The Child Within

 She's been with me ever since I can remember.

The child - me as a child.

She wants to be cherished, loved unconditionally, and protected.

She's learned that the world isn't like that. 

Free image from Pixabay

She's afraid, self-conscious, shy, lonely, and at times even suspicious. Suspicious of new things, of new people, of letting her light shine.

Afraid of others' judgment, she hides and defines herself the way her abusers did: small, insignificant, a country mouse, a bumpkin, unworthy of belonging. Or love.

She and I have gotten to know each other lately. I helped her see her abuse as not her fault, and as a mistake her abuser made. I told her she was brave, and that her heart was loving and sincere. She started to believe me. I want her to believe that she has something worthwhile to say. But she still shies away from the spotlight; she has for decades.

And now, we face another time when she and I will face the spotlight again. In a few weeks, I'll be giving a presentation I created at a national conference in Halifax, NS for the counselling association I belong to. And I'm bringing her with me. I'm being intentional about inviting her to watch, to see how people react, to experience this honour with me. 

Now, I know that that little girl turned into the woman I am now; I haven't lost my marbles (haha). However, that small child, that afraid little girl, is real to me. I can see her plainly in my mind. She learned early on to cower ... because cowering made her safer. And I'm trying to teach her that while cowering kept her safe then, it doesn't serve her well now. I've been giving her something she never got: compassion, love, and a sense of belonging. She's learned to trust me (that is, grown-up me) ... but she's still unsure about others, even though I have been telling her that they care. Now, I believe she needs to SEE that caring, in action, to understand that she IS worthy of love and belonging, of positive attention, of the gratitude she never got.

I'm not sure if any of this has made sense. I just needed to write it.   

Mother's Day - a journey

I have had a love-hate relationship with Mother's Day for almost all of my adult life. From the moment I realized that my own mother was - shall we say - not the best mom in the world, and vowed never to be like her, Mother's Day has been fraught with feelings of anger, shame, jealousy of those who had "the best moms in the world", and confusion about how I should feel about the day - and the role. And her.

When my mom was diagnosed with dementia in 2016, and gradually forgot what she had "done to me" - the confusion grew, the existing emotions were an exercise in frustration, and there were more feelings: hatred for the disease that was making her more and more helpless, guilt that I couldn't forget my childhood like she did, and much, much more. All the while, the 2nd Sunday in May was a day I would always dread. I would even make one post early that day and then leave Facebook alone as I didn't want to read all the gushing messages and posts from people whose mothers seemed so much more saintly to them.  I railed against the idea that the "saint" was what others saw, while I got to see what she was like behind closed doors.  I could see both sides in her, but nobody would believe my version of the woman. Nobody, that is, except my older brother, who saw things up close and personal.

I knew all along that she would never change - that she never once thought she did anything wrong. I knew that she would always treat me like I was six years old. What I didn't realize until a few years later was that her own emotional development - through her own trauma of being the victim of child abuse - was stunted. I was raised by a grown woman with the emotional maturity of an 8-year-old. That stark realization, which I came to in therapy in 2019, freed me to see her for the woman she had become in her dementia. All the masks were stripped away and she showed who she really was to everyone, not just to me. She could be so kind, and in the next breath, critical and cruel. But it was still hard to watch. It was harder to listen to people excuse her behaviour by saying, "It's the dementia." 

When my older brother died in February 2020, I lost someone very important and dear to me, whom I still miss terribly. I also lost my only witness, which was just as hard for me. However, I came to understand that it didn't matter what used to be, just what "is". She could no longer recognize me when I went to tell her about Bro. To her, her daughter Judy was six years old, not some sixty-ish woman. And her short-term memory only lasted for about 5 minutes on a good day. By the end of the visit, she asked me how Bro was doing. I couldn't bear to see her grieve all over again, so I said, "Better than ever, Mom. Better than ever." 

And then came the day that she passed away. April 2, 2023, around 8:40 pm, the phone rang, and a nurse told me that my mother had died.

I didn't know how to feel. At first, I thought it was some cruel April Fool's Day joke so I checked my watch. No, it wasn't that. In a fog, I thanked the woman for telling me, and then started going through the motions of the only surviving natural child of someone who has died. Funeral arrangements, phone calls to inform extended family, travel plans, and write-ups occupied my mind - as did the inevitability of preparing to greet the people who would come to the visiting hours and to the funeral. I don't know how I would have gotten through all the preparation without the help of the funeral director, Erin. She was a God-send.

The overwhelming sensation I felt (and still feel) was relief. She was out of her emotional pain, with a perfect memory, re-united with my dad who had died in 1993, and with both of my brothers (the oldest died in 2010 and Bro in 2020). She also knew everything that I was feeling and had felt. For the first time, she understood me. I can't describe how that felt. It gave me ... rest, I guess. Peace.

The funeral was amazing - but surreal. I decided to let people believe about her what they wished, without making her special memorial about me. I wrote up a biography speech for the pastor to read at the funeral... a list of her accomplishments, things that folks there would remember her doing. I learned that so many people loved her - and that I loved her, in spite of everything.

Mom and Dad on my wedding day in 1981.
He was nibbling her ear.

Mother's Day last year felt like a blur. I was still processing some pretty heavy emotions and realizing some new and interesting things about myself. Now, I imagine Mom being the person she always could have been, totally healed from her own childhood trauma, and able to love and be loved without shame, without false modesty, and without fear. It comforts me. It lets me love the good about who she was, to honour the sacrifices she made, to remember the good times.

As Mother's Day approached this year, I also realized something else. I wasn't dreading it. Strange how that is. Instead, I had come to understand that all these years, I was robbing others of the joy of wishing me a happy Mother's Day and keeping them from celebrating ME as a mom. Wow. 

I've been freed. I can't explain much more than that.

BE that person!

For many years, I have dreaded Mothers Day. MANY years. I have viewed it as a quintessential guilt trip, an excuse for members of the previous generation to lord it over the younger one and for others to jump on board and make a person feel five times guiltier because she doesn't gush platitudes about her own mother. 

And really, with the kind of upbringing I had - which can only be described as violent - who can blame me? Yet - since having children of my own, I have 'allowed' the celebration of the second Sunday of May ... for their sake. I always felt like a hypocrite about it though, knowing how much I detest the approach of that day and having to wade through all the gushy, mushy stuff on store shelves, social media, and even store flyers.

But my view is changing a little lately.  Maybe it's happened partly as a result of losing one of my children (October 2013). Or maybe it's because I realize that I have been punishing my present self for having had a rotten past.  And guess what? That's not fair.

This free photo is from Pixabay; check them out!
https://pixabay.com/

I saw a little sign posted in one of the bathroom stalls at work, and its message has been haunting me the last little while, especially with the approach of Mothers Day.  It says, "A great future does not require a great past." 

And as I ponder the approach of yet another Mothers Day ... perhaps my focus is starting to change. As a result, the dread I normally feel is slowly being replaced by ... something else I cannot quite identify yet. What I do know is that I cannot change what happened in my past. I cannot change the fact that I cannot feel what many women my age feel about their mothers, because I did not have that kind of close, trusting relationship with her that my friends had with theirs. 

But I can BE that mother. I can BE that person who engenders trust, love, and loyalty in people, especially in my only remaining offspring. I can BE her because I HAD to BE her for MYSELF. In the last nine years or so, I have had to literally re-parent myself and tell myself all the things she would never have dreamed of saying: that I was worthy, that I was good at things, that I was appreciated, that I was loved simply for being myself.  And I can tell those things to my own daughter - because they're true, and because in the telling of them, I am not diminished, but rather, I grow.

So this year, I am saying this - Happy Mothers Day to my daughter. Happy Mothers Day even if you are NEVER a mother yourself; I hope I have given you the best present I could give you: my love, and my self, in a way that you could understand and take into yourself.

Because I want to BE that person, my dear. Because YOU are WORTH IT.

Flowers and Hearts

We're coming up on one of the hardest times of year for me - Mothers Day. It's difficult to wade through the messages everywhere that all mothers are saintly. Some just ... aren't ... No matter what anyone else believes, nobody really knows what goes on behind closed doors ... except the ones behind those doors. Some kinds of memories can sour the pleasures of the present.

And of course, the annual event (and its hype) is also a reminder of one of my children who is not here anymore to wish me a happy Mothers Day. . . that kind of pain never goes away, but is more keenly felt on the 2nd Sunday in May.

For those of you who are fortunate enough to have had a wonderful mother, I am glad that you did. If your wonderful mother is still living, be sure to tell her - and show her (not just one day a year) - that you love and appreciate her. That means a lot more than gushy words in a card, pretty flowers or corsages, and chocolates once a year.

If your wonderful mother has passed away at any time (and especially recently) - I grieve with you for having lost someone very special in your life.

And if (like me) how you feel about your mom is "complicated" and you have mixed feelings (at best) about Mother's Day - and especially IF you are a mother with that kind of background ... might I offer my perspective?  I have learned through trial and error (mostly error) that the best way to survive the last week of April and the first half of May (with all the advertising campaigns capitalizing on guilt and shame) is to focus on the present and BE a good mom all year round. 

A good mom is one whose children feel safe to be themselves around her.
 

Photo "Dandelions" courtesy of sattva at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

"Now" is important.  Now matters. Continue breaking the cycle of bad parenting, abuse, and/or neglect. Treat your children - no matter how young - like the real people they are, not just as miniature extensions of yourself. Don't set them up to be laughed at - and NEVER laugh at them or call them names, or dismiss their "little feelings" (there is NOTHING "little" about feelings) as "cute" just because the reason for their distress seems minor to you. 

Respect their boundaries. Take their side. Celebrate their accomplishments. Go to bat for them when they are treated unfairly.  Say please and thank you to your children, and MEAN it. Say you're sorry to their face (and MEAN it) when you mess up. Teach them basic housekeeping and cooking techniques, do these tasks together, and teach them the joy of helping others for its own sake, not to avoid punishment or gain a material reward.  They will remember for the rest of their lives the way you treat them when they are little.  They will also remember how you treat others who have little or no power, and when they grow up, they will most likely treat others the same way.

And when the day comes (whether they're three or sixty-three) when they want to honour you for being that good Mom - and they will - don't rob them of that joy.  Smile and say thank you.  Even if all they bring you is dandelions, if it comes from the heart, see the heart behind it, look them in the eyes with all the love you have inside, and say thank you.

Still learning

My baby girl ...
It's been over two years since you passed away.  Trying to grasp it, I shake my head.  I still don't know how I've been able to survive these months with you gone - well, maybe I do - the love of those left behind has really helped.  

I've been thinking a lot about how much of an impact you have had on my life, not only by your death, but also (and much more) by your life, how you lived it, and what was important to you.  

I have talked a lot about what I learned through your passing, and the miracles with which I have been blessed in the midst of my grief.  I focus on those blessings because they are truly miraculous, and I so need the miraculous. 

The day-to-day reality is still of such unutterable sadness; I try to fill my days with other, busy things to occupy my mind.  Work, school, eat, sleep ... never enough sleep. Every day I am reminded in some way, whether I talk about it or not, of your absence from my life.  I can't say that I have gotten used to the dull ache inside that is my constant companion.  Sometimes it lifts, but then it comes back.  It is relentless, this "new normal."  And sometimes, it overwhelms me - even now.  

And so, lately I have been allowing myself to be inspired by you yourself, and how you approached (or should I say, attacked) every day.  Carpe deim - seize the day - was one of your guiding philosophies, even though you never said those exact words.  You were more inclined to say go big or go home - and friends matter.  And - of course - every snowflake counts.

If anyone was sad, you were the first to try and cheer them up.  If they were happy, you were happy with them and helped them celebrate. Your hugs were the best... tight and warm and long and heart-felt.  You would do the craziest things to lighten the mood, hated it when things were too quiet.  

Arielle, summer 2003

I remember the day that you and your sister and I went on a trail ride at one of those tourist stables - I think it was in Brackley.  We had such fun - you were around eleven - and then we went to this little diner nearby and got treats.  You had your first milkshake ... strawberry ... you were so excited!  From you, I learned that even the smallest shared pleasures can bring the greatest joy.

There was the time when you were four, and we were walking across the parking lot toward the grocery store.  It had rained the day before and the sun was out.  You slowed down almost to a snail's pace, irritating my take-charge agenda... until you told me what you were looking at.  "The rainbow, Mummy."  When I asked where, you said, "... in the puddle.  Look!" and you pointed.  There, in a dirty puddle with a little motor oil residue floating on top, were iridescent colours of red and green and blue and purple, reflecting a mini-rainbow, slowly distorting like a lava-lamp, in the most unlikely of places. We squatted and looked into the rainbow for a couple of minutes. From you, I learned to slow down, and to look for beauty ... because if I did that, I would find it, sometimes when I least expected it.  

There were countless times when you were a child that you would rush into the house in the summer and grab about five jumbo Mr. Freezies from our freezer, cut them in half and take them outside to give treats to your friends.  I complained.  I said you were trying to buy your friends.  I asked if you thought I was made of money.  But it never crossed your mind to withhold good things from your friends.  They were hot and thirsty, and you cared about them.  From you, I learned that love is lavishly generous.  It just is.  It doesn't need a reason and it makes no excuses.  It just gives.  I had to learn that lesson.  You just knew it instinctively.  

The stories I can tell are only a small portion of how amazing you were - wise beyond your years and a never-ending source of happy, crazy, funny, off-the-wall, passionate and compassionate you-ness.  I have learned even more of your stories from those who knew you - the lives you touched in your 21 years here with us has been far more than a lot of people get to touch. And you didn't do any of the things people associate with success: you never finished school, never had a job for any more than a few months ... yet you are still teaching me. 

I am still learning.  Maybe someday, I can be a little more like you ... when I grow up.

Life lines

The last time I talked to her, she was so amazed and pleased that I had called, so worried that something bad had happened, so relieved when I said that all was well.

Of course it wasn't ALL well, but she didn't need to know that.

She talked about her daily life - struggles with the medical profession, aches and pains, worries about family concerns and conflicts, the latest news about this person and that one. There was nothing earth-shattering; she was just sharing her normal everyday stuff. We talked for almost an hour then. In that time, she told me the same stories four or five times... and I let her. She asked the same questions of me two or three times, and I answered her each time. She really didn't remember the little details like what she did or said five minutes ago, so why would I get annoyed? 

She's perfectly sane, perfectly lucid - it's just that she forgets. She's 84 after all. 

Photo "Serpentine Pathway Stones On A
Park Lawn (concept)"
courtesy of arturo at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

And today I called her and she was surprised and pleased and worried and relieved all over again. She asked the same questions, told the same stories, and I listened. And we reminisced about good memories from years gone by. 

Sometimes, when we do that, I learn stuff I never knew before ... good stuff.

I learned a little bit about what it was like when she was a young mother and she and Dad bought a part of their landlord's house and literally sliced it off and moved it down to land they'd bought down the hill. She described how several of the neighbor men put the structure on rollers the size of huge logs and just pushed the house slowly down the road and brought the back roller up to the front and slid it underneath the house ... what an exciting adventure it all was for my older brother who was about three and a half years old at the time, over six years before I was born. 

In times like that, when she loses herself in a story I've never heard before, my own bad memories - and there were many - fade away. They don't vanish, but they go into the background. She hasn't remembered those bad times in years anyway, and would deny they even happened. I used to think it was important for other people to know the truth of those years, but somehow it doesn't seem that crucial anymore. I know what happened; that should be enough for me. And although the ripples from those things do still affect my life now, forgiveness has acknowledged them and not sought retaliation. Compassion and kindness has taken the place of anger and resentment. Mercy has triumphed over judgment. I don't take credit for that; that credit goes to a Power higher than I, a Love far greater than my own.

So I listen to her. I listen and I learn. I let her know some of the things I am doing, the realities I live with now - not enough to worry her, but enough to let her know that I have a life and responsibilities of my own, and that even in the midst of them, I still care enough to call her and listen. 

"The lines have fallen to me in pleasant places," wrote King David. (Psalm 16:6). He was talking about the paths and the boundaries that made up his life, the relationships he had, the circumstances he faced, and all that made up the substance of his life. Life lines. Not as in foretelling the future, but as in looking back on the path his life had taken and seeing how all those events and decisions had turned out. 

And being satisfied ... and content. And perhaps even surprised.

I am.

Point of view

The other day, I got a chance to watch somebody do something that I didn't have the courage to do: talk to a complete stranger who (by all reports) could have become angry and violent given the subject matter of the conversation. 

I was supposed to have talked to the man... but basically, well-ll-lllll .... I chickened out. This person I was watching had offered to talk to him for me - and had asked me if I wanted to watch and see "how it was done." I jumped at the chance.

Every fear I had nursed about this conversation never materialized. The man was polite, courteous, and even understanding. That was amazing enough in itself. However, what was even more amazing for me was how my friend approached the conversation.

Instead of fear and trepidation, there was confidence, friendliness, and humor. 

I thought a lot about how the conversation went with my friend in charge, and how it might have gone with me at the helm. I didn't like what I saw... but I did start to understand what the difference was. It was "point of view."

Later, after the conversation was over, I told my friend about my epiphany, my inner realization about the point of view determining the course of a conversation, a social interaction, a task. 

You see, my friend actually expected things to go well. There was an inner confidence, a belief that most people would be nice and that there was no need to worry. (I don't have that.) There was also the fact that my friend stayed "in the moment" and didn't play the "what if" game. (I do that all the time!) 

Point of view, or perspective, or mind-set, determines a great deal of things in life. It can cause us to be adventurous or reticent, thoughtless or thoughtful, confident or fearful, trusting or suspicious, and everything in between. My friend was always told that she could do anything that she set her mind to, that the world was a wonderful place, that her own opinion of herself was the only one that mattered, and that people could be incredibly sweet. I was told that I was a screw-up, that the world had it in for me, that the most important thing in the world was what people thought about you, and that my feelings and thoughts didn't matter at all. 

Photo "Serpentine Pathway Stones On A Park Walkway"
(concept) by arturo at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

We came at this conversation - and I came to realize that we come at life - from two completely different points of view, based on our own experiences in our growing-up years. Suddenly, in the presence of my friend (after the conversation was over and I realized that all went well) I remembered someone saying once that we create what we believe ... because what we believe determines how we act, and also it determines how others react to us. I have no doubt that if I had talked to that man, he would have become irritated with me because I believed that he would and because I would have therefore been apologetic and hesitant with him, stumbling over my words. And therein lies my problem. 

My problem lies within me. It lies in my own point of view - created early on in my life by people whose own point of view was warped and distorted, and adopted by me because I didn't know any different way to be.

The good part of all this is that through this experience, my problem - which had been "out there" and quite cloudy and hard to grasp - gelled and came into clear focus for me. That is the first step in doing something about it.

Yes, I will make this a matter of prayer - and of focused self-talk using what I know to be true instead of what I have been told by those who don't know any better. But I also know that if I need help or focus doing that self-talk, I can ask for help. I don't need to struggle through it alone.

That's something those people in my early life would never have suggested because, well, "What would people think?" I'm learning not to listen to that tired old song. And now that I know what to ask for, you can bet that I'll be asking for it. 

And I'll get there. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

Waste Not

When I went to the water cooler at work today, I saw that the overflow tray that catches the drips when people fill up their water bottles, had some overflow in it - I've seen it more full, but it was just the right amount of water that I needed to water my smaller spider-plants. So, I removed the tray and headed back to my desk. 

Someone saw me carrying it and shot me a quizzical look. "I have this aversion to waste," I quipped. "My plants could use this."

When I was done, I put the tray back and went to my desk to resume working. In the back of my mind was the old adage, "Waste not, want not." 

Usually when I think about something that normally doesn't cross my mind, I start listening - hard - because that's about when that little voice inside of me comes along to teach me something. Or remind me of something. 

Waste not.

"Man Stacking Coins" courtesy of ponsulak at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

My parents grew up in the Depression, which started in the late 1920s and lasted up until World War II was over. Ever-present in our home life in the 1960s and 1970s was that sense of our parents' horror at the thought of wasting anything - from soap to food to seeds for the garden. While that did lead to the tendency to overeat (clean up everything on your plate, don't let it go to waste...) it did instill in me the awareness of the price of things, of how far a dollar went, of living on a tight budget. I learned from that atmosphere to be satisfied with less, to not wish so much for what was beyond my grasp. I learned that pennies actually counted. Sometimes they made the difference between buying a bag of potatoes and leaving it on the shelf.

And when I did receive something that was "extra" - like the single-speed, CCM bicycle I got for my birthday when I was 11 - I appreciated it all the more because I knew how many things my parents went without ... in order to save up enough money to buy it for me. 

There is another side to "Waste Not."  It has to do with the inherent value in the things that have no price. Honesty. Integrity. Faith. Love. Such things are never to be wasted, devalued, sullied, cheapened. They are part of my character, ideals I believe in, truths to which I hold - and when I get too close to the clean, clear edges between what feels right and what is wrong - that to me is such a waste of ... of me. It's then that I feel devalued. Dirty.

By the same token, it doesn't matter whether it's at church, at home, at work, or out in public: when I right a wrong, when I make a difference, when I cleave to the ideals I hold dear (even if nobody else agrees with me at the time) then I can look at myself in the mirror and like who I see. I feel as though the gift that God intended me to be to the world - however small or large that sphere of influence is - has not been wasted. At least for today. 

I even smile at myself. 

That's a pretty big deal.

Perhaps next time, I'll talk a bit about "Want Not." 

:)

Storm Stayed

This morning, of all mornings when I would have loved to have slept in, I was awake at 5:30. I awoke to the low moan of winter outside our window, rising occasionally into a whistle.

I hate winter. I've made no secret of it. I hate everything about it - except for the fact that it doesn't last all year long where I live. I detest the cold, the wind, the snow, EVERY winter sport or activity, the ice on the windshields, the shoveling, the slippery roads, the ice underfoot, the slush, the slow traffic, the lack of greenery, the short daylight hours, the bulky clothing and ... did I mention the cold? Uggh!! 

"An Old Mountain Shelter Covered with Snow"
Image courtesy of Michal Marcol at www.freedigitalphotos.net

I've learned to survive, of course. I'm Canadian after all. We accommodate. ;) 

I've even learned to find things for which to be grateful in the midst of all this "white stuff" - which technically ... is quite dirty and not something I would want to melt and drink! 

I can be grateful for a warm, safe home, when so many must sleep in dumpsters and on park benches even in this weather. I can be grateful that (for example, today, when there's a blizzard raging outside) all of my loved ones are accounted for, and most are sleeping late! I am pleased that the power is not out - at least not yet - and that even if it does go out, we live in an area that usually can get it going fairly quickly. I can be glad that we knew that this storm was coming and that we had time to stock up on groceries, batteries, and the like. I can be thankful that hubby did my laundry yesterday, that we are on the city water and sewer systems (so we don't have to use a commode anymore!) and that in the fall of 2011, we paid someone to come in and spray-foam (insulate) our furnace room. And finally, I can be very grateful that storms don't last forever. 

That last point is good to remember when I've been hit with the blizzards of life, too - when body-blow after body-blow happens and I feel overwhelmed. "This too shall pass." Or, "The storm doesn't stay." 

At times in my past, I had a tendency to get storm-stayed and lose my way, refusing to emerge from my hiding place. When events would transpire that were distressing for me, I'd hunker down. And these occurrences would pile up! After a while, I'd expect to get those emotional hay-makers, and would interpret everything that happened, not at face value, but by attributing the motive that "they're out to get me." Even the good things were tainted with bitterness. I'd mistrust any good that anyone did for me, wondering what they wanted in return. I'd deflect any kind words, thinking that those who complimented me or were kind to me didn't really mean it, that it was just the polite thing to do ... or that they felt sorry for me. 

When I started to heal on the inside, I started to realize that for decades, in response to years of physical and emotional abuse, I had created an emotional atmosphere within myself that was conducive to many of the negative things I was experiencing, or that I perceived to be happening. Since I expected bad things to happen, that's all I saw, which only deepened my belief that I was somehow under a curse. 

In a sense, I was under a curse. I was stayed - stuck, detained - in the "What next?" mentality, a real "storm magnet." However, as I became more and more free from the effects of those childhood experiences, my self-esteem became more balanced and I was able to find my own identity, and not the one that was tied up in what others thought about me, or how they might want to hurt me. 

In time, and with a great deal of repetition and reinforcement of the "new Judy," I actually began to believe statements like, "Today is a good day, unless I make other plans." And, "Don't let a bad moment turn into a bad day." As I did, and I started to get to know myself and like myself, I dared to believe that others could like me too. It's a process, of course. Part of it is realizing that there are going to be people who won't like me, no matter how hard I try to impress them... and that I don't need to keep chasing after them. It's okay to let go. It's okay to be me and not feel I have to apologize for it. 

I'm still learning those lessons.

So now, when those kinds of storms happen - and they do occasionally - I remind myself that it's okay to protect myself from them, but that they don't last, and I don't need to be stayed by storms beyond the "all clear." And I can remember that, as George of the Jungle said in the 1997 movie, "Something good always happen after."

Baby

Around 1969 or 1970, a locally famous musician (whose name I was never told) commissioned a locally famous guitar-maker named Frankie Richard to make a new Martin-style guitar for him to use on a television show on which he would be appearing. 

It was a beauty, and Frankie put a lot of care into making it, so the sound quality was rich and full. When the man came to pick up the guitar - for which he was prepared to pay the exorbitant sum of $300 (a lot to pay for a guitar in those days and in that area), he looked it all over and noticed what he considered to be a small flaw in the wood that made up the top of the guitar (which would be facing the camera). He refused to pay the money and left Frankie's shop. 

Frankie wanted to recoup his costs for at least the wood he used and when he heard that my dad was looking for a guitar to give to his son, he slashed the price to "at cost" and sold it to his friend for fifty dollars.

Fifty dollars. 

My brother loved that guitar. He played it, wrote songs with it, took it on ministry trips to sing with me and my other brother as a trio - built all kinds of memories with it over the next seven years or so. 

He frequently left it standing by the door of my room - and when he wasn't there, I'd pick it up and play it (instead of the old Barrington my dad had said I could use to learn on because both the boys had learned on it - the one where the frets were about 1/4 inch from the strings: ouch!) I had learned to play when I was about 10 or thereabouts, and to pick when I was about 12 or 13. My style was vastly influenced by my brother's and by the music he listened to: John Denver, James Taylor. 

Sometimes he would catch me playing it and he would get upset with me - rightly so, of course - but the attraction of the instrument and how easy it was to play (compared to "mine") always brought me back to it. 

Fast forward to 1976. Our trio, which we called the Three Grains of Wheat, was scheduled to go and sing at a church in the Maritimes with the New Christian Singers on the upcoming weekend. It was a Thursday, I think. I was rushing around trying to get some chores done, and I opened my bedroom door quickly to go get something . My brother's guitar was leaning against some of my clothes I had hung on hooks that were by the door. The clothes overlapped the door jamb, and when the door opened, the clothes pulled away from the wall, and the guitar started to fall.

You know those moments that seem to happen in slow motion but all too quickly too? that was one of them. I tried to catch the instrument ... but I wasn't quick enough. 

It fell forward ... and hit the floor. Cra-wannnnnngggg! (I'll never forget that sound. It seemed to last forever.)

I gasped, horrified at what I saw happening before my eyes.

The neck of the guitar cracked at its weakest point, a jagged crack back to front at the top of the neck, tilting the head forward and making the guitar useless. 

I felt sick to my stomach. The guilt was overwhelming! I knew I had to tell my brother what had happened, and that it had been my fault because I'd been playing the guitar and I had leaned it against those clothes by the door!  

I told my dad what happened. (I'm not exactly sure why he was home, but it might have been his vacation). He was disappointed but he never said it, nor did he punish me; he could see the guilt of what I had done was punishment enough. He turned his attention to the next pressing question. His son was without a guitar and he had a commitment to play and sing ... in just days. 

In desperation he called Frankie and told him what happened (without going into details, bless him!) He asked him if he had another guitar of the same style already made. Miraculously, Frankie did... and Dad busied himself with arrangements to pay for it. He never told me how much he paid for the replacement. I'm sure it was at least a hundred dollars. 

Meanwhile, I prepared myself to face my brother when he got home from work. My face was tear-streaked and puffy; I had been crying a lot because I was so afraid of his reaction. When he got home, I took him aside and said, "I've got something I need to tell you." He saw the look on my face, the red-rimmed eyes and the puffy cheeks and knew it wasn't good. In tears and sobs, I told him what I had done and I apologized profusely for it. I told him that Dad was going to get him a new one - but that it could never replace the one I'd broken.

His face was a study, a mixture of shock, sadness, fear, and then relief mixed with ... with something else I couldn't figure out. He watched me closely as I struggled for the words to say to him, waited wordlessly for me to finish. Then quietly, he said, "I want to see it."

Feeling miserable, I took him up the stairs and showed him the guitar. He picked it up and looked carefully at the cracked wood, and stroked the loose strings. I knew he was saying goodbye to his friend.  He laid it carefully down and turned to me. This was when he was going to "let me have it." I braced myself. 

His voice was gentle. "It was an accident, Judy. I forgive you."  The tears again started to trickle down my cheeks ... but he wasn't finished. "Why don't we take the guitar to Dad and see if he can do something with it to fix it. If he can, well, I'll have a new guitar anyway - so if he can fix this one, you can have it." 

I blinked, hard, and just stared at him. 

"I'm serious. If Dad can fix it - and he probably can find a way (you know Dad; he can fix anything) - it's yours." 

I burst into tears and hugged him tight. 

He hugged me back. "I love you, Sis,"  he said in my ear.

We were almost ready to go on the weekend two days later, when Dad appeared with the guitar. Flushed with embarrassed pride, he showed it to us. He had glued the crack, held it closed in a vice while the glue dried, and bolted a metal plate in place on both sides to keep the head from slipping in case the glue didn't do the trick. My brother took it from him, ran his fingers over the strings, tuned them, (it sounded wonderful!) and handed the guitar to me. 

It has been in my possession ever since, a constant reminder of the Grace of God - and the power of true forgiveness. 

I have cradled it often in my arms - it has brought me solace and joy, started conversations and cemented friendships. I named it ... Baby.

The Bubble

Personal Space in a Crowded World

One of the first things that freshman Psychology students learn about is personal space. At the core, everyone has an invisible bubble around him or her. Depending on how close a relationship there is, a person can allow someone to the outer limit of his or her personal space, or allow entry. 

The average North American's personal space bubble is three feet in every direction. This is generally "arm's length." Strangers are not allowed to touch the edge of that space. Acquaintances may touch it, but not enter in very far. Close friends are allowed inside, but may not be allowed to touch. Intimate friends (such as a spouse or a best friend) have permission to make physical contact. The rules vary depending on the personality. Extroverts allow more touching; introverts don't.

Personal space bubble drawing - here's the blog article

Different cultures also have different definitions of that space and the rules surrounding them. In the European culture, for example, the sense of personal space is a lot smaller. People allow other people within two feet with no problem, and the rules surrounding touch are far more lax. This is why, when you're traveling to (let's say) Italy, you might feel uncomfortable when your host gets up in your face and waves his arms around, nearly touching you. (shudder) 

Differences in culture can occur not just in the personal physical space, but also in the attitudes that people have. In the culture of which I am a part, the average person doesn't get excited or vocal about much. Nobody raises his or her voice much; nobody jumps up and down (unless it's at a sporting event); nobody likes to get involved in a hot debate or enter any kind of confrontation. It just isn't done. 

If someone from another culture comes into that mix, someone to whom these behaviors (shouting, jumping up and down, debating) are not only acceptable, but desirable, there is a conflict. People get uncomfortable. Some people - like me - just shut down and clam up in situations where that individual is saying, "What's wrong with you people? don't you get excited about anything?" (Inner voice: "Umm, yes, I do, and no, I don't see the need to shout about it. Step back another foot or two and lower your volume; you're in my face. And that is NOT a good thing.") 

It's so important to define boundaries in situations like this. I need to keep reminding myself that not everyone picks up on non-verbal communication and I just might have to (horrors!) SAY how I feel rather than stew and fret about it. If someone is infringing on my personal space, and I dread being around that person, it's my responsibility to make the boundaries clear - if I want to remain in relationship with that person. This is something I've had to learn over the last couple of years. It's slow going.

When personal space is injured

Sometimes a person's sense of safety is wounded. Someone, or a whole lot of someones, strikes an axe to the foundation of the rules that govern the person's definition of right and wrong, just and unjust. A person exposed to this kind of event can become suspicious, afraid, even angry and belligerent. The underlying reason is the belief that the world isn't safe. This can happen at any time of life, and in any number of ways, including:

• child abuse: physical, emotional, sexual, abandonment, etc., especially if this took place over several years
• witnessing man's inhumanity to man (or animal) and being prevented from stopping it
• dangerous / life-threatening situations including being the victim of any kind of violent crime
• death threats or threats of physical or sexual violence, whether experienced directly or indirectly (e.g., when someone you love has had this happen)
• bullying: at school, at home, at work, or at church
• motor vehicle accidents - either being the victim, related to the victim, or a witness
• personal loss / grief (social, financial, family, church-related, work-related)
• constant, chronic, untreatable pain
• having a life-threatening illness or watching a loved one struggle with a life-threatening illness

Such experiences sometimes lead to a certain set of behaviors and symptoms that have become known as "Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome," or PTSD. Granted, it appears in varying degrees depending on the severity of the stressful experience and how long it lasted. But one of the symptoms of PTSD is an expanded personal space. In fact, the shape of the personal bubble changes. It's not only bigger (say, 4 feet instead of 3), but it's also bigger in the back than in the front or the side. I know because I have that symptom, and have for many years. My personal bubble is 4 feet in diameter, but it's over 5 feet behind me. If I enter a room, I have to either be close to the door for a quick getaway, or in a corner with my back to the wall so nobody sneaks up behind me.  I'm not saying that I HAVE this disorder, just that I have that symptom.

Here are some of the other, more common symptoms of PTSD (the first four must be present, along with an identifiable traumatic experience, in order to make a clinical diagnosis) - just for interest's sake, I've "starred" the symptoms I have had in the past:

• re-experiencing the stressful event: "flashbacks" *
• avoiding situations that remind the person of the traumatic event(s) *
• emotional numbing: being unable to feel love, tenderness, or compassion
• hyper-vigilance: an obsession with order, safety, or control of the environment *
• severe anxiety in new situations, combined with an overwhelming desire to escape from them *
• nightmares, waking in cold sweats *
• insomnia *
• suspicion of everyone and everything *
• increased personal space *
• episodes of depression; occasional to frequent thoughts of suicide *
• occasionally, the person may experience panic attacks, and in very severe cases, psychotic behaviors -  hallucinations, "zoning out", paranoid delusions, etc., usually in very stressful situations

There are more, but these will give an idea of the kinds of ways that the mind can find to cope (or not to cope) with trauma. PTSD is a horrible disorder that affects a lot of people, and it isn't just a "soldier's illness." Anyone can suffer from it. 

Many sufferers talk about "retreating into their bubble" - isolating themselves because it's the only way they can feel safe - and it takes a lot of effort to venture outside that comfort zone.

Treatment usually involves a combination of medication and therapy. Milder cases can be managed with therapy alone. And once a person has PTSD, it doesn't mean that he or she will always have it. Some have suffered acute symptoms for several months or a couple of years, and they have resolved themselves with therapy and/or with anti-psychotics, antidepressants or anti-anxiety medications. It depends on what the initial trauma was, how long it lasted, whether anything else compounded or added to it over the years, and quite a number of other factors. Those that do have chronic PTSD can learn to manage the symptoms and live normal lives. It is not anything to be ashamed about, and talking about it does help, especially if it's with people who understand what it's like.

The lifestyle I live now goes a long way toward easing my symptoms; they are much less intense than they once were. I remember when nearly every night was filled with nightmares where I re-experienced the violence that was so much a part of my growing up, or where my deepest fears came to life and I would wake in a cold sweat. The "One Day At A Time" and "Let Go and Let God" approaches allow me to release things that are out of my control and get on with the business of living and enjoying life. I've gone back to the past deliberately, not to dwell there, but to allow God to banish the demons that lurked behind me to devour me. I try to focus on living in today, and leaving the future to the Almighty. 

Which leaves only today (what a relief!), in which I am learning to live with gratitude. My over-sized bubble is slowly getting smaller as I continually learn to trust myself and God more, to let trustworthy people inside. It's a long way from where I'd like it to be, but it's coming.

Outside Looking In

I can't remember a time when I have felt like I was in the "in" crowd. I always felt like I was on the outside looking in, from the time I was a small child and someone asked my name and reacted in disgust when they heard it. Apparently it wasn't cool to have that surname, and others before me had only acted "weird" - so nobody got to know me. 

Found this great photo HERE

Even in my family, though there were some happy times, I never truly felt a part of that world. I dreamed of something more. I wanted there to be a safe place, somewhere I could be accepted for who I was without having to pretend anything. But the specter of "What will the neighbors think?" loomed ominously over every aspect of our lives. We weren't allowed to talk about what happened inside the house or on the property; we weren't allowed to talk about each other; we weren't allowed to talk about conversations we'd overheard about anything from money problems to the guy down at the corner. Nothing. It was a black hole. Secrecy and lies - yes, lies - reigned. Family honor was far more important than someone's safety or happiness. Deny, deny, deny. And peck at each other like hens after blood. Nitpicking, criticism, judgment and condemnation were daily occurrences, and I participated in them as much as the next person. But I never felt right about it deep down. I just cloaked myself in righteousness (and hypocrisy) and carried on.

It carried through into my other relationships even after I left my childhood home. Relationships with people I cared about. My husband, even my kids. God help me, I nearly ruined all of their lives with my narrow-minded religious prattle. (I called it being a committed Christian. It had nothing to do with Christianity and I probably SHOULD have been committed.)

Finally, after life had beaten me down, I reached out for help and found it. And I discovered a whole new lifestyle called "rigorous honesty." It was raw. It was scary. And it was exactly what that outside-looking-in kid was always missing. 

Through that lifestyle and the choices with which I was confronted to embrace the new and walk away from the old, I discovered something which seemed miraculous to me. I could be myself (and thanks to therapy I actually was beginning to know who that person was, and like her) and people of like mind and heart would be naturally attracted to me on almost a spiritual level. 

And just recently I've started to redefine what "family" really is. "Family" isn't that genetic code you were born with, the people you're stuck with just because you happen to share some DNA markers. Many times - as was the case with me - the people who gave you life are sometimes the ones who seem hell-bent on sucking the life out of you. So I found a whole new family.

They're called friends. People with whom I feel safe. My husband, my kids, a few true-blue stick-like-glue no-matter-what-you-do friends. And a community of people I never knew existed until I started to blog: fellow-bloggers. 

I live in gratitude now for these folks, and prefer to spend my time with them instead of with the ones who, whether they mean to do it or not, are more about following the rules than about following their hearts. I had plenty of following the rules and it nearly killed me. 

I'd rather pursue relationship. Those are the ties that bind - ties of the heart. These people, these new family members (some of whom I've never even met in person!) have not even entertained the idea of me being outside the door looking in; they've opened their doors without any expectation that I would meet their needs or fix them up, or that they would even dare to do the same to me. They've accepted, listened, shared, and cared. 

And if that's what the Inside looks like in this world, I'm glad I'm here and not back there trying to fit into a world that was never made for me, though even now I am confronted with those who are trying to force me into their mold of what a "Christian" should be. No, I think I'll just stretch my legs out by this nice roaring fire in the hearth of this new family, this place where I feel so welcomed and protected, and breathe a deep, heartfelt sigh of gratitude.

Refuge

The sun's heat baked into my skin as I trudged up the steep mud driveway.  I could smell wild roses in full bloom in the ditches, could hear the distant song of crickets, could see to the right, more and more of the barn - first the roof, then the walls - as I got closer to the top of the hill.  At the top of the hill and to my left stood the old farmhouse.  

But what caught my eye first - and every time without fail - were the soft brown eyes of my friend Princess as she trotted toward me from the barn.  Princess was a dog - a yellow Labrador and border collie mix, most likely, with a few other things thrown in.  Nobody had purebred animals in this backwater community.  Her doggie grin welcomed me; her liquid brown eyes sparkled in excitement.

She turned, knowing I'd follow her, and trotted to the barn.  I'd never seen a dog before or since climb the built-in ladder to the hayloft, but she could.  She led me slowly over to a spot about twenty feet or so from the edge of the loft, well away from the place where anyone could fall off and get hurt.  She gingerly circled a spot in the floor where a pile of puppies lay sleeping, tangled and nestled up in each other's bodies.  She laid down and looked up at me, eyes ever expressive.  It was like she was saying, "These are my babies. Aren't they something?"  I'd pet them for at least ten minutes - this part I didn't want to rush.  In fact, I didn't want to rush ANY part of this... this refuge from my usual world.  

I'd gotten permission to walk up and go visit this place - with the understanding that I be back at a certain time.  There was so much to see there, that it would be a few hours before I was expected back. 

Reluctantly, I climbed out of the hay loft and made my way out of the barn and toward the house, dodging free-range chickens and their chicks bunched around them as I crossed the yard. Prince, the old retired guard dog, a Keeshond - Shepherd mix, wagged his tail at me from the side porch.  I turned and headed toward the back porch entrance.  I could have gone in the side where Prince was, but he was resting, and I wanted to see what was in the back hallway.  

Got this picture of cuteness HERE

There was usually a cardboard box half-way up the forty-foot hallway, which was a gigantic mud-room in today's terms.  In the box I would invariably find a litter of kittens and their mother.  I could visit with them for a little while too.  The animals soothed my soul.  They never asked anything from me but my presence. I needed that.  

After the kittens had gone to sleep - I got up and tip-toed toward the door that led to the kitchen.  The oil stove was on one wall and the wood stove - pressed into service for larger crowds - was to my right as I came in the door.  I could smell wood ash, galvanized steel (buckets), and something delectable that made me close my eyes in bliss. 

Gram was there.  She was making a pan of new-potato hash: these days I guess people call them hash browned potatoes.  My favorite.  

"You must be hungry.  Why don't you wash up and we'll sit and have a bite to eat."  It was more of a statement than a question.  Nobody dared turn down Gram's new-potato hash, made in an iron skillet with boiled new potatoes, and chopped fine using a "hash can" - an old tomato sauce can with one end open and honed sharp around the circular edge, and a hole in the top to let out steam, placed there by the kind of can openers you open a can of apple juice with.  The rhythmic "chock, chock, chock, chock, chock [pause] tap-tap-tap" of Gram chopping the potatoes and then tapping them out of the can is so vivid I can almost still hear it.  She served the steaming hot hash on a fluted old china plate and placed it on the table. I pulled a fork out of a cup of clean utensils on the table.

I'd sit and tuck into my food, and Gram would just talk about everything and nothing to me - as if I mattered.  Nothing she said was ever a criticism of me or of anyone else, as I recall.  I remember feeling as though I wanted to be there, to stay there.  It was so different from the home life I knew.  I offered to help her with the dishes and she accepted.  But it didn't feel like a chore. It was another way to interact with her, to experience the atmosphere that was this house, this refuge away from feeling like I was nothing.

I knew to stay out of her husband's way of course - he was that crotchety and mean, so I usually visited when he was away at work - but often Gram would give me the run of the house and let me play in the tiny upstairs bedrooms -there must have been about six of them - and peek through the rails in the banister into the parlor, where she would have a quilt set up in the frames ... or perhaps a card table for games with the neighbors later that evening.  

At the foot of the stairs, right beside a large black and white reproduction of a print of Queen Victoria, sat a large table on which was the biggest birdcage I'd ever seen with finches - at least four finches in it. Heep, heeeep, they would call to each other in thin, reedy voices.  I could listen to them and feel my muscles relax.  

When it was finally time to go, I would linger on the walk home - back to the normal world where there were expectations, and nothing I did pleased her - away from this one where Gram reigned with grace and gentleness.

I knew I would be back.  Again and again.

SAFE HOME

It was a cozy, if cluttered, nook - a haven of civility in a harsh world.

My father's workshop, which he slowly (over the years) built onto the garage, housed a home-made workbench with a bench vise, several shelves to hold supplies, and piles upon piles of tools, each with its own specific purpose; he knew where each of them was. He would spend hours (sometimes days) out there, working on some project usually for a friend, sometimes for a family member - for which he would take absolutely no payment.  That was his gift, his legacy to the world, if he but knew it.  He cared for each tool like it was an old friend.  He allowed each tool to share in the gift that was his generosity to others. 

On the opposite wall of the "shop", he had installed a wood-fired stove, which kept the place toasty warm and inviting in the winter.  There was a dusty armchair by the door, pervaded with sawdust and a few tiny wood chips, another similar chair beside the stove, and in the corner there was a cot made up into a bed with a small pillow and a woolen bed-spread on it - the perfect place for him to nap, or just to lie down in a little bit of peace and quiet away from the demands and rigors of living with a nit-picking wife who preached at him on every topic from church attendance to the evils of nicotine. The clutter, I learned by osmosis over the years (because he never actually said so), was a barrier to keep her out. She never went out there unless she had to.  He liked it like that. 

HERE's where I got this photo

It was his realm, his kingdom, and he was the benevolent ruler there.  Here, I would go to spend time with him, watch him work, pass him a tool once in a while.  Or just sit by the stove with him and listen to the fire crackle.  The atmosphere was supremely peaceful, restful.  

Safe.  

He didn't expect anything of me.  He was just glad to have my company.  I knew that here, nobody could touch me, nobody could hurt me.  If I brought with me any of the drama from the goings-on inside the house, he would quell it with a sharp look and an unspoken reminder of the unwritten rule:  This is my refuge. I allowed you in here. We come here to escape the shenanigans, the manipulation, the intimidation that is so much a part of what's under the Other Roof.  This is different. This is ...

Home. 

This was where I could be myself.  To have my feelings.  To say how I felt. To soak in the restfulness - to drink in the earthy smell of sawdust, of wood smoke, of 3-in-1 oil.  To enjoy the one thing I could get in no other place (not across the yard, and not in the place with the steeple up on top of the hill): acceptance.  

He died in the fall of 1993, when our youngest was 16 months old.  

Soon afterward, a van driven by a mercenary family member arrived at his little house and literally raped his workshop; the driver took every last thing that he so lovingly cared for and used to help other people, and left an empty shell - only to take it to his own home and let it gather dust and rust.  I tried going out there to Dad's workshop once after that, tried to recapture that sense of peace, of safety.  But it had changed.  It was cold, violated, distant, void of life. 

He wasn't there anymore.  It wasn't safe any more.  It wasn't home anymore.  

When I say that I miss him, I miss him deep in my heart, in that place within which he made a space to be himself with no apologies, and where he allowed me to be me with no shame.  I miss his smile, his deep bass voice, his smell.  I miss his hard, calloused hands that could be gentle enough to solder the broken wires in a tiny hand-held calculator so someone didn't have to buy a new one.  I miss his stories of the railroad and of his logging days with the horses and the pull-chains, his company, his acceptance ... his love.

That safety, that peace, that sense of being protected, of being at "home" is one I've only found in one other place.  I've tried to find it all my life, with different things, in the company of various people.  Sometimes I got the opposite, and other times I've gotten really, REALLY close to that "safe home" feeling.  

But only one place exudes that same ambiance for me.  

It's a little, well-secluded, somewhat cluttered place inside my heart, the one to which I go too seldom - the one with the warm hearth, with the burning fire in the little stove, with two armchairs, and about sixty-six books on the shelves.  I sit in one chair, and in the other, larger chair sits...

My Father.