Bold';"><i>so much better once others are there to lend a hand or an ear.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Thonburi Bold';"><i>Remember to have the nerve to stand up on a chair in front of<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Thonburi Bold';"><i>the class and read your stories with enthusiasm and
recklessness.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Thonburi Bold';"><i>GREAT SNAKES! man you have a funny side.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Thonburi Bold';"><i>But most of all never forget that you have so much to offer the
world.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Thonburi Bold';"><i>Never let the world forget that. Keep pestering us until we fully<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Thonburi Bold';"><i>understand how great you are.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-77658222976732550572012-06-09T18:59:00.000-07:002012-06-09T18:59:07.316-07:00Adam hid himself because he was ashamedIn 1974 I was 17 going on 18, a new high school graduate. I was in love with Rick, my first love.<br />
<br />
He brought over an album to play on my father's new turntable--yes, vinyl. The album was Robin Trowers' "Bridge of Sighs".<br />
<br />
It skipped on the turntable. Other albums skipped on the turntable, but not consistently.<br />
<br />
"Bridge of Sighs" skipped consistently. My father asked to borrow it so he could take the turntable back to the electronics store and demonstrate the defect.<br />
<br />
My dad was still in the Air Force then. He still had a crew cut. Polyester leisure pants with flares at the bottom. Diamond pattern.<br />
<br />
Here's the story he told:<br />
<br />
Arriving at the stereo store with the turntable and the album, the sales associate bypassed all question about product failure by claiming that the album wasn't my father's. The associate said, "With that haircut, and those clothes, it can't be yours." For whatever reason my father didn't pick the rational response which was, "Yes, this isn't mine, but that is secondary to the fact that this turntable skips." Instead, he claimed that the album <i>was</i> his. To his way of thinking, since the guy had no real way of knowing, then for all intents and purposes the album was his.<br />
<br />
He didn't consider that most people who looked like him probably would not own that album. He himself was the evidence that the album wasn't his. It was as glaringly obvious as if he was a dog wearing a cat's mask and claiming he was a cat.<br />
<br />
Telling the Truth was paramount in my family. A lie was heavily punished.<br />
<br />
Yet, there's a subtext that says if no one is able to prove otherwise, then a lie can be the truth. That fine print was denied to children, only adults were eligible.<br />
<br />
Where am I going with this?<br />
<br />
Apologies have been an issue in my family. The men in the family have had trouble with it. There has been a sense that an apology is a knuckling under; an admission of inferiority, an acknowledgement of abject worthlessness and deserving humiliation.<br />
<br />
I suppose they came from a dominator culture. One was either a dominator or submissive. There was shame in submitting, yet adults insisted on it from their children.<br />
<br />
Years ago, just before I began to date Gary, my grandparents paid a visit to my parents, and they drove up from California to Oregon to see me. I noticed that my grandfather's stance was anger. He was mean to servers--I had to slip back to them as the family exited the restaurant and tell them not to feel bad and apologize for him. (One was in tears) The Rolling Stones were coming to Seattle; an image of Keith Richards on the television and my grandfather remarking, "Don't you hate to think of being in Heaven with him?" Later I learned from my cousin that he and my grandmother had been fighting to a point that they were unbearable to my aunt who told them to "go somewhere. Anywhere. Go away for a while." The destination was here, with me. On a road trip my grandmother and I were alone at a table. The bitterness spilled out; I don't remember the trigger. Something about the things my grandfather would do, the things he would say: "And he will never apologize." I remember another conversation, another time, when she was feeling more kindly disposed toward him: "He told me, 'I know I should say it, but I <i>just can't get it out</i>.'"<br />
<br />
Why? Why should apologies be so hard? Well, if they mean what I wrote above, then I can see why someone just "can't get it out." Can't apologies mean, "I can't bear this rift between us, and I want so much to restore and heal our connection. My heart is open, and I'm so sorry for what I did/said/whatever."?<br />
<br />
Later I learned that my grandfather, and his twin, were forced as children, for the amusement of <i>their</i> father, to put on boxing gloves and fight. (They were number 6 and 7, in a family of 9 children). (The twin went to World War II, but didn't fight...he had a kind of nervous breakdown)<br />
<br />
There is a corollary to the apology-being-difficult-for-men-of-the-family fact. It is a refusal to hold anyone accountable for their actions. There is a fear to call wrong behavior wrong behavior and ask for an explanation (and, an apology, if called for). There is a demand to validate a lie, to the point that a person calling it what it is is more of an offender than the person who lied. There is a weird compulsion to protect an aggressor from the knowledge that s/he is an aggressor. The expectation is to protect the feelings of the perpetrator of a wrong.<br />
<br />
And it's all driven by fear. Of what? Disconnection, I think. Or, perhaps, exposure. I've been pursuing this for a while. I think there must be some shame in the family that has been papered over, and there is an imperative to maintain the fiction that all is well. In fact, we're an idealized family; we're "close". If we see anything that tells us different we are to deny it, and our worth as a person depends on our ability to do so...and to convince ourselves. We are to lie, and to lie to ourselves about the fact that we are lying. And then we are to hide from ourselves that we have lied to ourselves.<br />
<br />
This has meant that children can't tell the Truth where it matters.<br />
<br />
I'm hoping that the buck has stopped here. I'm hoping that someday my sons will be able to tell me I succeeded in stopping the buck, here.<br />
<br />
<br />excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-32965896159179116082012-05-19T08:24:00.000-07:002012-05-23T09:39:32.947-07:00Case In Point<br />
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As a companion to my <a href="http://dark-matter-energy.blogspot.com/2012/05/keeping-up-appearances.html">earlier post</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Diary, 1998</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Apple Casual'; font-size: 14pt;">There must be
something wrong with me that I keep seeing this. That I…obsess on it.
That when it's present I can’t see anything else I feel so anxious about
it. There must be something wrong
with me that I feel so anxious about it it becomes huge. There must be something wrong with me
that I see it but they don’t. I
have to be nuts and arrogant to think I see <sup>nuances</sup>things in their
behavior that they say aren’t there.
My sick jealousy drove a wedge between me and Gary while his grandmother
was dying and I have only myself to blame. I’m building their relationship all out of proportion and
then I do things to come between them.
I’m the one who’s sick. I
must be crazy. I was deranged so
badly by having a sick little sister that I read threats into their
relationship where there are none.
The only solution is to confess everything to them both and ask their
pardon, and see Darlene at least once a week. Darlene is rude to me because she’s justifiably angry with me
for asserting my relationship with her son. I deserve her to ignore me, and to take my seat in the car,
and to talk only to Gary. I deserve
her treatment of me. All this
resistance to her is shadow boxing without a shred of evidence. The reason I can’t defend myself is
because I have no defense—my feelings are indefensible. There is no inappropriate attachment
between her and Gary—only my imagination.
I couldn’t sustain eye contact with her at the beach because I knew I
was in the wrong & knew I’d behaved indefensibly—wanting to be able to
finish so we could be home in time to rest a little bit because we had to be up
early to take Connor to the doctor…that was a selfish want in comparison with a
need for closure to have dinner in Cannon Beach and pay for it too. Even though we don’t really have much
money and some big bills coming up we should suck it up and do it anyway. And I shouldn’t want it to be known
that its because of me that Gary could do that. I’m just narrow and twisted inside—I’ve got to be, to be
jealous of a man’s relationship with his mother, and arrogant enough to think I
can analyze it and presume that they’re in denial about it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Apple Casual'; font-size: 14pt;"> I feel kind of sick inside, to think of
ending this entry here. I don’t
think I can write my way out of this, though, and I needed to write my worst
fears about all this—that this is all a fabrication of my mind <sup>and</sup>
that I’ve been subjecting Gary and Darlene to needless pain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Apple Casual'; font-size: 14pt;"> If I were going into counselling, from
that point of view—I would be asking for treatment to help me with obsessive
thoughts and feelings that cause me to act in ways that are counter-productive
and may ultimately threaten my marriage.
I would ask to find a way to ignore my feelings that cause me to feel
possessive of Gary and competitive with Darlene. There must be something wrong with me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Apple Casual'; font-size: 14pt;"> What set this whole thing off was that I
discovered today that Gary’s mother had come over here yesterday when Craig came
by with Jenny; and Gary had concealed it from me. (But why should he feel he should have to tell me?) She’d brought over some pie—only enough
for Gary, and her, and Craig, and Jenny.
He and I had had a soft and productive talk about her, and the trouble in our
relationship around her both last night, and the night before…yet he still felt
he had to conceal that she’d come.
I found out by finding a bakery box in the recycling when I went out to
the garage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Apple Casual'; font-size: 14pt;"> I feel a heaviness in my heart—a weight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: navy; font-family: 'Apple Casual'; font-size: 14pt;"> I have to let this go unresolved—dream on
it some. I will embrace this circumstance
as an oppurtunity to grow—even if it means away from Gary (a complicated matter
when we have a child). I will
embrace this as an oppurtunity to grow, even if it means all my worst fears I
wrote on the past few pages are true and that I am very wrong. I need to permit that possibility, even
if it makes my heart just sink, sink, sink. (Perhaps what I sense is the temptation to give in; let Darlene have her way & then maybe what’s left over will be OK—and maybe
there’ll be relief from the painful strife that’s gone on so long.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was articulating my worst fears. What I see now was that it suited her just fine that I was hamstrung by these doubts, because they made me that much less likely to interfere with her access to my husband. She would rather not consider that maybe her relationship with her son was enmeshed, because she would not "bear the trial of being disagreeable" with herself. Therefore if anything in my behavior reflected a hint of this, the accusations were harsh. My achilles heel was my fear that maybe I was these things. How could I prove to myself that I wasn't? Wasn't I just rationalizing? She believed these things about me, and she would have me believe them too. I made it convenient for her.*</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">*One of the biggest perks of this separation from Gary is that I'm no longer obligated to be around her --except maybe weddings and graduations. I can live with that.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-10359334569702841712012-05-12T13:32:00.000-07:002012-05-12T14:15:15.672-07:00Keeping up appearances<h2>
"If you are serenely willing to bear the trial of being displeasing to yourself, you will be for Jesus a pleasant place of shelter" Saint Theresa of Lisieux, as quoted by M. Scott Peck in <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/People-Lie-Hope-Healing-Human/dp/0684848597">People of the Lie</a></i></h2>
<i><br /></i><br />
<h4>
Who goes on to say: <span class="Apple-style-span">“The evil do not serenely bear the trial of being
displeasing to themselves.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span">In
fact, they don’t bear it at all.”</span></h4>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span><br />
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Thonburi Bold'; font-size: large;">The content of the
story is not important here. There
is a deeper Story from which the particulars of my story spring which is that there are people around who cannot bear their own failings. So they outsource the burden to the
people around them—turning others into mirrors who’d <i>better</i> only reflect back
the images of themselves they want to see. If these people become parents, their child never knows anything different. All s/he knows is
that s/he is punished if something reflected back is an unflattering
truth. They learn quickly what is
acceptable. What does a child do
when it realizes that its perception of the Truth is at odds with the 'truth' that
more powerful people want it to believe?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: 'Thonburi Bold';">Some exceptional
people are able to stay with their Truth, and can swim against the current of belief which would also have them believe that they are <i>bad people</i></span><span style="font-family: 'Thonburi Bold';">.
And some accept without question that <i>good people</i></span><span style="font-family: 'Thonburi Bold';"> do whatever it is that pleases the people
who have power over them. They are
<i>good people</i></span><span style="font-family: 'Thonburi Bold';"> to the
extent that they can deny anything they encounter that contradicts what they
are supposed to be reflecting, and behave <i>as if</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Thonburi Bold'; font-size: large;">Self-doubt is the
most potent of methods for tolerating giving to others what feels false to
give. If I’m not liking something
someone is asking of me it must be because I’m selfish, or mean. If my experience tells me different
from a received truth, then I must be mistaken. If my gut calls “pudding” shit, then it must be because
something’s wrong at my very core.
Maybe it’s because there’s shit inside of me and I’m projecting it
outward onto innocents. Maybe I’m
not accepting enough, too judgemental.
Maybe I’m not enlightened enough. These people would rather I believe these things about myself, than face the truth about themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Thonburi Bold'; font-size: large;">I don’t know if
everyone lives some version of this, or if it’s just an obscure psychic
corner of the universe I was born into.
I’m not entirely sure what to do with this, or to what extent it
continues to be invested in my life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Thonburi Bold'; font-size: large;">It does pose a puzzle about what to do about
the people who continue to insist that only the image that flatters them is
reflected back to them. I can't avoid them forever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-67436866229905803842011-09-18T07:09:00.000-07:002011-09-18T07:09:27.897-07:00Poor Backslider*I've been deeply ashamed of my fear of what others think of me. Being afraid has caused me to do things I didn't particularly want to do, in order to not risk displeasing someone else. When Shannon asked me once <a href="http://dark-matter-energy.blogspot.com/2011/06/so-when-did-you-lose-your-connection.html">when I'd lost connection with myself</a> I assumed it was because I'd given up something I wanted in favor of what someone else wanted in order to avoid them thinking less of me. Something about the prospect made me feel so horrible inside I just couldn't face that feeling and it was easier to give in.<br />
<br />
Then culture changed on me, and all at once we were <i>supposed</i> to be able to say no. Enter the shame of not being able to say no or set limits (remember the assertiveness training fad? "When I Say No I Feel Guilty"?). All at once, in order to please others, I had to show some spine, and <i>not</i> just go along.<br />
<br />
Now there was a bind.<br />
<br />
I see now, as I've written before, that there was a very real fear that if I displeased someone, if I disrupted their own fragile sense of self (ego), they would blame me and break connection. In order to maintain connection with them, I'd see myself the way they saw me (selfish, small, mean, etc), but at the price of staying connected to my own perspective.<br />
<br />
My history of Christian fundamentalism predisposes me to think of life in a "Pilgrim's Progress" sort of way. One is going forward, or one is <i>backsliding</i>. <a href="http://dark-matter-energy.blogspot.com/2011/09/one-ness-experiment.html">Last week, on the roof</a>, my discomfort with the woman parking herself within my family circle was compounded by my thoughts that the whole episode represented backsliding in the progress I've made. I felt that familiar feeling of bind. Was my inability to resolve the situation without removing myself from it undermining this new Self I've been working so hard to build?<br />
<br />
So I took it in to Shannon as grist for the mill. I told her that whenever I'd imagine any means of getting what I wanted that involved personally asking the lady to go, well, it just felt impossible. I couldn't imagine doing it without it being hurtful and humiliating, no matter how gently I asked. I'd feel a wall of horror at the prospect. My dilemma was that in this situation I was able to stay in complete connection with myself and my desire to separate (at least that's progress--in the past I would have blamed myself and put away those feelings and forced myself to engage), and I couldn't do that and be one with her. How do I "be one" with someone I desperately want to go?<br />
<br />
Shannon wanted to know if there was anything inside of me that reminded me of this woman. Yes, I suppose it would be the me who's felt humiliated when I'd thought I was a wanted presence and instead the opposite was true. Or I'd thought something was true and found out later that everyone but me knew different. That's when I realized--those feelings I'd have whenever I imagined telling the woman the truth--that was <i>me</i>, this part in me, connecting to <i>that part in her</i>. But, I was resisting the connection. That's what felt like the dilemma. I was afraid I was reverting to my old history of fear of displeasing someone. I think it may be different now. I think the real discomfort came from my <i>empathy</i> with her--or, with the part of me that she reminded me of. Maybe when I feel resistance like that in company with other people, it's a signal to me that I'm vibrating to something in them that is true of something in me, but I'm complicating it by resisting. Shannon said, "You'll have to play with this. But I wonder if you'd find that if you stayed one with that part of you in her, if the resonance from vibration at that shared frequency might resolve the whole dilemma."<br />
<br />
Now there's a challenge. I'm not very adept at staying self-aware in 'field conditions'. It's going to take a shift to experience resistance as resonance instead of as dislike or self-recrimination. <br />
<br />
But I like the idea that maybe there is no backsliding. Shannon said, "You can't go back."<br />
<br />
<br />
*from the song "Poor Backslider" by Greg Brown<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/tOMBInHC4wo?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-76385847834516548682011-09-11T19:06:00.000-07:002011-09-11T19:07:19.567-07:00The One-ness Experiment--day 14Recap of nearly 5 years of <a href="http://www.shannonpernetti.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=51&Itemid=58">therapy</a>: I learned to disconnect from myself in order to be in connection with others. To disconnect from myself I had to not-see much of what I saw. I had to not-feel much of what I felt. To not-see and not-feel I had to put my very perceptions in doubt. I got really good at it. The result was I was snarled in a knot I couldn't begin to evaluate and unravel. My very foundation of thinking was disrupted whenever I'd try to figure this out, by the conviction that I couldn't trust myself.<br />
<br />
I spent several years with Shannon's support, realizing that I had assumed a burden of responsibility that wasn't mine to assume. I harbored the doubt that with every conflict I was somehow at fault, due to some ineptness, selfishness, or flaw within. I took the perspective of the Other, because I wanted to be fair. I discovered that taking on the perspective of the Other meant abandoning my own perspective. As I became aware of the pattern I began to realize that I didn't have to do that. I mulled it over. I wasn't comfortable with the idea of closing out the perspectives of others--God knows I knew enough people who did that. They were often bullies, self-righteous; I didn't want to be that. So I came to understand that the question was, "How can I see the perspective of Others without losing my own?" Shannon answered, "By being One with them."<br />
<br />
I asked, in an <a href="http://dark-matter-energy.blogspot.com/2011/08/one-quarter-in.html">earlier post</a>, what this looks like in real life. I've been experimenting ever since. What does Oneness look like; what does it have to do with:<br />
<br />
The apartment building I live in has 25 floors. The 25th is the roof, which has picnic tables, a barbecue, lounge chairs. The management hosted a party yesterday; they probably do it every year. Up on the roof, from 10 to 2 yesterday. Hot dogs, ice cream, lemonade would be served. Residents would display their art, their talents.<br />
<br />
It's my turn to live here, since Friday evening. Gary brought the boys over Saturday around 12:30 so we could go to the party. My car was already in the space that we rent. Gary said he'd 'jacked' someone else's spot. I asked what happened if that person came back. He said they'd just left. I said, "What if they were just going to the store, and coming back shortly?" He said they could just take one of the open spots. I asked about the people who were paying for those "open" spots. He said it was no big deal, it would all get sorted out. I told him to take the boys up on the roof; I would take the car he'd parked in the lot and find a place on the street.<br />
<br />
I joined them a little later. A middle-aged woman was displaying her belly-dancing talent to Connor's embarrassment. I joined him, Scott, and Gary on some lounge chairs. We hadn't been there long when a woman came over asking how long we'd lived here. To my surprise she pulled up a chair and sat down. I remember the odd feeling of encroachment inside; very different from an experience of welcome. We talked for a bit; how long we had lived at the apt--and I realized that at any moment a decision might be required: how much to tell her about our 'living arrangement'. How much did we want to reveal to a stranger? I steered the conversation to what kinds of interesting restaurants and shops were around the building, when I noticed she was holding a "bingo" card. Kind of a creative mixer device, she was to mark off a square for various "finds"--challenges. Looking over, I could see several. She was to find someone who'd lived in the building for over 10 years (hence her question, but that didn't explain why she pulled up a chair). She was to find someone who'd been to Europe. Someone who liked sushi. Not a bad idea, the bingo card. Maybe I'll borrow it someday if I have a party with a lot of people who don't know each other. Yesterday I saw it as an opportunity. I'd realized I wasn't taking pleasure in her being with us, and I wanted her to go away. I'd noticed that I'd come close to abandoning my connection with myself in order to pretend she was a wanted guest. I didn't want to model that for the boys, but the dilemma was that I could not think of a middle ground between asking her to leave, and putting up with her until she decided to go. It seemed she was settling in. In calling attention to the bingo game I hoped to remind her that she'd come for a purpose, she'd fulfilled it, and she could move on to other people. I asked her if we'd helped her in filling in her card. She said we had; asked us if we liked sushi. We do. She was curious about how my boys had come to like it. Connor said off-handedly that when he was once a 'picky eater' he wouldn't have even tried it. She said she had some kind of background as a nutritionist; was always interested in what turned someone from being finicky to not. He said he didn't know, he just became hungry for things he hadn't been before. This was kind of an interesting topic for me, since I'd endured years of his pickiness. I never forced him to eat, though I did try the suggestion of insisting he take "one bite" of anything new he was resisting. It didn't last long, that experiment, and I didn't force the issue. It clearly didn't work for our family to force even "one bite" on him. I lived for years with people remarking on his refusal to eat, to try things and held to my inner lifeline that he would not starve himself, and that he would someday grow beyond a palate of Fruit Loops, cheese crackers, macaroni and cheese. So it's sweet to see that he has indeed become an omnivorous eater, and didn't require any pushing of the river on my part. I mentioned that I too had been a picky eater, who came from an era where parents forced their children to eat. I said that I have a very broad range of food interests now, and having been forced to eat did not have anything to do with it; it was merely a matter of maturity and development. She asked Connor if I'd made him take tastes of things. She wanted to know if I'd kept a variety of different foods in the refrigerator, had a variety of dishes available. Connor didn't seem comfortable, I wasn't comfortable, and I sat with the dilemma. What did Oneness mean in a situation like this? I couldn't imagine it meant having to be at the mercy of this woman, but neither could I imagine myself asking her to go. Had I already "abandoned myself" because I hadn't? When she was exchanging a few words with Gary I excused myself, got up, took away our plates to put in the trash, looked at some of the displayed artwork. I hoped she'd be gone when I got back. She wasn't. It was a strange quandary. I didn't want to be unassertive, but neither did I want to be a doormat. I was clear inside that her presence felt like an intrusion, but I just couldn't come up with any way of sending her away that didn't feel too harsh to me. The only way I could see to get her to leave was to leave ourselves, and the second there was an opening in the conversation I talked to the boys about moving on to our next agenda item. As courteously as possible we pulled away and said goodbye.<br />
<br />
So what would Oneness look like in a situation like this? I suppose the younger me would have resisted the feelings of aversion I was having toward her and redoubled my efforts to connect with her in conversation. I would have felt there was something wrong in me, some prejudice, or in-graciousness that made me want to run the other way, so I would have pushed the feeling away and not let myself know I didn't want to talk to her. I don't know that I would have been resisting <i>her</i>, but I would have been resisting my inclination to move away. So I stayed at One with myself, even if it meant feeling the discomfort of being with her and not knowing how to separate. I wonder, if I'd managed to be at One with her at the same time if I may have found another way to separate which wouldn't have meant that my family and I would have to leave the roof? I <i>thought</i> of being in connection with her, but I don't think I managed to do it.<br />
<br />
It's a paradox. I think I found a way to be At One with myself, while not denying unpleasant feelings I was having. I don't know if I've figured out a way to be At One with someone I'm feeling uncomfortable with, let alone do both simultaneously. I think that my inability to pull that off probably reinforced a feeling of duality--me against her.<br />
<br />
All of this is trivial in comparison with the horror and violence of That Day 10 years ago when the jets crashed, hundreds died at the Pentagon and on the planes, thousands in the twin towers. But isn't duality the common element? In the early days and weeks after the attacks, it seemed I was seeing a reflective, thoughtful America. I remember hearing on the radio that people who hadn't spoken in years were inspired to reach out to each other. I remember hearing that the impulse toward unity prevailed, early on. It seems it was drowned out. Duality begets and feeds on itself, with a vengeance. But maybe there's hope in knowing that at least at first, the impulse was toward kindness, and oneness.excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-59435478891637271772011-09-03T10:40:00.000-07:002011-09-03T10:49:48.242-07:00ExperimentingI did some experimenting this week with the <a href="http://dark-matter-energy.blogspot.com/2011/08/one-quarter-in.html">concept</a> of becoming One with people around me. I watched a jet take off from the apartment window and imagined myself One with the passengers on that plane. <br />
<br />
"What was that like?" asked Sharon. "I...I don't...know..." Because something felt different inside, but in the vaguest of ways, like the hazy edges of a dream that are impossible to describe.<br />
<br />
I experimented closer to where I live. In the absence of any obvious separation activity, such as arguments, I thought of some people I've disliked. Or I've thought of behavior I didn't like from people I do. I tried to apply becoming One with them.<br />
<br />
Now this had a much more tangible effect. I realized that by connecting in this way with someone, the whole picture shifted. Of one person who has a need to one-up and has seemed grasping and self-righteous, I had a very different experience. I was able to locate the Me in Her and understand the ways that <i>I </i>want to be "right", and feel anxious about being "wrong". Feeling this, I could also see that the experience of being "right" is a mistaken attempt at connection. Or what passes for it. Somewhere in this life, a belief that being <i>better-than </i>came to feel like the Connection humans seek. If not in connection with others, than at least within oneself. Connection understood this way is oppositional--<i>striving-against</i> enhances that feeling of unity. I realized that true Connection is always there, always available, hiding in plain sight, and that one doesn't need to strive for it, or enhance it by attempting to take it from someone else. I realized this as a direct consequence of imagining myself at One with the Other. I think I even felt...compassion. And not in the compassion-through-will-power sense. It rose in response to Seeing what I saw. And recognizing that this experience of need and scarcity exists inside of me, too. And in that sense, it's true that if we see a quality in another person, it's because we have it within us.<br />
<br />
That's such a change from how I understood it before. I'd heard and acknowledged it was probably true that what I didn't like in someone was a quality of mine too, but that idea was undermining, not empowering. If I dislike something, and the disliking means that I'm guilty of the things I don't like, then how do I have any leverage in negotiation when our wants collide? Also, in addition to disliking this person, or what they do, I have to dislike myself, too. Then I was simply confused and lost touch with my Self, because I couldn't think through it. My very ground of understanding was quaking. Before I could deal with this person I had to try to sort out if I <i>really</i> was like them. And I was too knotted up to be able to do that effectively. I was a deer in headlights.<br />
<br />
I tried to "cultivate" compassion, but my feelings always got in the way.<br />
<br />
This new version of that old lesson doesn't look much different on the surface, but how it changes things. Disliking something in someone is indeed an opportunity to meet and accept and help mature that element in me. Separating that quality from myself and polarizing in opposition does provide a kind of inner solidity, because it concentrates a sense of myself (without those hated elements), but it's at the expense of wholeness. This shift sort of changes the "is it me or is it them" question. Because the answer is "Yes". <br />
<br />
When my children were very young and were just beginning to grapple with the feelings of ownership and desire, I can see that behaviors that our culture once branded as "selfish" were really just the crude beginnings of mastering identity, separation, and negotiation. In this way, raising children has been very spiritual for me, because as they've developed I've recognized (and remembered) their behavioral and emotional states from an adult perspective. I can see that desirable behavior isn't a result of shaming immaturity. In a large part, it's a function of development (with some adult shaping needed to organize and give meaning to their learning). As children get older and develop, they begin to understand that while they are separate beings, they don't need <i>that object</i> as a part of their self- identification and begin to value their friends more than things. There was nothing I could have done to "teach" them that. They simply matured.<br />
<br />
Sometimes we don't.<br />
<br />
If I become One with Another, I see the me in them, and the them in me (just as I saw the me in my children, and my children in me). I thought of my MIL, and realized that a lot of her behavior is motivated by a desire for connection. Unfortunately it's coupled with a belief in scarcity, and thus anxiety about losing it and misguided ways of seeking it. I recognize the part of myself that longs to be close to someone, and can't bear the thought of my own behavior pushing someone further away. I see the part of me that is so anxious about loss that I try to grasp, I need to be loved "best of all"--nothing else will do. And so I redouble the efforts that only undercut the quality of my relationships. <br />
<br />
In this way healing and understanding can come disguised as someone I don't like. I get it now.<br />
<br />
"Very good", said Sharon. Now, do you feel like it might be possible to be in a room..." "--I don't know if I'd go <i>that</i> far..." laughter<br />
<br />
I haven't actually tried this yet in field conditions. As I said, there have been no arguments or conflicts this week (knocking on wood). But it seems that having that sense of equanimity while in conflict or in tricky situations might be a tall order. Can I really apply what I think I know in theory to fully-dimensional real-life?<br />
<br />
And, I notice I feel afraid, a little. Does feeling compassion for someone make me vulnerable to them? Will I merely find myself giving way to their whims and desires?<br />
<br />
<i>And</i>, I realize that I also gain some sense of inner cohesion and inner connection when I'm in opposition to someone. I can extend the sense of connection by finding someone to share the opposition to the Other with, and there is a sense of satisfaction in that. And while I'm sitting here, and I can see that this is an altered and inferior sense of oneness, it seems there may be a vacuum if I don't have that anymore. In a way I'm afraid to give it up.<br />
<br />
And I still don't feel quite ready to be in a room with these people...<br />
<br />
Stay tuned.excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-80953305497985190362011-08-27T09:54:00.000-07:002011-08-27T09:56:51.729-07:00OneI noticed a progression in my last two blog posts. I can see that I was exploring the ways that one gives oneself over to another. How someone can give up themselves, in the context of a life, and in the context of a conversation with a friend.<br />
<br />
Since my last post I had an opportunity to explore the question of giving oneself up in the context of an important and intimate friendship.<br />
<br />
Again the precipitating event wasn't a big deal: Marti and I have had a standing date for breakfast every Saturday for years and years. Our usual practice has been to email each other to confirm it. I didn't this time, because we'd stated our intention at the prior week's breakfast. Marti is a highly responsible and reliable person. I didn't think it necessary. But that Saturday I arrived, and she didn't.<br />
<br />
I made several phone calls, and even texted her (a big deal for me since I don't have a texting plan with my phone). No answer; I gave her a half hour and left. It worked out fine, since my grocery store was close by and I used the time to do the week's shopping. I hoped she was ok.<br />
<br />
Later in the day I found a message from her in my voice mail, with a heartfelt and sincere apology...she'd completely forgotten and had driven out to Toni's place in the Gorge. I felt myself move into the wonderful place of our hearts meeting and dissolving any rift, until her message kept going and she said something about us "missing each other", a misunderstanding. It's "dangerous" to not call her.<br />
<br />
Which brought me up short. "Misunderstanding", and "missing each other" belonged to a different kind of reality, one where there was sort of a shared responsibility. There was no misunderstanding or confusion on my part: we have a standing date every Saturday, we'd agreed that it was on when we last saw each other, so I'd seen no need to confirm. "It's <i>Marti</i>" was what I thought; she doesn't need reminding. So I understood perfectly. And we didn't "miss" each other because she was nowhere near me.<br />
<br />
The inconsistency of the world she was coming from with the world I was living in was a small one. She was saying <i>a</i> happened, and I was pretty sure it was <i>b</i>. <br />
<br />
So what do I do with this? I didn't call her for several days as I thought it over. <i>One</i>--it wasn't that big a deal. The place wasn't far from my house, I got my shopping done, all I lost was a half hour (the cafe even bought my coffee for me!). Maybe I <i>did</i> "share" some responsibility for having not contacted her to confirm ("but it was <i>Marti</i>") (and, confirmation goes the other way too. I'm not the designated confirmer). <i>Two--</i>it's such a small shift, the difference in our realities. Why not go ahead and let it pass without comment? <i>Three--</i>I can't think of a way to discuss this with her without seeming nit-picky and small <i>Four--</i>If it's important to her to believe that the mistake was between <i>us</i>, rather than her own, why not do a dear friend the kindness of letting her version of the story stand? <i>Five</i>--I can't think of any way to talk about this that doesn't sound like I'm a bully, forcing her arm behind her back til she says, "OK! It <i>was</i> my fault! All my fault!" <i>Six--</i>I can't think of any way of talking about this that wouldn't seem accusing, wouldn't make her defensive, wouldn't bring on counter-accusations...<i>wouldn't alter our friendship</i>.<br />
<br />
I see that all of the above was a classic and nearly involuntary talking myself out of something by putting my own self into doubt. It's simple. I love Marti and want to be in connection with her. That connection is threatened, potentially, by correcting her version of the story. If I break connection with mySelf, as I was systematically doing above, I can stay in connection with her.<br />
<br />
The trouble with that is, I'd have to be out of Self-connection on an ongoing basis, because what I know to be true would be like the pea under the mattress.<br />
<br />
Another problem with talking about it with her though, is that I (also nearly involuntarily) take on the perspective of the person I'm talking to. And when I do, I can't get back to whatever it was that was informing me. I only see myself through the other person's eyes, and in that context it's possible I <i>am</i> nitpicky, bullying, overly sensitive, legalistic, and accusing. And I come away feeling totally yucky and confused. I suppose fear of <i>that</i> can be added as a number <i>Seven</i> above.<br />
<br />
Sharon said I allow the Other's perspective in out of a desire for fairness. But once the Other's perspective is in me I lose myself. The door is closed and I can't get back.<br />
<br />
I thought about it over the week. Particularly interesting was the hint that I was attempting connection with the Other in taking on their perspective. I was attempting to be at One with them, but it was at the price of my connection within my Self.<br />
<br />
So when I saw Sharon again I said, "So the question becomes, how can I be open to Another's perspective without losing myself?" She said, "By becoming One with them."<br />
<br />
<br />
Say <i>WHAT</i>????<br />
<br />
She said, "If you consider the Other to be a part of you, and that other is yelling at you, it's very different to wonder why you are yelling at you? What's angry in my Self?"<br />
<br />
Now is this really possible? <i> Really</i>?excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-19878824910793802442011-06-28T11:02:00.000-07:002011-06-28T11:02:07.763-07:00"So when did you lose your connection with your Self?"<a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/03665032489326745558">Denise</a> inspired this post with her very kind comments on my last.<br />
<br />
I've been mining an incident that's kind of related to "<a href="http://dark-matter-energy.blogspot.com/2011/06/one-year-on-six-months-on.html">I don't do that anymore</a>". It's a surprise that I'd be able to find so much in what amounted to a simple awkward conversation. I suppose there are all kinds of ways someone can give up themSelves in order to accommodate somebody else.<br />
<br />
"I don't do that anymore" came back to haunt me in a different guise.<br />
<br />
The incident was this: bookreading group night. Sitting in conversation with Marybeth who asks how things are going with the separation, the switching off of house to apartment, and the job. It's brief filler talk, meant to last until dinner is served. Marybeth wanted to know if I'd set the boys up with chores for helping out.<br />
<br />
For me this is kind of like being asked if I breast or bottle-feed my baby. Or if I let them play videogames, or how many hours they play. There's already a right answer, and often I'm on the wrong side of it.<br />
<br />
This question had the feel of that. I could feel the air around me bend into the gravity of a world where children should have chores, where any answer but yes carries some kind of whiff of apology. The world becomes tipped that way and anything said feels like justification of a deficiency.<br />
<br />
I took a deep breath and said, "Well, no. I just ask them for help when I feel like I need it, and it seems to work out."<br />
<br />
The truth is that I've made half-hearted attempts to get job charts and codify chore assignment. And the fact is that my heart hasn't been in it. I don't have a problem with the status quo, where 'help' is fluid and ad hoc. I don't feel over-burdened.<br />
<br />
But Marybeth went on: "When I lived in India the women were fascinated with the freedom of American women. And they'd bemoan the lack of freedom in their lives. And I'd say, 'The place to start is your sons. Raise your sons so they'll assume equal responsibility.' Indian women spoil their sons", she went on. "And spoiled sons grow up with a sense of entitlement that perpetuates the problem on to the next generation."<br />
<br />
Who the hell can argue with that? <br />
<br />
So I was in turmoil. She's just said something that in principle I agree with, yet I'm not really practicing in my home. Furthermore, the vibe I'm getting from her feels as if she's attempting to persuade me. I'm feeling something that says she wants agreement. At least it feels like something is expected of me. And I don't feel honest with a specific endorsement and I can't bring myself to even nod. It was a mini-dilemma, with a woman I don't see but once a month, but consider a friend. I split the difference and in essence crossed my fingers behind my back. I gave her the agreement she was looking for to discharge the unease, but in my mind I was agreeing only with the principle: "women shouldn't spoil their sons".<br />
<br />
But I'm feeling a thickening in the air between us. The hallmarks of a meaningful conversation are missing. I absolutely can't think of anything to say. I'm a deer in headlights. I sense it, and I wonder if she's sensing it too. After all, if the animation that makes a conversation a conversation drains, isn't that noticeable? Could she sense that I wasn't in entire agreement? Because she pressed her point a little further.<br />
<br />
Then we were called to dinner.<br />
<br />
That's it. I've been thinking about it ever since when I have some time to muse. Each time I think about it I see another facet.<br />
<br />
At first I focused on the sense I'd had that agreement was sought, and disagreement carried a penalty--of a hint of shame, of apology. As I considered it, it occurred to me that if I felt like there wasn't a conversation, in a way it was because there wasn't. She had her own agenda, which was to convince me that the boys should have chores. She was presenting reasons why I should be doing it, and in a sense was trespassing. I'd sensed a power struggle and I handled it by letting her think she'd 'won'. Yet I felt strange and awkward after that.<br />
<br />
So, I reasoned, some of what was going on was I was feeling trespassed upon and didn't assert my boundaries. And I was feeling unauthentic in that I was having these feelings and not telling her. In other words, I was representing myself as other than what I am. <br />
<br />
But the conversation didn't seem to leave room for anything but a kind of shame-facedness in disagreeing, because again, who can argue with what she was saying? And, while it might be possible to have a conversation that included my quasi-diagreement without having to wear a cone of shame, it would take some time to get there, which we didn't have.<br />
<br />
So in a sense I was putting "blame" on Marybeth with a narrative that she wasn't seeing <i>me</i> at all in the conversation, but was seeking something.<br />
<br />
That's certainly plausible. That's what's in common, I think, with many unsolicited advice givers. An implication of a kind of superiority: I'm doing something that you're not and you should be like me. This superiority requires agreement to be maintained in the giver's psyche--it depends on validation.<br />
<br />
When I talked about it with my counselor, she suggested that Marybeth could have just been operating under the assumption that I was in total agreement already, vs trying to convince me of something.<br />
<br />
Which opened up another can of worms. A very old one, which is probably what kept me in a bad marriage. If I'm feeling something from someone that's negative, since it's being processed by me and filtered through me, how do I <i>know</i> it's not merely a projection? (And if I'm 'projecting', what is it I'm projecting? Am I projecting self-disapproval onto them directed toward me? Am I really kicking myself for not having the boys do regular chores, but making the Other the vehicle?) And if I can't know that it's not a projection, then how can I trust myself at all? I've spent a lifetime exploring this very question. It kept me from being able to objectively evaluate the nature of many of the conflicts I had with Gary. Sharon had spent nearly 5 years helping me lean into listening to this voice, and now I've got to question it again?<br />
<br />
Looking again at what was present in that moment: A sense of being 'accused' of spoiling my kids and contributing to gender inequity in the world. I think there was a realization that while I agree with the principle of raising boys to be responsible men, the way I'm doing it probably doesn't clear the bar she seemed to be setting. And that was a conflict, because to get to anywhere except acknowledging my 'lack' and getting more evangelization would take a while and we didn't have it. But here I am with this circle that's begging to be closed with my agreement. And my brain was blank when it came to other areas of engagement that might circumvent this dilemma. I think another thing present was that I like Marybeth. And I sense that she gives me a kind of credit for intimacy and closeness of friendship that hasn't yet been backed up with a bulk of intimate conversations and shared experience. I sensed that she was offering me an opportunity for connection to back up that credit, and I was going to have to let it go by. And just today I realized that a hidden element that was also present in that moment was that I sensed <i>I</i> was accusing <i>her</i>. I was accusing her of giving unsolicited advice, for misreading me as a person who 'needs' help, of having an agenda that she was pressing at the expense of s<i>eeing</i> me in the conversation. I was accusing a well-meaning friend of encroachment.<br />
<br />
As someone who has felt accused much of her life, it takes a lot to get me to accuse others. I'm allergic to it and would rather accuse myself by default than accuse someone else. Especially a friend.<br />
<br />
No wonder I was a deer in headlights.<br />
<br />
I guess the takeaway is that I became good at sensing what people want from me. And implicit was a condition that this "something" was required to satisfy their own self-esteem needs. To withhold was to hurt. Case in point: another conversation about the boys doing chores. A kitchen table of a friend. After a long list of things I should do to which I responded with silence, one of the women asked. I replied that while their good intentions are appreciated, I'm someone who needs to find my own way, organically, from inside of me. And anything I've said about various difficulties in my life at that time should not be construed as a call for help. I said it in a factual tone with no intent of anger behind it. She actually began to cry. <br />
<br />
So there are many faces to the conditions where one can lose herself. The pernicious ones are more obvious. The well-meaning ones, well, those are more deeply rooted.excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-59804012977520886252011-06-04T12:54:00.000-07:002011-06-04T12:59:01.263-07:00One year on, six months onOne year ago I had just begun a new job, working outside of the home for the first time in 11 years. My first day was May 26, so this time last year I was still aquiver with the abrupt shift in lives. I got the job so six months ago I could get the apartment where I sit right now.<br />
<br />
Six months ago I began the culmination, the logical consequence as it were, to years of exhaustive examination of my marriage, my self. I was sifting through every single detail to find a way to stay in <i>that</i> life, and not be here in this. I suppose all of that searching distilled to a single question: "Is it my fault it's not working, and if it is, can I change myself so it will?"<br />
<br />
I didn't have very stable ground from which to be objective because I've always felt confused about whether or not something is my fault. I've certainly been <i>afraid</i> that "things" are my fault, in the deer-in-headlights sense.<br />
<br />
So, were things not working because I was too selfish? If I became angry because Gary was unreasonable, was I too sensitive? Too quick-on-the-trigger to react? An angry, mean person at core? Someone who felt inherently inferior and so when Gary was scornful when I didn't read his mind accurately it confirmed my own sense of worthlessness and <i>that's</i> why I'd get angry? Did I just not have a sense of humor? Was I 'just' a chronically unhappy person who brought everyone around her down too? Someone no one could make happy?<br />
<br />
I certainly was afraid I was those things. In trying to confront those accusations I was sort of cut off at the knees by my awareness that people often rationalize their bad behavior, and why should I be so <i>special</i> that I wasn't? How would I know if I wasn't 'just' rationalizing?<br />
<br />
So it took years to work my way through what a different kind of person may have cleared up in a few minutes. Self-doubt had been a strategy a long time ago that I developed to help me tolerate situations I was powerless to change. Then my own strategy hamstrung me so that <i>I </i>was powerless to change.<br />
<br />
Years ago I saw "A Clockwork Orange". A brilliantly horrifying movie, but what reached into my psyche and totally disturbed me was the aversion "therapy" our psychopathic subject underwent once he was caught and brought to justice. Any of you who know the story know that he was a totally repugnant and violent hooligan; that he was 'cured' by being forced to watch images of violence and sex while being fed a drug that would make him violently ill. Eventually nausea was so tightly associated with aggression that the slightest hint of aggression rendered him helpless. The scene at the end where he himself is jumped and is unable to defend himself--in fact, his own natural defenses now wrapped him up and delivered him like a package to his attackers--haunted me for days. I'd seen violent images in movies before but this one really got to me, at my core. I see why now. It was an extreme representation of my own dilemma, which was my own strategy for being with people whose behavior I couldn't understand, which often seemed capricious, arbitrary, and unfair. (Yeah, I guess I'm talking about my parents, but not in the "blame" sense. They were products of their own culture, time, and upbringing. I can say that there were things I needed to do to adapt to the implicit demands of my culture, as expressed through the people who raised and love me that have not served me well. I can say this while knowing deeply that I love my parents.)<br />
<br />
I got pretty good at it, and so was well-groomed for the marriage I chose. Once I was able to clear up the baggage about whether or not I was a flawed individual and that's why I was seeing things the way I saw them, it really became very simple. What does the marriage need to succeed? Are we willing to do what it takes?<br />
<br />
To feel satisfied in a marriage, I need to be with a partner who is willing to negotiate disagreement and build bridges after rifts. This means being with someone who is timely in airing grievances (rather than storing them up and then leaking resentful feelings like a cracked gas tank). In short, I need someone who has the tools to partner with me to bring a marriage back into emotional equilibrium when something has disrupted it. I believe I have the tools in my own personal skillset, but I see that I can no more do it for both of us then I could fly if I was a bird with one wing. And he needs a partner who is either thick-skinned, impervious to passive aggression, totally devoted, or willing to absorb and hold whatever he dishes out without a need to hold him accountable or otherwise bother him with it. He is unwilling or unable to be the partner I need, and after 5 years of examining this marriage from every angle to see if I could be the partner <i>he</i> needs I see that I cannot. Or, I could, but I'd have to undercut myself with self-doubt in order to tolerate it.<br />
<br />
I don't do that any more.excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-1402492467105799772011-05-01T12:23:00.000-07:002011-05-01T12:23:23.479-07:00I take full credit. If you live in the Pacific NW you owe me a thank youWe've had a wet, and cold spring. Hell, it's the first of May and our leaves aren't even out.<br />
<br />
I'm not someone whose moods brighten or darken with the sunlight. I don't mind cloudy, wet days. To me they're permission to get cozy and write and think. So I've not suffered this extended winter, but I <i>have</i> noted that we had yet to have two days of sunlight <i>in a row</i>. And nights have been dipping down into the 30's temp-wise.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>A year and a half ago we got a new furnace. Our home was built to heat radiantly, with the source being a gas-fired boiler. So we were committed to boilers. This one was 30 years old, and bound to fail (it did), but we'd kept it alive for awhile with patch jobs. One of those patches was a circulating pump, installed a mere 4 years ago to the tune of about $600. When we replaced the furnace the pump was only 2 1/2 years old, so we kept it on.<br />
<br />
Gary left on a retreat last week. That night I noted the house felt cold and checked the thermostat. Holy cow, it was 59 degrees, despite the thermostat's setting of 66. WTF?<br />
<br />
I went downstairs to look at the boiler. Since it was so new, and had only been serviced a month ago, I just knew it had to be something stupid--someone had accidentally pushed a switch or pulled something. I called the number on the sticker on the unit to be told that no, she was a dispatcher, not a technician and so we could not try to do a phone trouble-shoot (to avoid a $99 service call). She wanted to know if I wanted to schedule. Half thinking the thing would fix itself by morning I said no; I'd just try to call next day and see if there was someone who could talk me through ruling some stuff out before scheduling.<br />
<br />
Next morning it was 57 degrees in the house, and I was having trouble getting the boys out of bed. I sighed and called the heating company to schedule our service call. I had to work that day, so made arrangements to leave the furnace door open for the technician. After the Scott pick-up I found a message on my cell. There was a problem in the circulating pump blowing fuses that protect the circuit between the main boiler and the circulating pump. When the big unit would tell the circulator to fire, it would draw so much power that the fuses would pop. If it was only a matter of some new fuses and a little clean-up, the cost would be only $200-ish. He hoped that was the case; there was a chance it was more serious and would require a new circulating pump. WTF! $1K. WTF!<br />
<br />
That night it got down to 53 degrees in the house, because of course it wasn't a matter of replacing fuses and the new unit wouldn't arrive until the next morning (of course they didn't have one in their supplies already and had to order one). (It was a difficult decision, knowing that the weather has to warm up soon, but not wanting to suffer through any more cold nights and a weekend coming up. I could have just taken the unit to a shop that repairs motors, but then we wouldn't have heat until this week.)<br />
<br />
So now a credit card company is earning interest on the use of their card, and the house is nice and warm--without the heat even being on, because it's <i>SUNNY AND WARM OUTSIDE</i>--for the...second day in a row!!! Supposed to get up into the 70's this week for the <i>first time</i> this year.<br />
<br />
Bitter? Well, it'll be good to have <i>next winter</i>, and that's kind of a long time to wait.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-nFzUwFH3fiY5WSlg6WK_7gtZouX8uBDTPdwElvI5v8m7hj_QJOXAyh84fthvPlWFxsVoUM_KSd_-FLLEKjjyBZtSQnfv7vHVnquEuU82oW9SxxAVW_F6iUrBBpjorOi6ZhCtZPfVT5L_/s1600/IMAG0158.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-nFzUwFH3fiY5WSlg6WK_7gtZouX8uBDTPdwElvI5v8m7hj_QJOXAyh84fthvPlWFxsVoUM_KSd_-FLLEKjjyBZtSQnfv7vHVnquEuU82oW9SxxAVW_F6iUrBBpjorOi6ZhCtZPfVT5L_/s320/IMAG0158.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lookin' out my back door</td></tr>
</tbody></table>excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278805446419475912.post-2323819473556886012011-04-24T19:03:00.000-07:002012-11-21T08:18:03.090-08:00When the hurricane stopsI'm fascinated by my view from my window in the apartment. I love to sit where I can lift my eyes periodically and take it in. If you look hard at the 'Yesterday' shot, left of the bridge the arc isn't a cloud, but Mt. St. Helens with some cloud shadows obscuring the base.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 6px; padding-left: 6px; padding-right: 6px; padding-top: 6px; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0sGjzO4_0yDgM6vOTLQ0SgBB0VtOp-TWG6v_2Q7_0yWg8m5TYNbqyPM3e9RM41dUT6jNcD2WRd4OP49-Zz9ApTcAeuey-ENoSmyb7QQcAzkGDSBHH23AiDgafJ-6bJMcgISzWF3yc3ADv/s1600/16th+floor+St+Helens+sunny+day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0sGjzO4_0yDgM6vOTLQ0SgBB0VtOp-TWG6v_2Q7_0yWg8m5TYNbqyPM3e9RM41dUT6jNcD2WRd4OP49-Zz9ApTcAeuey-ENoSmyb7QQcAzkGDSBHH23AiDgafJ-6bJMcgISzWF3yc3ADv/s320/16th+floor+St+Helens+sunny+day.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Yesterday</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 6px; padding-left: 6px; padding-right: 6px; padding-top: 6px; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic4aPqGs5ZzP2a6J8DMLfsXURj_cOtyO6aiUXy4_3OKTkSQWNXmac7a6WZb3L46b5JWfKi4HdqEZ0nULAB6Dfv6dEGE3ThBxrDeiXqood5i3EGQof1bWtD6e7pBQPJ-IJBRw1Sd_DDCIgY/s1600/snowy+st+helens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic4aPqGs5ZzP2a6J8DMLfsXURj_cOtyO6aiUXy4_3OKTkSQWNXmac7a6WZb3L46b5JWfKi4HdqEZ0nULAB6Dfv6dEGE3ThBxrDeiXqood5i3EGQof1bWtD6e7pBQPJ-IJBRw1Sd_DDCIgY/s320/snowy+st+helens.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">A clearer picture of Mt. St. Helens</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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We're finishing up month the fourth of our marital separation. It was such a slow grind getting here and I'm not even sure how we managed to accomplish it. Next month will mark the first anniversary of ending my eleven years as an at-home mom and returning to my profession.</div>
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I was talking about the particulars of this with a friend; what it's like to finally be doing it. He'd had a major rough patch in his marriage himself during a time of extended unemployment. Things were said. Things were done. He is employed now and things seemingly back to normal.</div>
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I wondered at some of the things that were done. Had this been my marriage the fissures revealed would be cause for some major questions, because they seemed to go to some issues that were beyond the strain of prolonged unemployment. They seemed to reveal some cracks in core foundational assumptions.</div>
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I figured once the crisis was past he would do his best to forget those things. He'd tell himself to 'forgive and forget' and set his intentions on forgetting. He would resolve to start over with a blank slate. From what I knew of him, this seemed like a safe prediction.</div>
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So he was asking me about my marriage, more specifically about the separation from my marriage. I was doing my best to answer him in the face of not really knowing. Four months really isn't that long, and I think it's still too new to draw any conclusions. The data isn't in, and the questions are open (am I doing the right thing? Am I harming our sons? Does separation from me for a week at a time harm them more than being free of the toxic atmosphere Gary and I create benefits them? Will I find this was merely a lateral move--miserable there, miserable here?)</div>
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He surprised me. He said on a television program a main character, when asked if she was happy said, "Am I happy? Or is it just relief that the hurricane has stopped?" In my life I've experienced something like this, where a chance phrase I read or hear somewhere suddenly sheds light and understanding on a question I didn't know I had. It's like reading a passage online and suddenly a link is highlighted. I was delighted that he had experiences like that too. Furthermore, we weren't talking about my marriage any more. We were talking about <i>his</i>. </div>
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He said that things seemed better with him and his wife. He said it was great to have a steady income again, with insurance benefits for him and his family. He hesitated a moment, and said that he wasn't sure if he was really happy, or if he was just in the relief of the hurricane being over. He said that right now, he doesn't want to disturb his relief by probing, rocking the boat. He's unsure if he ever will. He's poised between further evaluation or resolutely determining that bygones will be bygones.</div>
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I think someone making the decision to rock a boat creates a ripple effect. It sets precedent, and nudges awake decisions once thought settled and asleep.</div>
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excavatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12977971829976807873noreply@blogger.com2