Monthly Archives: February 2012

Feb 29 2012

God Busts a Move

For years I’d barely noticed the guy. Oh sure, I glanced in his direction a time or two, heard rumors that he’d had more work done than Sylvester Stallone, attempting to maintain his chiseled good looks. Also that he had an old lady. But she was barely a shadow when it came to her solid rock husband.

I always wondered what the old bastard’s nationality was. That prominent forehead made him look like a cave dwelling Neanderthal, but then there was that sharp little goatee which made him look like a Grateful Dead groupie. I guess if I had to hang out in the ‘hard tellin not knowin weatha of New Hampsha,’ I’d stay stoned too. Now I tend to think he was a just an old New England Yankee, bein that his face got coined.  Hard ass expression never changed.

Of the renowned Old Man, Daniel Webster once said: “God almighty hung out a sign to show that here He makes men.”

The morning the Old Man fell I stopped for gas in Tilton New Hampshire. The girl behind the counter, arms wrapped around herself tight as a straight jacket, looked away from the breaking news on the tiny TV next to the register and forced a “Hello.” Turning back to the TV, shaking her head side to side, she mumbled, “Terrible, what a tragedy; I can’t believe he’s gone.”

My heart skipped a beat. I’m thinkin terrorists, bombs blasting through buildings, blowing someone up.

“Who,” I ask?

“The Old Man,” she whispers mournfully.

Still not getting it, my mind searches;  Burgess Meredith? Is he still alive?

I must look perplexed because she lets out a long sigh, obviously disgusted by my ignorance. Cinching her arms tighter, she blurts, “The Old Man Of The Mountain fell!”

I feel relieved, and, I’ll admit, amused. I notice that she’s crying so I decide not to say what pops into my mind, which is: Geezum Crow, it’s a rock!  A face frozen stiff by redneck botox. Crude ass mixture of chains, cement, plastic coating, steel rods, turnbuckles and gutters.

Over the next couple weeks the state went into mourning. Locals gathered at bars, homes, and in garages. People came from miles around to visit their Graceland; see if indeed the Old Man was truly gone. The more ambitious lamenters hiking to the base of the faceless cliff to leave flowers.

Small town art galleries lined their walls with thoughtful depictions of their granite idol. The Old Man gets added to the family portrait wall. Mineral memory of his benumbed people.

If Mr. Webster was right and God begat the Old Man to send a message, I have to wonder about this new epistle.  Standing next to the coin operated —now you see him, now you don’t— viewfinder, I can almost hear God whistling in the wind; Adam, here’s your sign.

Feb 28 2012

Held Hostage by Death. The Ultimate Silencer.

In my original family the topic of death is like a finger on the trigger. Whenever a difficult subject or feeling comes to the surface it’s swiftly silenced by the threat of death. What I mean to say is that someone is always talking about their dying. Subtly insinuating that it could happen at any moment. This is not because they accept it as being a part of life, but rather as a way of keeping you from pursuing a problem they refuse to deal with. Implying that the only thing that’s important, worthy even, is keeping things comfortable. That way when sudden death occurs, no one will feel guilty. Least of all them.

My father died of lung cancer when he was only fifty-two years old. No time to clear things up between us. The diagnosis came and not long afterwards he was dead. I took comfort in knowing the soul of my father was finally free of the torment he endured during his short stint on the planet. Of course, the expectation was that the proper thing to do was to show up to the funeral. Which I chose not to do. Being there I was told, was for my mother’s sake. To support her in her grief, which was really relief. She hated my father. Did her absolute best to discredit everything about him while he was alive.

The last time I saw my father was about a month before he died. I drove from Utah to California, straight through, after my mother called to say if I wanted to see him before he died I better come. When I walked in their house she was half in the bag as usual. In the kitchen dutifully making dinner. I asked her where he was and she pointed toward the back porch.

He was sitting in his chair, legs crossed, cheap reading glasses sat lopsided on his jaundice looking face. A few tufts of hair randomly clinging to his scalp.  Holocaust survivor gaunt, he looked scared. My father and I had a tortured relationship. I was terrified of him. I also identified with and adored him.When I knelt down in front of him he took my hands in his. As we looked deeply into each others brown eyes [something only the two of us had in common], I experienced his heavy sorrow. Tears streamed down our cheeks as we fell into the love we had for each other. “It’s ok dad,” was all I had the chance to say, when like a bullet tearing through the atmosphere, my moms shrill voice rang out! When I went to the kitchen to see what the problem was, she started to rant about how offended she was by what had happened between me and my dad. What about me she shrieked! That son of bitch and his crazy goddamn mother ruined my life! Without saying goodbye to my father, I grabbed my purse off the table and drove back to Utah.

The father’s day after my father died, I was standing in the card section of the local drug store looking for a card for a friend. I’d read three or four when I realized I was thinking about my father. How I wished I would’ve had the kind of relationship with him that inspired me to find him the perfect card. It was then that I felt a distinct presence. Not something outside myself but inside my heart. I knew it was my father and that he knew what I was thinking, feeling. I was so overwhelmed with emotion that I had to leave the store.

A year before my brother died I was riding my bicycle along a bike path when I was suddenly overwhelmed by what I perceived as a voice whispering something into my minds ear. “Your brother is going to die soon.” Deeply shaken I returned to my car. When I started the engine the first song that began to play on the radio was Angel, by Sarah McLaughlin. Again, I heard the voice say,”Play this song at his funeral.”

The night my brother died he called my house. I was between shifts when my son relayed the message and I didn’t take the time to call him back. The next morning when my phone rang I knew that he was dead. The following year on the eve of his death, New Years Eve, I said, out loud, before I fell asleep, “Cody, where are you? Where do people go when they die?” The next morning I got up to take my dogs for their walk. I couldn’t go my usual way as we were in the middle of a January thaw and I couldn’t cross the stream. There was a light skiff of snow on the asphalt. When I cut through the neighborhood to take a different path, I noticed that someone’s boot had stomped out a picture of a space ship on the road.  It looked like a picture made with an etch-a-sketch.  It was of no real interest to me until I noticed that they had also traced the name CODY next to it. I was so stunned that it brought me to my knees. The first thought I had,was, no one will believe this, so I ran back to my house for my husband, [a witness], and my camera.

Things went down the same way after my brother’s death as they did when my father died. We were there to support mother. It was her son that died. Anything we might be feeling, was in her eminent opinion, secondary to what a mother feels when she loses a child. And yet, the fact that Cody had a son, who had a mother who loved Cody, was way down the scale in comparison. I was appalled by this and spoke out against my mother, her demands, disfigured wishes in regards to who she felt was worthy of considering their grief. Inviting to my brothers funeral. The rest of the group didn’t even want to have a service for him. Had I not intervened, they would have opted to only do what was needed to clean up the mess of my brother. Our shame. I did play “Angel” for the service.

By all the usual standards I failed both my father and my brother when it came to their deaths. I believe at times I am tortured by survivors guilt when it comes to my brother. He suffered from a heroin addiction, had begged me to give him shelter so he wouldn’t have to go back to my mother. I told him no. I loved him but didn’t trust him. Opted to put the welfare of my child and myself first.

At times the fear of death feels as threatening as a gun held to the back of my skull. Especially when I consider some of the things that are still unresolved between me and my kids, my husband. There are days when I give in to this tyrant. Shut us all up inside the lie, that the death of a loved one, is the price I will pay for my freedom.

Feb 27 2012

Painful Peace and Freedom

Mollies Pack Wolves Baiting a Bison

Peace: cessation of or freedom from strife or dissention

Strife: vigorous or bitter conflict, discord, or antagonism, a quarrel, struggle, or clash, competition or rivalry.

Antagonism: an active hostility or opposition, an opposing force tendency or action

In my original family I’m the emotional scapegoat. I want to launch into a hundred examples of this so you will believe me, but I’m so bored by the whole thing I refuse to paint those images, yet again.  The most consistent and prevalent behavior around this is a pack mentality. If one is mad at me they are all mad. If I am behaving in the way they want me to they love me and I get invited to Thanksgiving dinner. They are also threatened by my tendency for truth-telling and are not above going to almost any length to silence me.

Although for years I have kept a good distance between myself and my family of origin, for the last couple I have attempted to find my way into their pack. To do this in the way they want me to, I must being willing to pretend. Just the way we did growing up. We never talked about the booze, drugs, violence, guns, and incest. But instead managed to act our way into the fabric of the tight Mormon community we grew up in. Very few if any suspected that our family was insane. This pattern continues today. A predisposition to lie, passed on to the next generation.

My mother is the alpha of this pack of liars. They do and think and say and not say, as she commands, no questions asked. Except for yours truly of course. Needless to say my mother and I have spent alot of time baring our sharp canines at one another.

Recently she fell and broke her hip and the pack went nuts. From her hospital bed, she attempted to continue to manipulate to get what she wants, which in this case could have cost her life, so I moved in to see if I could assist. I was immediately assimilated by the group. Sanity seeming valuable at the time I suppose.

Once mama got back to her den, things returned to ‘normal’ and it wasn’t long before I was itching to break free. Thinking I was doing it differently than the previous 100 times, I attempted to explain my departure.  I thought mom and I had turned a corner. I wanted to believe that her quitting smoking, after 50 years, [while she was in the hospital], had cleared her mind and therefore cured her insanity.  She and I had a couple of conversations where I thought she was hearing me with her heart. I began to get suspicious though when the pack started saying the exact same thing to me. In one of our conversations I told mom that I didn’t feel I had anything of value to offer them. That who I am, how I see and say the world, seemed to be more a liability than an asset for the family. The next thing I knew the usual reactions changed from discussing ‘what Leslie said or did now,’ and then abandoning me, to, every time I offered any input about anything,  they cooed, “Thank you for your input. Thank you.”

Huh?

Their choreographed responses truly felt creepy to me so I moved back even further. In the meantime, I continued to write, hit send, hold nothing back. I stayed in touch with my mother and a niece but soon realized that my niece had been brought into the scheme, as she began to withhold in ways that are unusual for her. This hurt me deeply but I continued to move in the direction of peace, trusting that my mom had my back.

This morning I called mom to tell her to have a nice trip. She’s going to see my older sister who I know is hoping to create some nice memories before mother dies. When I asked mom if she was excited, she hesitated, then said, ”Ya, it will be something different to do.”

I felt pain for my sister who is excited about mom’s visit. I asked mom what time  she was leaving to which she replied, “I’m waiting for my son-in-law to call.”

That’s when I knew. My heart broke to the truth, but still, I hoped it was an absent-minded thing, so I said, ” Mom, do you know who you’re talking to?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say you were waiting for Don to call?”

“Because he is my son-in-law,” she replied defensively. Then added quickly, “I’m sitting here with your [younger] sister,” in the conspiratorial tone she uses when she attempts to try to get us to take sides against one another. I was supposed to say, Ok, call me when you get done. Then her and I would talk about why we can’t talk in front of my sister. Or pretend it didn’t happen. But I can’t do that anymore.

“Oh. Well no wonder. It must be really weird for you right now, being that you’re involved in the behavior the rest of them are using to try to control me into doing what you all want me to,” I growled.  Hung up before she could react.

The pain I felt was so intense, my heart so hard it stopped the air from getting to my lungs. Took my breath away.

This has happened so many times I’ve lost count.  In fairness to them,  I don’t want to be a part of  the pack,  but have continued to move in and out according to the will of my fear and lack of courage.

In fairness to myself, I didn’t want to cause them pain. They kept telling me they loved me.  I ignored the many times those precious words came through gritted teeth. Until now this process has been intellectual for me. Because I ‘understand’ in part what the problems here are, I raise myself above them, raise myself above my feelings, only to be filled with paralyzing resentment that keeps me from having peace.

Feb 24 2012

No Amends, No Forgiveness.

The Transfiguration Lodovico Carracci 1594

Forgive: To grant pardon; cancel indebtedness; cease to feel resentment, [resentment being something that  we re-feel].

Pardon: Tolerance of distraction or inconvenience; a release from penalty of an offense.

Tolerance: A fair, objective, and permissive attitude toward those whose opinion and practices differ from your own; interest in and concern for ideas, practices etc. that are foreign to ones own; act or capacity for enduring.

Amend: Alter, modify, rephrase; to remove, correct faults; to reform oneself.

Forgiveness is one of those ideas I’ve had a hard time wrapping my mind around. Quite honestly when the topic comes up many times my heart constricts inside my chest. I used to think it was because I was an unloving and unforgiving person. Today I know better. Before I go on I want to say that I’m not talking about small grievances here. I am talking about behaviors toward others that have altered the course of their lives. My life.

It seems to me that the expectation of many of those who preach forgiveness, comes from what the majority have been taught about the matter. That Jesus suffered far worse than we ever could and he not only forgave the guys that beat him relentlessly, then strapped him to the cross, but was also able to love them deeply. Whew! Now that’s what I call a very tall order. And that is what kept me from resurrection for many years. When I speak of resurrection I am speaking of Change. A transformation of Mind. Being born anew. Seeing the world through a different lens.

The hang ups for me were that I thought forgiving meant that I had to humble myself in the same way I was taught that Jesus had. Convince myself that my tormentors didn’t know what they were doing. To martyr myself. The truth is, much of the time they knew exactly what they were doing, and chose to do it anyway. Again and again. I also believe they would have continued said behaviors had I not come to my senses and said; ENOUGH! Another wall for me was the subtle message that I had to prove my forgiveness by loving those who had wronged me. Picking up where we left off. The problem for me was that because of the wrongs done to me, there was no picking up to do. The relationships with these folks was never rooted in tolerance. Notice I did not say love. I don’t believe that Love can take root in an environment that lacks tolerance.

I have also used the way I saw forgiveness as a means of trying to force those I had wounded to forgive me. Used the old in order to be forgiven, you must forgive, as my threat. When this didn’t happen the betrayal I felt was in my bones. How dare they! Isn’t that what they’ve been preaching to me all these years!

The problem with the whole Jesus making it possible for us to be forgiven thing, is that we don’t seem to think we need to amend our wrongs. We believe Jesus took care of that for us. It took a long time for me to discover the wisdom of amends, but as soon as I did, forgiveness started to happen for me. When I got busy trying to correct the ways in which I had wounded others, which required the change of perspective I mention above, I was able to truly understand how much I had hurt them, and in some cases, how what I had done had not only changed the course of their lives, but also made their lives harder.

This insight has allowed me to grant pardon, without placing forgiveness expectations on myself or others. Today I love those I wounded more deeply than I ever have. I give all I can in the service of amends. In the cases where the relationships lacked a foundation due to my mistakes, I take responsibility. Forgiveness has taught me how to build relationships based on tolerance, in the spirit of compassion. To trust that Love will blossom where it is welcome

.

Feb 22 2012

Singing Me Into My Minds Ear

So another of the wonderfully weird ideas that keeps popping into my mind, is that what my parents were thinking about when they conceived me, has a major effect on who I am. I am thinking of conception, the moment the sperm penetrates the egg, as being like an opera singer hitting a perfect pitch note.

While they were making love, or fucking, or whatever they were doing, every thought they had singing through their minds, both on conscious and unconscious levels, were like different instruments, orchestrating the melody of my life. The Song of Self born, in the hum of my electrical circuitry, when her egg and his sperm created a tiny big bang, and the universe of Me was conceived.

If it’s true that the animating ‘force’ of who we are is sound, like the belief that OM is the seed sound that created the universe, perhaps the tone of their thought waves are in part what helps in determining who I become. I imagine this as a wave of music, like an echo, it keeps repeating itself. Singing me into my minds ear.

Feb 20 2012

Joan of Arc: Victim of Domesticated Violence

Joan of Arc

Image via Wikipedia

I want to talk about domestic violence. I used to think of it only in the most obvious way. I myself was a victim of said violence, both as a child, and then again as an adult. I have lived through and swallowed the blood of more than one punch in the face. I also know it can be fatal as I have had friends who have lost their lives trying to please the perpetrator.

But for this post I would like to speak to a different sort of domesticated violence. When I use the term domesticated I am speaking of the intent to tame. When I use the term violence I am not talking about hitting or kicking, at least not literally. I am speaking of actions taken on a much more subtle level. Swift and intense force of a different sort. I’m talking about dismissive behaviors and character assassination. What do I mean by that? The many ways in which others dismiss those who refuse to join the herd. Their intent I believe to murder ideas that threaten their comfortable denial.

In my original family I was the identified patient. The crazy one. Like my father. Like my father’s mother. My mother had righteous dominion over the family and her opinion of both my dad and my grandmother was not good. Basically they were the cause of all her grief. Therefore to be compared to either was to be exiled from the family.

By the time I left my parents violent alcoholic home, [at around 13 years old], I was nearly mute. Other than periodic outbursts of rage, when as my mother once admitted, someone would try to pull the wool over my eyes, I was switched off.  I believed I was dumb. That anything I had to say was completely useless, or worse, totally nuts. Interestingly, I was not afraid to confront the physical violence. On more than one occasion I charged into the center of a bloody scuffle, like Joan of Arc, I was determined to fight for the rights of the oppressed. That warrior reaction earned me the title of bo-hunk, which was meant to imply that I was a simple-minded tyrant. This confused me and hurt me deeply. I believed, like Joan, that my determination to defend was about protecting the very ones who then labeled, betrayed, and abandoned me.

Today I think it was more about defending my gift of intuition and imagination. If I could somehow show them that what I thought, heard, and felt was not crazy, that I was only trying to help them all, I would then be legitimate. Unlike Ms Arc I could not blame God for what I perceived. My family was a group of godless savages. Our clan attempted to silence the Muse by diagnosing her as insanity.

It has taken years for me to gain the courage to once again speak my mind, my heart, freely.  And yet I’m wary as a wild mare. My skin picking up the subtle reactions to my words and ideas, as I muddle through the dark loneliness of learning to listen for and trust my voice. At times I’m as frightened as I was way back then, listening helplessly as my father beat my mothers violent opinions out of her. Terrified he would kill her I also understood his desire to silence her self-righteous accusations. For they were as threatening to him as the gun he had shoved down her throat.

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Feb 17 2012

Foul Body Language

X-ray of bound feet, China

I have a friend who’s in physical therapy to try to straighten her spine. She’s been in constant and serious pain for several months and she’s only in her mid-twenties. The problem is that the top half or her body is always folded slightly forward, like a woman wearing high heels. Interestingly my friend almost never wears pumps. If you’ve ever paid close attention to a woman trying to walk when she’s wearing these torture devises, it becomes obvious that it’s impossible to move in a natural way when you’re standing on spikes. If you attempt to move along in a competent and efficient looking manner, you are forced to bend so your butt is tilted up and out to maintain your balance. If you are a modern-day yoga hottie who wears heels, intent on keeping your spine long and straight, you will find yourself taking small steps, like a Geisha with her feet wrapped tight as a fist around a penis.

I was twenty-five years old when I opted to have what some are now calling a mommy makeover. Phase one:  Abdominoplasty, [tummy tuck]. The goal was to try get rid of  my stretch marks. The make you ‘perfect as plastic’ surgeon was very supportive, also promising to restore my pre-mommy stomach muscles. Get rid of that unsightly flap, his nurse affirmed. Phase two; Breast augmentation, [breast implants]. Reading the brochure that explained the benefits of the procedure I was assured that it would enhance my breast size and shape, correct asymmetry, [my right had always been a bit larger than my left], ‘make up for’ change in breast size and shape after pregnancy, improve self-image and increase self-confidence.

The experiences I had following the re-definition of my flesh are many and varied. I believe the surgery was in fact a self-esteem setback, but the details around that are perhaps for another post. That said, there is an important connection between these two stories [and many others]. It is in the bones. After the surgery I never stood up perfectly straight again. The skin on my belly was pulled so tight that when I tried the incision would open back up. It took months for it to heal. By then my body had assumed an ever so slight forward bend. My right hip higher than my left and turned in, which caused my spine to twist. The good news is that years of posturing had taught me how to hide these imperfections pretty well. More times than not the attention, at least the attention I was seeking at the time, was on my unnaturally perfect, large breasts.

If you go into my piece titled “The Naked Veil and Pain,” I tell the story of how I was awakened to the social status of Body. My quest to maintain my centerfold stature is I believe what lead me to take such drastic and dangerous measures. Prior to my becoming The Perfect Body, I was wallflower anonymous. The story for my friend is the same. She was the shy young girl with ‘mustache’ eyebrows and a flat chest, long after her peers had begun to blossom with boobies. And then she developed a nice round derriere. This lead to her kiss my keister posture and ultimately a spine with scoliosis.

For years I have suffered from serious back and hip pain. Three years ago two disks in my back ruptured. With the help of physical therapy, yoga, and some deep soul-searching, I discovered that although I was promised that my stomach muscles would be restored by the abdominoplasty, in fact, they had been seriously damaged. I hadn’t noticed how weak they were because my focus was on having a flat belly and mine was like the skin on a Djembe. Consequently my back had been carrying the weight of the world alone. I had long since had the silicone breasts removed, [after one ruptured], but until I was brought to consciousness I didn’t connect either one to my pain. Nor did my friend connect her injury and pain to her unconscious need to compete for position in the ‘screw for food’ chain. Thankfully she didn’t resort to such drastic measures but many women do. Even with a struggling economy plastic surgery is on the rise. Thousands of women secretly willing to go to extreme lengths to ‘stay fit’ for sex. Related articles

Feb 15 2012

The FeMale Face of God

Barbie's BBQ

I consider myself to be a feminist. For me that means to place the real raw material me at the TOP of my list of priorities. This me, simply IS, before I assume any role I may choose to play, like Mother, daughter, sister, wife, etc. I find that to live this me, out-loud,  is most challenging when I attempt to share it with women. Of course there are a rare few who admit to this, but I find they are jealous, fearful, and at times vindictive, when they run up against Woman Free.

What does freedom look like for me? I am married to a man who willingly pays the bills. No, he is not a rich man, at least not in dollars and cents. I am not expected to be his maid, nor am I asked to go without his emotional support because he is working to pay the bills. I am completely free to speak my mind and he does not make me pay for that by withdrawing support. I come and go as I please and I am free to make exploring, learning, priority number one. He does not attempt to even the score by not coming home or looking for someone who will pay more attention to him on the side. I spend a good portion of my time doing exactly what I choose to do. I happily do my daily chores around the house, admittedly in a hit and miss way, but I love my Home. And you know what,  when I don’t make it to the grocery store before the fridge and cupboards are empty, even though I don’t have to punch a time clock, I no longer feel guilty. Interestingly it was women’s reactions to my circumstances that more times than not triggered the guilt.  And here in lies the reason for this post today.  Before I get going I want to be clear.  In the many ways in which women’s lives and health and choices have become political issues, I am a fierce and committed warrior for her. That said, for today I want to keep this at a more in-to-me-I-see [intimacy] level.

So how did a woman with no monetary resources to speak of attain her freedom? It would take a book to tell the story properly but in brief, I fought for it! And I lost far too much along the way. I also gained a true respect for men, when I started working to conquer the defects in myself instead of them.

I sought out female teachers that could help me learn how to remove the shackles I believed to be around my ankles. I spoke with women who were very successful professionally. Single. No kids. Their advice was to find a career path that would secure me financially so I wouldn’t have to depend on a man. Proud women decked out in the finest apparel driving my dream car. Or at least the car that Barbie insinuated I should be driving. I found these ladies to be hard and cold. But the saddest thing was their bitterness. We had all gathered at a yoga retreat. I was there trying on yet another image, one of a many in my quest for self discovery. They were there to buy themselves some well-earned rest and relaxation. As we lingered over tea the topic of men came up. Their stories were the same. Men, everything about them was a disappointment. They proceeded to inform me that they couldn’t find a good lover because they found that men were intimidated by their financial success. They also felt it was nearly impossible to meet an intellectual equal, and they resented the fact that they made more money than most of the men they met. These women appeared to have it all.  And still their deepest longing was to have a meaningful relationship with a man. When I asked if they thought that having no ‘need’ for a man was in part the problem, they became enraged. Accused me of being a traitor. Subtly they insinuated that I was nothing more and an idiot housewife and proceeded to attempt to educate me about women’s hard fight for freedom. When all was said and done they gathered up their briefcases [they carried them with them everywhere], and huffed off. Feeling a little sorry for me.

The next group of women I will call working homemakers. Many of them work full-time and they are also mothers. This circle of sisters are totally overwhelmed. Although they love their children, for the most part, they do not enjoy being a mother. Spending time nurturing and supporting their kids is one more thing on their To-Do-List.  These ladies spend a good deal of time complaining about their husbands. These husbands spend most of their time away from home. Both of them are frustrated and lonely. Some having affairs and using each others resentments as justification for their extramarital adventures. Spending time as a couple, or as a family is something they add to the list. Most of the time, time alone together, gets crossed off without ever happening. They use that against each other, but neither really wants to spend time alone together. The majority of the men in these relationships work very hard to please their wives. Help out where they can. Eventually they give up because according to her they can’t do it right anyway. For this she hates him. Many of these women,[ like those above], are obsessed with their appearance. They are highly competitive and like to compare themselves to other women to see how they’re doing. They also compare their children to other women’s children. They must come out on top. These couples rarely have sex. At least not with each other.

Then there are the group I will call spinsters. I’m not sure why, but I wanted these women to be the ones who were content with themselves, but it was not so. At least not with those that I met. Many of these women are angry, and more times than not, extremely wary of men. Many have tried relationships with men and found them to be disappointing. Most consider themselves to be die-hard feminists. Some are resolved to be single, but many, secretly, still hope that a ‘good’ man will happen by. Basically other than utilizing them as handymen, when they absolutely can’t handle the task alone, they have very little use for men. If they are having sex, they aren’t going to talk about it.

The next group I explored falls into what I will call the dull housemaid. These women serve everyone. Their children, their husband, their children’s friends, their husbands friends. Their neighbors, their aging parents, and they adopt lots of pets. Some work outside the home but only for the minimal money they need to earn. Their husbands and children have very little ambition. Many of these women lack education and therefore don’t really think about doing anything else. These families are ignorant. That said they don’t do as much men bashing as the women above.  They seem to care less about their appearance. They are not concerned with their children’s education and therefore don’t get involved in any outside way in their children’s lives. They are as open about their sex lives as farm animals.

When all is said and done I find there to be a part of me in each of the many different female subcultures, and yet none feels like the force that animates my skin. I therefore linger on the outskirts of these circles where I enter and then leave as my liberty demands. It is there, on the outside, that I am free enough to glimpse the Ancient One. She who Sees through the eyes of every child born. Until daddy, fails mommy, fails daddy. And we all fail her.

Feb 13 2012

Destiny – Fate = Art

Hesiod and the Muse

Image via Wikipedia

Fate:  Something that unavoidably befalls a person; a universal principle of ultimate agency of which the order is prescribed. Predetermined.

Destiny: The power of agency that determines the course of events.

Art: The quality of expression or realm. What is beautiful, appealing, of more than ordinary signifcance.

Last week I heard a guy say, I’m forty two, all the men in my family have heart problems starting around this age. My best days are behind me.  After I talked with him a bit longer it became clear that he has a kind of disfigured pride about his predetermined Fate. It’s something that joins him to the other men of his tribe. I wanted to ask why? Why do all the men in your family have heart disease? But knowing this man a bit I suspect that that would have been going to deep. I may even have been accused of trying to interfere in Gods plan for him. Who do I think I am to attempt to thwart his right of passage. Some see Fate and Destiny as two sides of the same coin. I do not.

I don’t believe that most things we deem ‘meant to be’ actually are. We use it as an excuse, or perhaps to comfort ourselves when option number two, I am choosing this, overwhelms us. And worse, that we are also choosing for others. My youngest brother died, ultimately as a result of what drug addiction had done to his body. The night he died we were told that he did not have toxic levels of drugs in his system. But the way in which he died was directly linked to physical malfunctioning. A result of years of addiction and repeated overdoses. Because he didn’t die as a direct result of a drug [that night], some in my family have decided to make a martyr of my brother.  Instead of he died of the ravaging dis-ease of addiction, they like to say that he died because of damage that occurred as a result of a tragic accident he had years before his death. One that could easily be blamed on someone, or something else. Something that didn’t have anything to do with his addiction to drugs. Or they also like to say that he died so we could learn from his example. Of what? I want to scream. Especially since many are still using drugs. The saddest thing is that his death could easily be linked to alcoholism and addiction that were not directly his own.  Dis-ease he was born into. But those layers of truth skulk like a killer hiding in the closet. And there in lies the danger of Fate as I speak of it today. My brother died living out the Fate of addiction. But if we don’t acknowledge that we continue to Create it. Justify it. Deny it.

There are many stories like the two above. So called tragedies that are out of our hands. It seems we have become incapable of taking responsibilty for Creating our lives. Both of the stories above could have gone very differently had either person been inspired to seriously question the life they were living. That question I believe is like making the first bold brush stroke that is YOUR life. I sense Destiny as a clean palette of opportunity. A responsibility to the diversity that is LIFE.

What I have learned, am still learning in fact, is that to choose to Create a life that is a Destiny, to utilize my own power to determine what course my life will take, is more often than not blissfully painful and deeply lonely. In my original family I am the one that was always opening the closet door. Dragging the killer out into the light. Consequently I am not the popular one. I am considered a trouble maker, a know it all. Someone who wants them to do it my way. Ha! See how clever Fate is. My refusal to go the way of our family Fate [generations deep I might add], gets twisted into my trying to control them. If I choose to fight, attempt to prove they are wrong, the insanity of Fate gets stronger and I waste my precious resources. It seems to me that many people would rather live out and share a tragic Fate with others, than to risk going it alone, so to speak, where the only reward is to live out ones existence as if WE are the Art. Oh yes, I know, it sounds so arrogant. So Godless. And yet, when I stand palette of experiences in hand, utilizing the colors of my life [feelings, failures, successes], to paint MY portrait with words, I am dazzled.  Humbled by the unknowable knowledge that filters through the muttle of my everyday mind. I don’t know in what I abide as I work to serve the Muse. The only thing I’m certain of is Faith in IT, is what sustains and gives me courage.

Feb 10 2012

The Naked Veil and Pain

I came across this award-winning photo this morning. The first thing that struck me was the tremendous intimacy of the shot. The naked honesty captured here. But the most poignant thing for me was the obvious POWER of the woman. Because I cannot see her I am left to consider only her essence. Her love. Her strength and dignity. Her compassion. Staring into the scene my heart is gripped with pain as I ponder the young man she embraces. What happened to him? I am deeply moved by his emotional surrender. How freely he has fallen into what he is experiencing. His complete vulnerability. I wonder if this would be happening if he could see her? Perhaps he is free because there are no roles to play. No everyday assumptions about women based on her age, size, whether she is pretty or not. Upon deeper speculation, I realize I’m not judging how I feel about her embracing him in such an open and raw way. She, as a dark clean palette of feeling, allows me to experience what is real. His face is buried in heart.
I have contemplated “the veil” [the term most commonly used in the west], many times. To some I am considered a very attractive woman. I remember clearly the day I became conscious of the social value of such things. I was in the eighth grade.  I was taking home economics and we were learning how to sew. Each of us [all girls in the class], were measuring each other to see what size pattern we would need. After the girl sizing me up was finished, she exclaimed to the rest of the class, “Hey you guys, she is a 36-24-36!” She has a perfect body. I had no idea what it meant, didn’t find out until years later, but was clearly aware that at least as far as my peers were concerned, I was something special. That news spread like herpes around the school and wallflower me was suddenly popular. And from that day forth, severely self-conscious.
For years I tried to keep up with “my image.” Went to disfiguring lengths to try to maintain the measurement standards of lust that were set for me that day. The price has been high. The cost staggering to contemplate. That said, I must own the ways in which I used my beauty, my body, to manipulate men. I used to say I could get any man I wanted. The truth is that it was not hard to seduce men, and in that way, I did get them. And then, I left them. At times, I am ashamed to admit, when they were as vulnerable as the man in the picture above.  Some of those men were not lovers. My sons were among them.
I consider myself to be a feminist. Here in the west our assumption of a woman wearing a hijab or burqa is that she is being repressed. Controlled by men. In some cases perhaps that is true. In the same way some women who dress very provocatively here in the west are dominated by men. In fact, I am beginning to think that our [women's] lust to be lusted after is in fact one of the major domination factors in the USA. But that is for another post. The reality here is that the history and belief system around the practice of wearing a chador doesn’t support the western story. Before Islam, many women were sold into sex slavery. The veil was a way to protect women from that risk. Today many younger Muslim women are speaking up about the matter. Some are active feminists who claim that far from being something that represses them, wearing the hijab empowers them. Frees them from having to live up to an image.
For me this picture captures the bigger picture. Broken men. And the need for women powerful enough to set aside their image, to become ‘nakedly present’ to their pain.