Visible, valuable, valued

For eons, this blog's "new post" button seemed invisibled - I couldn't access help at Blogger.com to figure out WHY, so just posted elsewhere.  Was sad to not be able to write as DreamReweaver, but I tend to brutal fatalism, so figured que sera, sera.

But, after reading eight pages into the intro to Tara Mohr's Playing Big, felt driven to check out my previous posts & there - wonder of wonders - as the New Post button, yelling "Hit me! Hit me!"  And here we are, reunited, the perfect place for me to shout to the far corners of the multiple universes, "I LOVE Tara Mohr!" 

Gotta love a 15-year old who notices that all the coming-of-age books assigned by her freshman English curriculum & asks the logical question - "None of them are about girls." - which spearheads a initiative that raises the money to insure that the next freshmen class has a reasonable balance in it coming-of-age experiences.  Tara writes - That was the beginning of what has become a lifelong calling for me: to recognize where women's voices are missing and do what I can, in my corner of the world, to help bring them in.

Two things about Tara that resound within me - three things, actually:

1. She noticed.  She noticed that all the assigned reading was about boys, none of the books were written by women about a feminine awakening.  She brought it up as a reasonable question - I noticed that none of the books are by women, and none of them are about girls coming of age.  It seems... unbalanced.  She questioned rather than attacked. 
2. She heard the profound silence of invisibled voices, which is rare.
3. Her question spurred action - monies were raised outside the school budget, a new curriculum was drawn & and approved, the next freshmen class were taught a balancing of experiences.  Which leads me to a fourth, point that didn't hit me until writing this...
4. Although Tara's question spearheaded the changed, it didn't affect her.  She was a sophomore when the new curriculum rolled out.  And that seems just fine with her. 

Tara noticed the missing female voices, the missing experiences of girls' coming of age.  For all of my life, I've been sensitive to missing voices, to doing what I can to let them know they are heard, that the people behind are seen.  Not a Goody Two-Shoes for doing that, it was just my natural bent, not an option.  

It's probably rooted in my older sister, who felt horrifically invisibled & there was nothing I could do to help.  She felt like she had been Xed out of life & by God no one - especially not a dweebish baby sister - was going to make her feel seen & heard.  Literally to her dying day.  

It's probably rooted in an oldest brother, who clearly felt that his natural voice was subpar, not okay, and spent his life speaking from an assumed self that he apparently felt was closer to his sense of his true self, with the proper lineage, family wealth, status.  His projected voice was harsh, distainful of perceived lessers, edged with self-loathing.

It's probably rooted in a mother whose self was invisibled by a psychotic mother who made herself the center of her middle daughter's universe, an ordeal Mom survived by losing her own voice.  Miracle of miracles, she believed from the first that Dad heard a voice she couldn't, loved it & nurtured it, but she curled back up in her ball of invisible when he died at sixty-two. 

Peter & Mim never did what they might have because... because of reasons I can't begin to fathom.  Hard to be a true self you've disinherited.  To their baby sister, they apparently hadn't a clue who they were & seemed heavily invested in staying that way.

Am proud to say that Mom did become visible to herself, at eighty-eight.  And she found her voice because Peter & Mim chose to not use theirs.  Ironic!  I had primary - more or less sole - responsibility for Mom. She lived with us, none of the other three - all considerably older - sibs were a consistent presence in her life.  I was frazzing.  Wrote to Mike & Kerry, who live in Australia, and left voice messages with Peter & Mim.  Begged for help, was falling apart.  And I made sure Mom heard me leaving the messages.

A few days later, Mom asked if I'd heard back.  There had been no answer -  "Shows what they think of me." 

Will always remember the look on Mom's face, the unfamiliar sound of something resembling spine in her voice, as she answered, "No, it shows what they think of me.  You're doing what you can to help me stay where I am." 

Years of not seeing dropped away & she was finally able to let it register that they just didn't care.  Mom had fought seeing that, fought to hold onto the thin thread of hope that they would allow her to have them in their lives, on their terms, at their convenience.  That hope had driven her life for as long as I had been alive, which had meant invisibling anything that might put her deepest desire in jeopardy.

In that moment, Mom became Tara Mohr realizing that things were... unbalanced.  

Mom never looked back.  She called a psychologist, got help seeing herself.  Not her children, not her own family, not even Dad.  Just herself.  She came to peace with just herself.  As if with a magic wand, she un-invisibled Katharine Reynolds Lockhart, made it okay to be that woman. 

Helping others feel visible, valuable & valued has been my root purpose for as long as I know.  I pretty much flubbed it with my family - Mom sought counseling because of what others didn't say - those three values were at the core of my teaching & corporate world success.  I remember a student, now an adult with adult children, telling me that I'd brought the same quality to babysitting her family as I had to teaching history - "You made us feel engaged."  Noticed.  Visible, valuable, valued.

Thank you, Tara - am just up to page xviii in your intro but already feeling seen, engaged, present.  What a wondrous place to be as I stride out with renewed vigor, refreshed purpose & re-spined determination to brush aside "bouts of insecurity, a sense of overwhelm & confusion about the practical steps to take." (p. xiv)   ONWARD!

Our own personal universe

Found this delight over on QuoteSnack.com ~ from Diane Ackerman's, An Alchemy of the Mind:

Imagine the brain, that shiny mound of being, that mouse-gray parliament of cells, that dream factory, that petite tyrant inside a ball of bone, that huddle of neurons calling all the plays, that little everywhere, that fickle pleasuredome, that wrinkled wardrobe of selves stuffed into the skull like too many clothes into a gym bag…

We take for granted the ridiculous-sounding yet undeniable fact that each person carries around atop the body a complete universe in which trillions of sensations, thoughts, and desires stream. They mix privately, silently, while agitating on many levels, some of which we’re not aware of, thank heavens. 

If we needed to remember how to work the bellows of the lungs or the writhing python of digestion, we’d be swamped by formed and forming memories, and there’d be no time left for buying cute socks. 

My brain likes cute socks. But it also likes kisses. And asparagus. And watching boat-tailed grackles. And biking. And drinking Japanese green tea in a rose garden. 

There’s the nub of it – the brain is personality’s whereabouts. It’s also a stern warden, and, at times, a self-tormentor. It’s where catchy tunes snag, and cravings keep tugging. Shaped a little like a loaf of French country bread, our brain is a crowded chemistry lab, bustling with nonstop neuroal conversations. I

t’s also like an impersonal landscape where minute bolts of lightening prowl and strike. A hall of mirrors, it can contemplate existentialism, the delicate hooves of a goat, and its own birth and death in a manner of seconds. 

It’s blunt as a skunk, and a real gossip hound, but also voluptuous, clever, playful, and forgiving.

BLOCK Grants

Wow!  Turns out that I am someone who thrives on blocking out my minutes & interests.  Who knew?  

Sheez - here, was always a true believer as myself as an "inspired winger."  That's how master teacher Yorvar Synnestvedt described me waaay back in my long ago days as a middle school educator.  It was certainly the image I held of myself. 

Plans were for schmucks, thinking ahead for boring closet bureaucrats. 
Those were the messages I processed in my early years & held as gospel for decades, even when my true self was screaming into my inner ears that structure provide a framework for freedom, for liberating my best efforts.

Reality - I now look forward with glee to the time that I know, "This is Thursday - this morning I will pace myself through my a.m. ritual, get a couple hours in writing, see one or two clients* in the afternoon and/or evening, do (fill in the blank) yard- and/or house-work, spend 30 minutes unstructured time online, enjoy an hour with John watching something online or part of a dvd, get to bed at a decent hour & up (even in the depths of cold, dark winter) again tomorrow at my preferred wake-up time of between 5:00 & 5:15 a.m."

Back in my days at Bryn Athyn Elementary School, then in the corporate world & in my early years at Delaware Valley High School, there were plenty of times that I was fairly or even spectacularly successful - but they came about in spite of my process, not as an anticipated outcome.  Was I always actually this way, this think-ahead blocks-of-time, think-of-moments-rather-than-minutes person ~OR~ did this self evolve as I aged & have fewer moments at my disposal?  Took me until this very moment to realize that my first experience of the liberating quality of blocking moments & activities happened in my last year at DVHS (a notoriously lax school for at-risk students, where my seat-of-the-pants approach served me well for my first years, getting familiar with the kids & courses), where I brought crowning success & closure to my teaching career because of finally fully utilizing the charming custom of lesson plans & study guides.  What a concept!

Over seven years since my last class at DVHS, the years are ticking by.  And I mean to make them count.  Over the past five years, I've discovered - only because it was pointed out to me - that I'm rather innovative.  For years, have adopted "Saved all my best lines for my 3rd act."  Well, here I be, with the 3rd act curtain up & myself center stage.  Let's make the most of it!

It helps that I've discovered that, along with being innovative, I am significantly more likely to do things when I know their why.  Take a walk around the block soon after I wake up is not likely to find me pulling on my socks & walking shoes; "get your heart rate up early in the a.m." IS.  "Take a break every 30 minutes" from your writing routine hasn't lit my fire but knowing that prolonged sitting is as deadly as chain smoking is good reason to get up & get OUT.

Turns out there's a lot of good to be had out of being a BLOCK HEAD, using blocks of time & activities as stepping stones to a brilliant tomorrow & a wildly fabulous future.  It is seriously cool to be 65 years old, getting to know a true self really well, partnering with her, guided by the sure knowledge that plans are treasure maps & thinking ahead is a hallmark of chronic accomplishment!

Winning Life Lotto

From Richard Rohr, via Kris Girrell ~ ~ "The flow of grace through us is largely blocked when we are living inside a worldview of scarcity, a feeling that there’s just not enough: enough of God, enough of me, enough food, enough health care to go around, enough mercy to include and forgive all faults."

For me, among the countless wonderful things about being 65+ is the ability to look over the arc of years & see the magnificent flow of blessings that came from being born with a deep sense of the possible, rooted in an unwavering abundance pov.  Which is weird, since scarcity was commonplace in my family.  Not of money or resources, although we were most certainly one of the poorest families in an exceedingly wealthy community.  Scarcity of connection & emotional support, scarcity of any core sense of belonging. 

It was the flow of grace within & through me that stayed my course forward under invisibly spectacular deprivation, unseen but powerfully felt.  It makes no sense to me, being graced with that firm grounding while standing atop an utterly crumbled emotional terrain.

It seems to me that relationships of every sort call on us to hold an unwavering faith in there being enough of the Divine, of myself, of emotional intellectual affectional resources.  It feels to me that every relationship in our lives is a microcosm of our relationship with All That Is.  How well we bring to each the abundant resources all around us, even in the midst of harshness & hard times, builds our emotional/spiritual muscle & makes it easier, more natural to enjoy a tender, mutually satisfying relationship with the Divine that surrounds & is infused within us. 

The #1 thing that helped me see the abundance in my pre-John years was the knowledge that everyone did what they could with what they had - if they failed at times, so did I.  And what a blessing to have been taught from my earliest days that while we can judge a person's actions as mean or lacking, we cannot see their intentions!

Some people seem to feel that whether we are blessed or bogged down or even blasted by life is a matter of chance.  There may be some truth in that - it feels like I was born pre-disposed to look for the lesson in tough times & the beauty in each moment.  If we are born with a lottery ticket, then I make no bones about having come up a winner!


So, from my perch of 65+, let me rephrase the opening statement to one that reflects my wildest joy & deepest hope for EVERYONE - - The flow of grace through us is unfettered when we live infilled with a personal sense & worldview of boundless abundance, the knowledge that no matter what circumstances of deprivation might attend us, in the ways that matter most there will always be enough for all - enough: enough of God, enough of us, enough of community, enough of what nurtures, enough health & wholeness for all, enough mercy to celebrate inclusion & enough humility to forgive all faults - beginning with ours.

New day dawning

It appears that I’ve come to a parting of ways – giving up the person I am for the one that awaits being called into being.  They are both, as my Australian nephew might say, bonza Sheilas, but only one can stick around. 

It’s weird, because I like the person who’s evolved over the span of 65 years, but must bid adieu to her if my big vision is ever going to happen.  She’s just too easily sidetracked by things that feel like they matter matter matter, but really don’t.  She’d be the first to admit feeling boxed in by consistent focus, by following game plans & knowing ahead of time what is on next week’s month’s year’s agenda.

She is not sad – it was an ab fab six years.  And she’s the first to confess there are things even SHE'd like me to do, things she knows her time- & energy-consuming ways keep me from making so.

So, we part.  Maybe for a season, a year, or forever.  The parting is laden with good wishes, bright hopes for big doings, and hopes we reconnect down the road. 

For now, the Sheila coming to the fore takes a lot from her dear friend – a desire to rumble with destiny, a bold sense of pinning her manifesto on the door of anyone reducing oldsters elders ancients to “the aging population,” a deep love of play, a freedom fighter & gleeful liberator.  A new day dawns.

Holding Australia Fair in my heart

Downer of a day.  Lunch with a room-stranded older friend.  If he was living back  in the sweet place that was his home & multi-layered communities, he’d have friends dropping by his senior residence.  His church & neighbors would have set up relays of people to help him get back on his feet after a relatively minor stumble left his bedridden for several weeks, weakening his leg muscles.  As it is, though, while we’d love to take him out on a drive,  it is almost impossible to move him from the bed to his wheelchair because, months later,  his legs are still jello. 

Found myself thinking about Mom, who at the same age - 85ish - had a horrific health emergency while on holiday in Australia, put herself into training to get back to the USA to have a serious procedure rather than sticking my brother with the cost of having it Down Under (not covered under her Medicare).  Until seeing how stranded our friend is due to something as basic as loss of muscle tone, didn’t appreciate that while Mom was the one who walked from her bed to a chair in her room, then to the bathroom, then to the kitchen, then did laps around the kitchen island, then onto  laps around the deck, then venturing out to the front gate, then opening it & stepping out onto Dudley Street, then all those hikes up & down Dudley Street … while SHE was the one doing all that training, it was Mike & Kerry & Karen & Mom's Hurstville friends & family-of-the-heart & therapists who helped her literally get back up on her feet, who helped her take those first unsteady steps, who held her around the waist as she navigated to the chair, to the bathroom, who stood by her as she edged out into the hall, to other parts of the house, to the great big world outside her “Bryn Athyn” front door. 

John & I thanked Mike & Kerry & Karen for all they did to take care of their Nan;  am adding in my thanks to ALL who helped get her back on her feet, helped rehab her muscles & restore her energies.  Would our dear friend, living many miles outside his home turf, had a bit of the same.

A hefty portion of my inheritance from Mom

Very early this a.m., in the wisp of dawn, I came across a hefty portion of the inheritance received from my mother, rediscovered tucked into one of the books I was tucking back into their honored place in The Retreat's bookshelves.  

Mom didn’t leave much in the way of well-padded bank accounts or carefully tended stock portfolios.  She was like one of those contests I entered as a kid – you had to be present to win.  Those who were present in Mom’s life won BIG, as I was reminded this morning. 

There is something wonderful about handwritten letters v. typed.  As soon as I saw the stationary – 5.5 x 7.5” – knew who wrote it.  And the handwriting – seeing it brings me immediately into Mom’s presence, writing the letter on the wide arm rest of her big chair with a view out the living room window, the one Brenda always described as “in the Stickley style.”

Background:  Mom usually wrote out copies of important letters she sent as record of what she’d said.  My stomach lurched on the rare occasion when she didn’t; it was a sure sign the letter shouldn’t have been written in the first place.  One time, a short time before the letter next to me was written, she fired one off to “young” Alfred Acton (not the one who married m parents in ’36), who had performed a baptism; Mom wrote him a note, castigating him for it since she believed the person was involved in very public hanky panky - a belief based solely on something heard from someone else, aka back-biting gossip, which she loathed  Will always remember coming home from work to her crowing uncharacteristically about how I'd be proud of how she stood up for principle, how she’d really given him a piece of her mind, had made sure it got off in the afternoon mail – wasn’t I pleased with her standing up for what was right?  No, I was shocked.  And appalled when I asked to see what she’d written & she got sort of quiet & said she hadn’t kept one.  Stars to Mom that she immediately saw what she’d done, was even more horrified than I, sat write down & wrote another note, apologizing for the first, looking back with a shaken confidence at how easily she’d fallen prey to negative thoughts & destructive actions.  I heard from a deeply moved Alfie how the first letter troubled him, the second left him awed with Mom's ability to see the error & right it.  Looking back, it strikes me that she might not have written the letter she sent Peter without that earlier pair.

Back to my inheritance….

For the first time, was struck by the date at the top - - “12-8-2000.”  Did Mom use the non-USA way of dating out of deference for Peter Buss’ Anglo-South African roots?  And noticed the letter is addressed “Dear Peter,” not what I would have expected, not “Dear Bishop Buss” (as in Executive Bishop Peter Buss; the current Rt Rev Peter Buss would have still been spreading his ministerial wings back in ’00).  After rereading the short note, understand why – she wrote to him as a full equal.

12-8-2000

Dear Peter

Is true that you said that questioning ladies were forbidden to use any Church building for their meetings or is that a mistake.

If it is true, I think that everyone has a right to be heard.  If we don’t agree with them, that’s alright, too.  We do need to discuss this, together.

I am one of those ladies, although I don’t believe women should be priests.  That is only my opinion.  I do believe that women could help the priests in their understanding of people in the church.  I think that women could have more of a part in the administration.  (Mom told me the actual letter included “at all levels”).

Take care, Peter.

Cordially, Kay Lockhart

That is the sort of thinking that I grew up with –  respectfully hearing out others & expecting to be heard in return.  Not agreed with – heard  I saw that every day in my parents’ relationship.  My sister-in-laws seemed to experience Mom as dominated by Dad; maybe they couldn’t translate what they heard, which were true partners who were crazy in love with each other. 

Sadly, Dad died at 63, when Mom was just a year younger than I am now.  It was the third early, heart-ripping early death to shake her life.  She changed, became sort of a door mat for her children.  A trait she’d always shown with Peter & Mim, even when Dad was alive, took deeper root – she’d change her point of view as others revealed theirs, making sure they were similar.  It worked for my older sibs & s-i-l, but drove me around the bend.  Took Mom almost 25 years, but she finally realized the WHY behind her verbal/emotional “shadow boxing” – on her own, without Dad’s faith in her boosting her confidence, she didn’t have a clue about her WHO. 

Clearly, by the time she wrote her letter to Peter, she’d gotten wise to the ways of Katharine Reynolds Lockhart.  She was ninety.  She was born in 1910, raised in an era where women were politically invisible, then expected to naturally defer to men, where the laity were meant to take the pronouncements of a Divinely-inspired, all-male priesthood as gospel.  And she wrote a letter to the Executive Bishop of her church as if he was a good friend sitting across the kitchen table, sharing a cuppa with her. 

Can you think of a better inheritance to leave a child.  I can’t.