“For me to write is love; it is to inquire and to praise, or to confess or to appeal. Not to assure myself that I am (“I write, therefore I am”), but simply to pay my debt to life, to the world, to other men. To speak with an open heart and say what seems to me to have meaning.” Thomas Merton, unpublished journal.
Perhaps the snarliest point for me, the knot I cannot unpick, is the "why?" of writing. Perhaps, if I were a more Zen specimen, I would understand the suffering associated with "why?", drop it, and just write. But around writing, my Zen evaporates. Writing triggers me. More than anything else. The whole concept of writing is at once inevitable and irresistable and terrifying. Reading that quote from Thomas Merton (next on my reading list) I am struck by these words: ... Not to assure myself that I am. (I write, therefore I am.)
I've had moments of wisdom around this idea before, like in this blog post, Everything Matters a few months ago now. Those moments are fleeting. I get clear and still and everything makes perfect sense. Perfect sense. And then a cloud of murk descends and I'm wrestling and punching inside heavy blanket in the dark. Wrestling with the exact same things I was so clear about yesterday.
Since New Year's Day I have been meditating, sitting in the Proper Position (finally, I can't keep on trying to beat the system by doing it lying down under a cosy blanket) for 15 minutes. This is first thing before I speak or greet the dog or have tea or open any electronic devices. It's a very fresh time. And still my mind is busy racing around, designing gazebos for summer lounging, reaming out the doctor for being so slow with specialist referrals, inventing catastrophes for me to endure and overcome. It's all a big cartoon show in there. I manage, in the 15 minutes, a few conscious silent breaths. The miracle is that I can actually sit for 15 minutes and not squirm. I can watch the thoughts, catch them, and let them go. I am starting to see how much of my so-called "reality" is made up stuff in my fertile amazing magical mind. And I can also see the glorious potential of putting that mind to creative and compassionate use, rather than its stale old boring fearful rerun loop.
Writing to prove existence is a very heavy idea. Writing to speak with an open heart some truth and meaning, now that's a different story altogether.
Saturday, January 9, 2016
Sunday, January 3, 2016
A memory a day
What if I wrote down one memory every day? I'll have a book in a year.
I bought a new rain jacket today. It is turquoise, Goretex, really soft and comfortable. It reminded me of the coats mum made for Julie and me when we were about 8 and 5. Around 1968. Not that there is any resemblance. Those coats were mod. They were made from upholstery-grade vinyl, bright orange, stippled slightly to look like leather. They were slightly flared, simple, just-above-the-knee, identical twins with wide collars and two square pockets on the front. Mum hammered the silver snap dome fasteners up the front, making sure they matched exactly. She hand stitched with brown thread around the collar and pockets, and I think up the front opening. They were very mod. They were also heavy and stiff. We could hardly move in them. I think maybe this was part of the appeal for mum, who liked her children to stand still and look good. In all the family photos there are none of us wearing those coats. That surprises me. They were such a dressmaking achievement.
A day later:
I wanted to remember how I felt wearing that coat. It's easier for me to get into that description if I put it in the present tense. I feel like I often feel around clothing. Confused. It's a new coat, it's a happy orange colour. I want to be happy. I feel like a paper doll with a heavy coat stuck on me. Flat. I feel flat and heavy. I can't run and play. I can just stand there. I feel like I've got white gloves on, but that's another outfit, another awkward dressing up and standing outside the Waikiwi church at a little sister's christening. Not knowing what to do or say. Or feel. Just being good.
Mum would dress us up to go out, and we would be on display. People would exclaim at the outfits Mum had made us, always matching, always fashionable, sometimes edgy in a modest, proper way. We were the dolls she dressed up and took out to show her friends. I got used to being scrutinised, and commented on. I felt like my outfits were more important than I was. That's what was confusing. Today I might yell out "Hello!!! There's a human being trapped inside this orange vinyl coat!!!"
I bought a new rain jacket today. It is turquoise, Goretex, really soft and comfortable. It reminded me of the coats mum made for Julie and me when we were about 8 and 5. Around 1968. Not that there is any resemblance. Those coats were mod. They were made from upholstery-grade vinyl, bright orange, stippled slightly to look like leather. They were slightly flared, simple, just-above-the-knee, identical twins with wide collars and two square pockets on the front. Mum hammered the silver snap dome fasteners up the front, making sure they matched exactly. She hand stitched with brown thread around the collar and pockets, and I think up the front opening. They were very mod. They were also heavy and stiff. We could hardly move in them. I think maybe this was part of the appeal for mum, who liked her children to stand still and look good. In all the family photos there are none of us wearing those coats. That surprises me. They were such a dressmaking achievement.
A day later:
I wanted to remember how I felt wearing that coat. It's easier for me to get into that description if I put it in the present tense. I feel like I often feel around clothing. Confused. It's a new coat, it's a happy orange colour. I want to be happy. I feel like a paper doll with a heavy coat stuck on me. Flat. I feel flat and heavy. I can't run and play. I can just stand there. I feel like I've got white gloves on, but that's another outfit, another awkward dressing up and standing outside the Waikiwi church at a little sister's christening. Not knowing what to do or say. Or feel. Just being good.
Mum would dress us up to go out, and we would be on display. People would exclaim at the outfits Mum had made us, always matching, always fashionable, sometimes edgy in a modest, proper way. We were the dolls she dressed up and took out to show her friends. I got used to being scrutinised, and commented on. I felt like my outfits were more important than I was. That's what was confusing. Today I might yell out "Hello!!! There's a human being trapped inside this orange vinyl coat!!!"
Saturday, January 2, 2016
How sweet it is to be loved by me
Me: I'm back with a New Year's resolution to do a daily writing practice.
She: Welcome! How is it feeling?
Me: I'm determined to do this. Not in a blood and guts, bludgeoning kind of way, but in a purposeful, deliberate way. I have to write. I want to and need to do it. Words are my great love. Writing is a gift. And I have spent my whole life tangled up in knots about it. I'm 55 now, and if I'm lucky I'll have another 35 - 45 years left in me. Time to love this thing called writing, and do it for the love. Can I pull it off? Yes! All I need is a new sound track.
It's pretty devastating to realise the soundtrack that haunted my childhood is still broadcasting loud and clear 50 years later. Mine's nothing special, just a rendition of a Beatles hit from the 60s: "Then I saw my face!! I'm such a big loser!!" And actually, it's no longer loud, or clear. But it's still there, a low-level background rumble that's so familiar I don't notice it any more. Trouble is, the messaging, the words, carry clout, even when I'm not conscious of them.
So that loser sound track really has to go.
Something good has come from all this procrastinating over writing. I have been reading too much great quality Buddhist teaching, popular science and psychology, listening to many many Deepak Chopra Facebook videos... getting to grips with that question that's been bugging me since I was old enough to string thoughts together, "Who the fuck am I?"
The Buddhist teachers, the Buddha himself, Deepak Chopra and even the Dalai Lama have been very helpful with this. They all have different philosophies, but they all insist on one important point--I am not who I think I am. I am not who I've been told I am, or who I was expected or forced to be, or who I resigned myself to be. This is seriously great news, because I've been dragging around a suitcase of very awkward and heavy shit about this very subject. Back breaking, spirit breaking, nasty stinking lies perpetuated by the lyrics of my soundtrack. I believe those guys are right.
I am not a loser. I am not naughty or dirty. I am not bad or broken. I am not too serious. I am not too sensitive. I am not lazy. I am not lacking. I don't talk too much. I don't have my head in the clouds (actually, I do, and it's a perfectly fine place for my head to be.) I'm not too big for my boots. I'm not a smarty pants. I'm not funny (peculiar) to be worried about the meaning of life. I'm not anti-social. I'm not a freak for writing in a journal. I'm not a sinner, either. Or a slut. Oh yeah, and I'm not a disappointment, at least not to me.
Whew!! That's better out than in.
Deepak, the Buddhists, and the DL also all agree that I am wise, creative, compassionate, kind and loving -- sounds divine! We all are, at our core. Until we get brainwashed to think otherwise. So really, the work of life is to un-believe all that bullshite that's stuck to us over the years, and get back in touch with our gorgeous glorious divine insides.
That of course is at least half a life's work for some of us, maybe more. But it's good work. Honest work. So much better work than dragging around a couple of ton of toxic rocks.
I think my new sound track will be James Taylor's hit from 1975, "How sweet it is to be loved by me!"
She: Welcome! How is it feeling?
Me: I'm determined to do this. Not in a blood and guts, bludgeoning kind of way, but in a purposeful, deliberate way. I have to write. I want to and need to do it. Words are my great love. Writing is a gift. And I have spent my whole life tangled up in knots about it. I'm 55 now, and if I'm lucky I'll have another 35 - 45 years left in me. Time to love this thing called writing, and do it for the love. Can I pull it off? Yes! All I need is a new sound track.
It's pretty devastating to realise the soundtrack that haunted my childhood is still broadcasting loud and clear 50 years later. Mine's nothing special, just a rendition of a Beatles hit from the 60s: "Then I saw my face!! I'm such a big loser!!" And actually, it's no longer loud, or clear. But it's still there, a low-level background rumble that's so familiar I don't notice it any more. Trouble is, the messaging, the words, carry clout, even when I'm not conscious of them.
So that loser sound track really has to go.
Something good has come from all this procrastinating over writing. I have been reading too much great quality Buddhist teaching, popular science and psychology, listening to many many Deepak Chopra Facebook videos... getting to grips with that question that's been bugging me since I was old enough to string thoughts together, "Who the fuck am I?"
The Buddhist teachers, the Buddha himself, Deepak Chopra and even the Dalai Lama have been very helpful with this. They all have different philosophies, but they all insist on one important point--I am not who I think I am. I am not who I've been told I am, or who I was expected or forced to be, or who I resigned myself to be. This is seriously great news, because I've been dragging around a suitcase of very awkward and heavy shit about this very subject. Back breaking, spirit breaking, nasty stinking lies perpetuated by the lyrics of my soundtrack. I believe those guys are right.
I am not a loser. I am not naughty or dirty. I am not bad or broken. I am not too serious. I am not too sensitive. I am not lazy. I am not lacking. I don't talk too much. I don't have my head in the clouds (actually, I do, and it's a perfectly fine place for my head to be.) I'm not too big for my boots. I'm not a smarty pants. I'm not funny (peculiar) to be worried about the meaning of life. I'm not anti-social. I'm not a freak for writing in a journal. I'm not a sinner, either. Or a slut. Oh yeah, and I'm not a disappointment, at least not to me.
Whew!! That's better out than in.
Deepak, the Buddhists, and the DL also all agree that I am wise, creative, compassionate, kind and loving -- sounds divine! We all are, at our core. Until we get brainwashed to think otherwise. So really, the work of life is to un-believe all that bullshite that's stuck to us over the years, and get back in touch with our gorgeous glorious divine insides.
That of course is at least half a life's work for some of us, maybe more. But it's good work. Honest work. So much better work than dragging around a couple of ton of toxic rocks.
I think my new sound track will be James Taylor's hit from 1975, "How sweet it is to be loved by me!"
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Over the right shoulder
She: You're back.
Me: Hmmm. Yes. Reluctantly.
She: But you're here.
Me: I've been realising that avoiding writing is a habit, based on something, someone I think I am. Tied up with identity. Someone who's suffering, and thinks that writing will heal the suffering. But if I stop suffering, then who will I be? In some ways I think writing will save my life. I give it this tremendous weight and importance. And so I don't do it. I avoid and fear it instead.
It's exactly the same loop as the drinking/quitting drinking loop, except I cracked that one -- exposed it I suppose is a better way of putting it. I quit drinking, nearly 1,000 days ago. I needed to, wanted to, thought it would heal the suffering, had it all tied up with identity, thought it would save my life. Gave it tremendous weight and importance. All those things matter. They all happened. But quitting drinking wasn't conclusive in the way I expected it would be. It was just the end of one thing and the start of something else. Definitely something better. I never regret being a non-drinker. It's become normal. And I can learn from this.
Writing is just normal for me. It's not a huge shattering deal. It doesn't have to be at least. I can write because I'm drawn to it. I think I've been looking for more valid reasons for doing it.
She: what do you mean by "valid"?
Me: I've felt like I've needed a bloody good reason to write. To heal myself, to heal the world, to expose the truth, to make a living, to make an impression, to inspire, to entertain, to deal with the anger I still feel toward my parents, to make sense of life, to make something of my life, to leave something worthwhile behind, to validate myself somehow.
She: How does that feel?
Me: A huge burden. That's why I avoid it. Too much pressure.
She: Where is the pressure coming from?
Me: Interesting question. I can locate it in space over my right shoulder, about a meter away, higher up than me. I can't "see" it... like it doesn't have a shape or colour. But it does have a message.
She: ... which is?
Me: "You will NEVER be a writer."
She: How do you feel about that? Start in your body.
Me: Hot in the chest. Tightness around the shoulder blades. Fingers want to curl up. And toes. I'm actually feeling quite relaxed today, so I'm not having a huge reaction to be honest. It's pretty mild.
She: How does it feel mentally?
Me: Old and annoying, boring even. Incredibly strong. Like the grip of something dead. It can't let go. But it can't do anything else either. Powerful and powerless at the same time.
She: Good description.
Me: I can see it for what it is. A very old, strong, dead idea. That's all it is. How can I let go of it? How can I get it to let go of me? I don't know what to do.
She: Just keep writing.
Me: OK.
Me: Hmmm. Yes. Reluctantly.
She: But you're here.
Me: I've been realising that avoiding writing is a habit, based on something, someone I think I am. Tied up with identity. Someone who's suffering, and thinks that writing will heal the suffering. But if I stop suffering, then who will I be? In some ways I think writing will save my life. I give it this tremendous weight and importance. And so I don't do it. I avoid and fear it instead.
It's exactly the same loop as the drinking/quitting drinking loop, except I cracked that one -- exposed it I suppose is a better way of putting it. I quit drinking, nearly 1,000 days ago. I needed to, wanted to, thought it would heal the suffering, had it all tied up with identity, thought it would save my life. Gave it tremendous weight and importance. All those things matter. They all happened. But quitting drinking wasn't conclusive in the way I expected it would be. It was just the end of one thing and the start of something else. Definitely something better. I never regret being a non-drinker. It's become normal. And I can learn from this.
Writing is just normal for me. It's not a huge shattering deal. It doesn't have to be at least. I can write because I'm drawn to it. I think I've been looking for more valid reasons for doing it.
She: what do you mean by "valid"?
Me: I've felt like I've needed a bloody good reason to write. To heal myself, to heal the world, to expose the truth, to make a living, to make an impression, to inspire, to entertain, to deal with the anger I still feel toward my parents, to make sense of life, to make something of my life, to leave something worthwhile behind, to validate myself somehow.
She: How does that feel?
Me: A huge burden. That's why I avoid it. Too much pressure.
She: Where is the pressure coming from?
Me: Interesting question. I can locate it in space over my right shoulder, about a meter away, higher up than me. I can't "see" it... like it doesn't have a shape or colour. But it does have a message.
She: ... which is?
Me: "You will NEVER be a writer."
She: How do you feel about that? Start in your body.
Me: Hot in the chest. Tightness around the shoulder blades. Fingers want to curl up. And toes. I'm actually feeling quite relaxed today, so I'm not having a huge reaction to be honest. It's pretty mild.
She: How does it feel mentally?
Me: Old and annoying, boring even. Incredibly strong. Like the grip of something dead. It can't let go. But it can't do anything else either. Powerful and powerless at the same time.
She: Good description.
Me: I can see it for what it is. A very old, strong, dead idea. That's all it is. How can I let go of it? How can I get it to let go of me? I don't know what to do.
She: Just keep writing.
Me: OK.
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
The whole point, and why I have two bums
All this time, all this struggling and effort clusters around one piece of annoying grit: what's the point? What's the point of anything? "Why does the universe go to all the bother of existing?" as Stephen Hawking put it. And on a mini level, why do I go to all the bother of caring about why I exist and what it's all for and all about? I'm like a dog with a very juicy, indestructible bone, and I'm not the only one in the world. Not by any stretch.
I'm hung up on childhood. Why it was so weird. What was so weird about it. Am I a Benjamin Button who did all the grown up things first and get to do the child things now. I mean that's kind of happening, in a way, or could if I would let it.
Everywhere, even on public radio, we're bombarded with messages about respecting ourselves, trusting our intuition, following our hearts, being authentic. As a child I was aggressively brainwashed into distrusting myself, my intuition, my heart. The only thing to trust was adults, particularly parents but adults in general, and the Catholic church. Basically bad until you proved you were worthy, unlovable unless you behaved in certain slavish and demeaning ways, untrustworthy to the bone. Bad, wrong, naughty, untrustworthy.
Is it the intensity of the damage that comes with those messages that drives me toward finding some meaning. Is it the habit of looking for an answer -- an answer that someone else has, and I don't have, and I will unlikely get until I'm good enough which will probably be never?
I don't remember the polio injection story. I was just told it. But it might explain something about the separation I felt from mum all my life. One of the side effects of going to school was taking swimming lessons, which in turn involved being see naked or near naked by classmates. This what when I found out there was something wrong with my bottom, or my leg, depending on how you looked at it. I had a normal enough bottom, but on the left side, I appeared to have two bottoms, one about 8cm lower than the regular one. The flesh and skin on the left leg was pulled into a pursed mouth of a scar. Actually there are two scars, like two small smiles, etched into the top of my leg.
I don't remember who pointed it out or asked why I had two bums, but I do remember mum telling me that next time anyone brought it up I should tell them I was bitten by a shark at Oreti beach, and the scar was where its teeth went in. I was thrilled by this story, and I feel sure I showed off my shark bite to anyone who was interested, just to get the attention.
But the true story also came out. The scar was a polio vaccination injection gone wrong. New Zealand had a couple of polio epidemic in the 1950s (and several in earlier decades of the 1900s). It was routine to vaccinate babies. I have just read that in 1960 an oral vaccination was released in New Zealand, but I had the injection variety, in the big thigh muscle on the left leg. The vaccination site got infected, and what should have been a quick healing jab turned pussy and nasty. The doctor came to clean and drain it. I screamed till I was blue in the face. It took a long time to heal, the doctor couldn't come every day, so it was mum's job to keep the wound clean, and keep it opened up. The doctor told her if she didn't keep it opened up, I would get a deep scar on my leg. My screaming disturbed mum so much that she stopped opening up the wound, and I got a scar. Good for mum. There is no way I would have been able to do something like that to a baby -- to hurt it like that.
I don't mind having that scar. I have never minded. I still refer to it as my shark bite. But I do wonder if that was the start of me fearing mum. If for the short while that she followed doctors orders and pried open my infected leg, I seized up and shrank from her. Is it even possible for a baby to react that way? Certainly I had plenty of other reasons to shrink away later in life, but maybe it all started with the trauma of so much physical pain at the hands of my primary caregiver. Maybe. If so, I would really like to know why.
I'm hung up on childhood. Why it was so weird. What was so weird about it. Am I a Benjamin Button who did all the grown up things first and get to do the child things now. I mean that's kind of happening, in a way, or could if I would let it.
Everywhere, even on public radio, we're bombarded with messages about respecting ourselves, trusting our intuition, following our hearts, being authentic. As a child I was aggressively brainwashed into distrusting myself, my intuition, my heart. The only thing to trust was adults, particularly parents but adults in general, and the Catholic church. Basically bad until you proved you were worthy, unlovable unless you behaved in certain slavish and demeaning ways, untrustworthy to the bone. Bad, wrong, naughty, untrustworthy.
Is it the intensity of the damage that comes with those messages that drives me toward finding some meaning. Is it the habit of looking for an answer -- an answer that someone else has, and I don't have, and I will unlikely get until I'm good enough which will probably be never?
I don't remember the polio injection story. I was just told it. But it might explain something about the separation I felt from mum all my life. One of the side effects of going to school was taking swimming lessons, which in turn involved being see naked or near naked by classmates. This what when I found out there was something wrong with my bottom, or my leg, depending on how you looked at it. I had a normal enough bottom, but on the left side, I appeared to have two bottoms, one about 8cm lower than the regular one. The flesh and skin on the left leg was pulled into a pursed mouth of a scar. Actually there are two scars, like two small smiles, etched into the top of my leg.
I don't remember who pointed it out or asked why I had two bums, but I do remember mum telling me that next time anyone brought it up I should tell them I was bitten by a shark at Oreti beach, and the scar was where its teeth went in. I was thrilled by this story, and I feel sure I showed off my shark bite to anyone who was interested, just to get the attention.
But the true story also came out. The scar was a polio vaccination injection gone wrong. New Zealand had a couple of polio epidemic in the 1950s (and several in earlier decades of the 1900s). It was routine to vaccinate babies. I have just read that in 1960 an oral vaccination was released in New Zealand, but I had the injection variety, in the big thigh muscle on the left leg. The vaccination site got infected, and what should have been a quick healing jab turned pussy and nasty. The doctor came to clean and drain it. I screamed till I was blue in the face. It took a long time to heal, the doctor couldn't come every day, so it was mum's job to keep the wound clean, and keep it opened up. The doctor told her if she didn't keep it opened up, I would get a deep scar on my leg. My screaming disturbed mum so much that she stopped opening up the wound, and I got a scar. Good for mum. There is no way I would have been able to do something like that to a baby -- to hurt it like that.
I don't mind having that scar. I have never minded. I still refer to it as my shark bite. But I do wonder if that was the start of me fearing mum. If for the short while that she followed doctors orders and pried open my infected leg, I seized up and shrank from her. Is it even possible for a baby to react that way? Certainly I had plenty of other reasons to shrink away later in life, but maybe it all started with the trauma of so much physical pain at the hands of my primary caregiver. Maybe. If so, I would really like to know why.
Sunday, April 26, 2015
More Coming
There's more coming. Lots I think. I wake up, in my Canadian bedroom in my new Canadian life and the stories are swirling galaxies out to the edges of my mind, forming, floating apart. Always mum and dad, always Invercargill, as many questions and gaps as stories. Fragments and feelings, fleeting bits and pieces of lives bound so inevitably together and yet so clearly random.
The thing I'm still grappling with is the act of writing. The urge, the tide of it, the shame and guilt and fear about it still alive and well. And a gap too, in the why of it. Why write, why want to, why indulge this urge? I feel like a tree that's been hacked back but keeps coming back for more. Can't be stopped. I don't have a handle on the force of it. I think the answer is knowing that it's actually got nothing to do with me. Not personally. Why else am I here anyway? I will write. More. It's coming.
The thing I'm still grappling with is the act of writing. The urge, the tide of it, the shame and guilt and fear about it still alive and well. And a gap too, in the why of it. Why write, why want to, why indulge this urge? I feel like a tree that's been hacked back but keeps coming back for more. Can't be stopped. I don't have a handle on the force of it. I think the answer is knowing that it's actually got nothing to do with me. Not personally. Why else am I here anyway? I will write. More. It's coming.
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
Everything matters
Me: I've just understood the urge to write. It's because everything matters. Absolutely everything. And writing honours that simple fact. Memories matter. Families matter. The smell of cut grass matters.
We spend so much of our lives wondering what it's all about, looking for meaning and a way to belong. And all the time, we totally matter, we totally mean something, just by our existence.
To question writing about anything is blind and ignorant.
We need to write about absolutely everything. Nothing is too small, too dull, insignificant. Nothing.
She: Yes. Yes, that's right.
Me: Thanks for helping me know this. I feel like I could now write every day, with passion and burning, just like I've wanted to all my life.
She: Yes, you can.
Me: Woot!
We spend so much of our lives wondering what it's all about, looking for meaning and a way to belong. And all the time, we totally matter, we totally mean something, just by our existence.
To question writing about anything is blind and ignorant.
We need to write about absolutely everything. Nothing is too small, too dull, insignificant. Nothing.
She: Yes. Yes, that's right.
Me: Thanks for helping me know this. I feel like I could now write every day, with passion and burning, just like I've wanted to all my life.
She: Yes, you can.
Me: Woot!
Saturday, October 25, 2014
A broken leg and lots of blood
She: Glad you're back.
Me: I keep waking up full of stories. I keep not writing them down.
She: What's holding you back?
Me: I want them to be finished in my head before I start writing. I want to know where they are going.
She: You were enjoying just writing whatever came up, when it came up.
Me: I wasn't exactly enjoying it! Well, I was a bit I suppose. I was experimenting and it was strangely exhilarating, and very interesting what I was remembering, and realising about those memories. But it felt really out of control, dangerous.
She: And a little bit fun? It's good for you to write like that, without a plan or target to hit. You will get to enjoy it. I guarantee that.
Me: I read the whole thing yesterday for the first time.
She: I know. How was that?
Me: I thought it was good. I thought it was funny and sad and honest and meaningful.
She: It is. Keep writing. It's so good for your spirit. So good.
Me: And now I'm sitting here wondering what next? What stories? There are so so many. Stories about the Ward girls, the nanas (who could easily have a whole book each), the family outings, picnics, holidays. The food. The Christmasses, weddings, funerals. Pat and Jim O'Brien, aunty Win and uncle Jack Elder (Gin and Wack), Uncle grandad (our dead granddad's brother, Jim) and aunty Muriel and their son Neville (Devil). And more stories about mum and dad.
_________________
So now it's taking a huge effort to stay here and write. I get this pressure in my chest. It's so solid and heavy. I just want to get up and do something busy, like clean the house or dig the garden, run the dog... if I was still drinking, I'd want a drink to bring me back down to a relaxed level. It's anxiety. It is so obvious now. It's really good to be able to see it, know what it is, and be curious about it.
A broken leg -- Polly
We were in Gore, visiting mum and dad's friends Tony and Jan Fosbender. Tony worked in the Gore branch of the same company as dad. He was small, wiry, with a squeaky voice. I think he had a moustache. He was small, and dapper in a grungy sort of way. Jan was large, loud, with died orange hair. They were not like any other friends mum and dad had. They weren't Catholics for starters. They weren't related to us either. And they didn't have children. They were an odd fit for family friends. I don't know why they were friends at all, but we drove the 40 miles to Gore to visit them occasionally, and dad and Tony would drink flagon beer, mum and Jan would have sherry, and Jan would make an uncomfortable fuss of us because she really wanted children but didn't have any.
Polly wasn't a baby, but wasn't walking yet. She could nearly sit up, so was probably 6 or 7 months old. I was 5. She was in the kitchen and I wanted to carry her into the lounge where the others were, because she was having trouble crawling on the lino floor. Jan's kitchen floor was legendary for its shine. I always asked before I did anything new, so I asked if I could pick her up and carry her out of the kitchen.
First I had to practice they said. It was agreed that a big bag of salt from the pantry would by a good Polly substitute for me to carry, to prove I could do it. I passed the salt test with flying colours, and went back into the kitchen with permission to carry Polly. I got her up into my arms, but as soon as I took a step towards the lounge I slipped and fell, and dropped her -- and broke her leg.
Polly ended up with her lovely little leg in a heavy plaster. The up-side of that was that suddenly she could sit up good and proper, because she was weighed down by the ankle to thigh plaster. The down side was that for a while after the plaster was taken off, she would fall backwards and hit her head on the floor, because she'd come to rely in the weight of the plaster to hold her up.
This was told as a funny-haha family story, and I was grateful for that. I wasn't harassed or shamed over dropping Polly. I was never allowed to forget it, but it was a light-hearted thing, not a guilt thing. I do remember being shocked when my feet shot out from underneath me like they did. And I do remember one kind adult saying something like "that was Jan's fault for having such a shiny floor." It wasn't traumatic for me. It probably was for Polly.
If you were to take the family photos as a true record, I always had a baby under my arm, from age three to thirteen. Uncle Jim often said that he'd not seen me as a child without a baby latched on to me. I was very sure, from a very early age, that my job was to look out for my sisters. It was a job I took very seriously, and usually I did it well. But not always.
Lots of blood -- Julie
Obviously, it wasn't my fault that Julie got a cut on her head when she fell off the back of Mr Hunt's trailer. How could it be? But I was supposed to be "keeping an eye out" for the girls, and I had to bring her home with blood gushing out the side of her head, and deal with mum's hysterics, which were pretty dramatic.
Mr Hunt was the father next door, Mrs Hunt's husband, and the Hunt kids' dad. He was a builder. They weren't Catholics (so they didn't go to the same school as us), and they weren't related to us. We played with the kids anyway, but I don't remember the adults having that much more to do with each other than a hello over the back fence.
Mr Hunt drove a car with a trailor attached, for carrying his tools and wood to work. He would stop at the corner of Patterson and Harvey St, and the kids from the street would pile on the back of the trailor and get a ride the half block to the Hunt house. Then they'd all pile off before he went in the drive. That's when Julie's head got dinged. She jumped off the trailor, and someone else (probably Trevor Hunt, same age as Julie) jumped off just after her, knocked her over and scraped her head.
Julie got hauled off to hospital and came home with a cool big bandage around her head. It was only a small cut but such a lot of blood. Now I know head wounds bleed dramatically, even if there's just a little cut. This was dramatic. I felt terrible. That day I did a really bad job of keeping an eye out for the girls.
NEXT: Everything matters
Me: I keep waking up full of stories. I keep not writing them down.
She: What's holding you back?
Me: I want them to be finished in my head before I start writing. I want to know where they are going.
She: You were enjoying just writing whatever came up, when it came up.
Me: I wasn't exactly enjoying it! Well, I was a bit I suppose. I was experimenting and it was strangely exhilarating, and very interesting what I was remembering, and realising about those memories. But it felt really out of control, dangerous.
She: And a little bit fun? It's good for you to write like that, without a plan or target to hit. You will get to enjoy it. I guarantee that.
Me: I read the whole thing yesterday for the first time.
She: I know. How was that?
Me: I thought it was good. I thought it was funny and sad and honest and meaningful.
She: It is. Keep writing. It's so good for your spirit. So good.
Me: And now I'm sitting here wondering what next? What stories? There are so so many. Stories about the Ward girls, the nanas (who could easily have a whole book each), the family outings, picnics, holidays. The food. The Christmasses, weddings, funerals. Pat and Jim O'Brien, aunty Win and uncle Jack Elder (Gin and Wack), Uncle grandad (our dead granddad's brother, Jim) and aunty Muriel and their son Neville (Devil). And more stories about mum and dad.
_________________
So now it's taking a huge effort to stay here and write. I get this pressure in my chest. It's so solid and heavy. I just want to get up and do something busy, like clean the house or dig the garden, run the dog... if I was still drinking, I'd want a drink to bring me back down to a relaxed level. It's anxiety. It is so obvious now. It's really good to be able to see it, know what it is, and be curious about it.
A broken leg -- Polly
We were in Gore, visiting mum and dad's friends Tony and Jan Fosbender. Tony worked in the Gore branch of the same company as dad. He was small, wiry, with a squeaky voice. I think he had a moustache. He was small, and dapper in a grungy sort of way. Jan was large, loud, with died orange hair. They were not like any other friends mum and dad had. They weren't Catholics for starters. They weren't related to us either. And they didn't have children. They were an odd fit for family friends. I don't know why they were friends at all, but we drove the 40 miles to Gore to visit them occasionally, and dad and Tony would drink flagon beer, mum and Jan would have sherry, and Jan would make an uncomfortable fuss of us because she really wanted children but didn't have any.
Polly wasn't a baby, but wasn't walking yet. She could nearly sit up, so was probably 6 or 7 months old. I was 5. She was in the kitchen and I wanted to carry her into the lounge where the others were, because she was having trouble crawling on the lino floor. Jan's kitchen floor was legendary for its shine. I always asked before I did anything new, so I asked if I could pick her up and carry her out of the kitchen.
First I had to practice they said. It was agreed that a big bag of salt from the pantry would by a good Polly substitute for me to carry, to prove I could do it. I passed the salt test with flying colours, and went back into the kitchen with permission to carry Polly. I got her up into my arms, but as soon as I took a step towards the lounge I slipped and fell, and dropped her -- and broke her leg.
Polly ended up with her lovely little leg in a heavy plaster. The up-side of that was that suddenly she could sit up good and proper, because she was weighed down by the ankle to thigh plaster. The down side was that for a while after the plaster was taken off, she would fall backwards and hit her head on the floor, because she'd come to rely in the weight of the plaster to hold her up.
This was told as a funny-haha family story, and I was grateful for that. I wasn't harassed or shamed over dropping Polly. I was never allowed to forget it, but it was a light-hearted thing, not a guilt thing. I do remember being shocked when my feet shot out from underneath me like they did. And I do remember one kind adult saying something like "that was Jan's fault for having such a shiny floor." It wasn't traumatic for me. It probably was for Polly.
If you were to take the family photos as a true record, I always had a baby under my arm, from age three to thirteen. Uncle Jim often said that he'd not seen me as a child without a baby latched on to me. I was very sure, from a very early age, that my job was to look out for my sisters. It was a job I took very seriously, and usually I did it well. But not always.
Lots of blood -- Julie
Obviously, it wasn't my fault that Julie got a cut on her head when she fell off the back of Mr Hunt's trailer. How could it be? But I was supposed to be "keeping an eye out" for the girls, and I had to bring her home with blood gushing out the side of her head, and deal with mum's hysterics, which were pretty dramatic.
Mr Hunt was the father next door, Mrs Hunt's husband, and the Hunt kids' dad. He was a builder. They weren't Catholics (so they didn't go to the same school as us), and they weren't related to us. We played with the kids anyway, but I don't remember the adults having that much more to do with each other than a hello over the back fence.
Mr Hunt drove a car with a trailor attached, for carrying his tools and wood to work. He would stop at the corner of Patterson and Harvey St, and the kids from the street would pile on the back of the trailor and get a ride the half block to the Hunt house. Then they'd all pile off before he went in the drive. That's when Julie's head got dinged. She jumped off the trailor, and someone else (probably Trevor Hunt, same age as Julie) jumped off just after her, knocked her over and scraped her head.
Julie got hauled off to hospital and came home with a cool big bandage around her head. It was only a small cut but such a lot of blood. Now I know head wounds bleed dramatically, even if there's just a little cut. This was dramatic. I felt terrible. That day I did a really bad job of keeping an eye out for the girls.
NEXT: Everything matters
Am I one of the girls?
I had my first epiphany when I was 11. That was when I found out I was a child, not a parent, and it was a Very Big Shock indeed. Here's how it happened.
The whole family was in the kitchen. Dad, mum, me, Julie, Polly, Maria, Angie. In that order. We were getting ready for our usual Sunday family picnic. It must have been winter because mum was filling the big green thermos with steaming Wattie’s tomato soup. Dad was leaning against the bench, finished buttering the white Sunday bread, probably thinking about the racehorse he’d put a bet on. I think he liked to spend his winnings in his head a few times before he actually won them.
Mum and dad were having a conversation, probably something ordinary like what time to leave, or which beach or bush to go to given the weather. I was standing by, as I did, watching and waiting for instructions. My four sisters were playing about in a girly tangle, as they did, giggling probably, and being told to behave themselves by mum. Or dad. Whoever got irritated with them first. Then mum said it to dad, or he said said it to her... I don't remember the details, but it was something about ‘the girls’ that clearly included me. First it puzzled me, then concerned me deeply, and then caused me to look at them both and ask “Am I one of the girls?”
Mum and dad were having a conversation, probably something ordinary like what time to leave, or which beach or bush to go to given the weather. I was standing by, as I did, watching and waiting for instructions. My four sisters were playing about in a girly tangle, as they did, giggling probably, and being told to behave themselves by mum. Or dad. Whoever got irritated with them first. Then mum said it to dad, or he said said it to her... I don't remember the details, but it was something about ‘the girls’ that clearly included me. First it puzzled me, then concerned me deeply, and then caused me to look at them both and ask “Am I one of the girls?”
If you knew my father, you’d know how deep and meaningful his laugh was when he heard something ridiculous. He laughed a particularly good one that time. Mum said something, but I wasn’t listening, because dad’s laugh said it all. And all I could think as my world view crashed around me was “What an idiot! I don’t even know who I am.”
I honestly didn’t know, until that day, that I was one of the girls. I am the oldest, and they started coming thick and fast from when I was three until I was ten. In practically every childhood photo after age three, I have a baby under my arm. The communication between my parents and me was mostly like this: “Are the girls ready?” “Where are the girls?” “Can you call the girls for dinner?” “Can you put the girls in the bath?” “Time to read the girls a story... get the girls in the car... put the girls’ coats on...” It never occurred to me that I was one of them. I was part of the mum+dad+me girl herding unit. Those four giggling tangled up creatures were the girls.
I honestly didn’t know, until that day, that I was one of the girls. I am the oldest, and they started coming thick and fast from when I was three until I was ten. In practically every childhood photo after age three, I have a baby under my arm. The communication between my parents and me was mostly like this: “Are the girls ready?” “Where are the girls?” “Can you call the girls for dinner?” “Can you put the girls in the bath?” “Time to read the girls a story... get the girls in the car... put the girls’ coats on...” It never occurred to me that I was one of them. I was part of the mum+dad+me girl herding unit. Those four giggling tangled up creatures were the girls.
Anyway, dad eventually stopped laughing, mum finished filling the thermos, the girls got themselves untangled long enough to get into the car and tangled back up again, and we took off on the Sunday picnic. Life quickly got back to normal -- or so I thought.
I don’t tell this story for sympathy. Not at all. I loved that job. I loved those girls. I watched them grow from babies, to toddlers, take their first steps, speak their first words, suffer their childhood illnesses. I doubled them to school on my bike. I dressed them, and wiped their cute little noses, and sang to them in the car when they were wailing with boredom or car sickness. That was my job, I was really good at it, and I loved it.
I don’t tell this story for sympathy. Not at all. I loved that job. I loved those girls. I watched them grow from babies, to toddlers, take their first steps, speak their first words, suffer their childhood illnesses. I doubled them to school on my bike. I dressed them, and wiped their cute little noses, and sang to them in the car when they were wailing with boredom or car sickness. That was my job, I was really good at it, and I loved it.
I tell this story, because I've recently had another epiphany, equal and opposite to that one.
I've been listening to Tara Brach's teachings about self compassion; she's the reason I even thought about that situation when I was 11. During one of her meditations, I realised I've been still stuck in that "What an idiot, I don't even know who I am" story, all these years later. It's an intensely anxious feeling, and I've spent a lifetime numbing and zoning out and desperately trying to disprove it.
It's played out as hanging about on the fringes, shrinking, second-guessing, isolating and not trusting myself. I've quietly thought the good things in life apply to other people, not me -- things like the law of attraction and book deals, for example! I expect to be whacked from behind, when I least expect it, and I've spent a good deal of energy making sure I'm ready to counter-attack when this happens (which it never does, by the way.) I am very shy of strangers, terrified of mingling and networking events. I think other people will find me crashingly boring. I could go on, but you get the picture.
I've been living scared. I don't even know of what. Scared and anxious. Believing I'm not OK and not acceptable, not safe, and accepting the resulting low-level background anxiety as a normal part of life. This is crippling and limiting. And totally exhausting.
So. How cool is it to stare that one in the face and watch it back down? Very cool indeed.
Tara Brach explains the limbic brain, or reptilian brain, which humans share with other animals. It's in the back of the head, and it has very useful powers and lightning speed responses to keep us safe, alerting us to dangers and kicking in automatic reactions like fight, flight or freeze mode. It's responsible for basic survival. Useful stuff for sure.
We've also evolved another brain in the front of our heads which gives us other powers like compassion, empathy, discernment, kindness, creativity, love. Don't you just feel relaxed and gorgeous thinking about it?
The epiphany for me was: I get to choose which brain is running my show. And I choose the evolved one at the front.
(ps. I wrote this story quite a while ago, but it seems to fit in the sequence here.)
NEXT: A broken leg and lots of blood
I've been listening to Tara Brach's teachings about self compassion; she's the reason I even thought about that situation when I was 11. During one of her meditations, I realised I've been still stuck in that "What an idiot, I don't even know who I am" story, all these years later. It's an intensely anxious feeling, and I've spent a lifetime numbing and zoning out and desperately trying to disprove it.
It's played out as hanging about on the fringes, shrinking, second-guessing, isolating and not trusting myself. I've quietly thought the good things in life apply to other people, not me -- things like the law of attraction and book deals, for example! I expect to be whacked from behind, when I least expect it, and I've spent a good deal of energy making sure I'm ready to counter-attack when this happens (which it never does, by the way.) I am very shy of strangers, terrified of mingling and networking events. I think other people will find me crashingly boring. I could go on, but you get the picture.
I've been living scared. I don't even know of what. Scared and anxious. Believing I'm not OK and not acceptable, not safe, and accepting the resulting low-level background anxiety as a normal part of life. This is crippling and limiting. And totally exhausting.
So. How cool is it to stare that one in the face and watch it back down? Very cool indeed.
Tara Brach explains the limbic brain, or reptilian brain, which humans share with other animals. It's in the back of the head, and it has very useful powers and lightning speed responses to keep us safe, alerting us to dangers and kicking in automatic reactions like fight, flight or freeze mode. It's responsible for basic survival. Useful stuff for sure.
We've also evolved another brain in the front of our heads which gives us other powers like compassion, empathy, discernment, kindness, creativity, love. Don't you just feel relaxed and gorgeous thinking about it?
The epiphany for me was: I get to choose which brain is running my show. And I choose the evolved one at the front.
(ps. I wrote this story quite a while ago, but it seems to fit in the sequence here.)
NEXT: A broken leg and lots of blood
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Emo
I've been looking at emo me. Closely, and often. Just over a couple of days I've learned A Lot.
Sometimes she looks like mum. Mum in the middle of a massive surge of anger and frustration, face crumpled, jaw jutting out, red wet eyes, hands clenched, shoulders hunched over, cowering. After all the effort, the trying, the making things right. All the bargains, and sewing and repairing, the brass polishing and weeding and fixing and wallpapering... after all this exhausting effort, nothing is right. Still not perfect. She can't make it perfect. It's destroying her.
Sometimes she looks like a little sister, desperate for a pee, made to wait because someone's taking a photo. Face crumpled into tears, trying not to wet her pants.
Sometimes she's another sister, curled up in a ball with the cat, just humming to it, not making eye contact with anyone. Just curled up.
Sometimes it's dad carrying a white baby coffin, the day my cousin Andrew was buried.
Sometimes it's Nana Ward saying she wishes God would just take her now.
Sometimes it's me wailing through the trauma of break up. Or watching my father die. Watching my mother die. Feeling, watching, the life force leave us behind. Leaving the cat behind in Canada. Coming home and being a misterable stranger in my own country. Lost at home with nowhere else to go.
Sometimes it's just nobody in particular, miserable, snivelling, snotty blurry salty hot tears for no particular reason.
But the point is emo me isn't actually me. This thing I feel like I've been dragging around is emotion. Sad emotion. It's just frustration and anger, indignity, feeling lost, failing, flailing. It's emotion. It's everyone's emotion. It's not mine. And that's not me.
Which is actually rather a relief. It's not mine or me.
It's life. It's everyone's. We all get our turn at the trough of misery. We all have to suck it some time or other. But we don't own it and it doesn't own us.
That's what I saw when I looked long enough.
NEXT: how not to find out who you really are
Sometimes she looks like mum. Mum in the middle of a massive surge of anger and frustration, face crumpled, jaw jutting out, red wet eyes, hands clenched, shoulders hunched over, cowering. After all the effort, the trying, the making things right. All the bargains, and sewing and repairing, the brass polishing and weeding and fixing and wallpapering... after all this exhausting effort, nothing is right. Still not perfect. She can't make it perfect. It's destroying her.
Sometimes she looks like a little sister, desperate for a pee, made to wait because someone's taking a photo. Face crumpled into tears, trying not to wet her pants.
Sometimes she's another sister, curled up in a ball with the cat, just humming to it, not making eye contact with anyone. Just curled up.
Sometimes it's dad carrying a white baby coffin, the day my cousin Andrew was buried.
Sometimes it's Nana Ward saying she wishes God would just take her now.
Sometimes it's me wailing through the trauma of break up. Or watching my father die. Watching my mother die. Feeling, watching, the life force leave us behind. Leaving the cat behind in Canada. Coming home and being a misterable stranger in my own country. Lost at home with nowhere else to go.
Sometimes it's just nobody in particular, miserable, snivelling, snotty blurry salty hot tears for no particular reason.
But the point is emo me isn't actually me. This thing I feel like I've been dragging around is emotion. Sad emotion. It's just frustration and anger, indignity, feeling lost, failing, flailing. It's emotion. It's everyone's emotion. It's not mine. And that's not me.
Which is actually rather a relief. It's not mine or me.
It's life. It's everyone's. We all get our turn at the trough of misery. We all have to suck it some time or other. But we don't own it and it doesn't own us.
That's what I saw when I looked long enough.
NEXT: how not to find out who you really are
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
That Only Happens When I Write
Me: I only have those melt-downs when I write. The rest of the time I'm perfectly fine and normal. It's like writing picks the scab and makes things hurt. After writing yesterday I flaked out on the couch and fell into a deep sleep. That only happens when I write too. I'm definitely stirring and moving stuff here. Something's happening.
I was going through the same process this time last year. Keep coming back. Keep creeping closer to healing.
___________________________
Overnight I knew some things. Some important things that have faded into rubbish all of a sudden. But perhaps, by writing them down, they can become not rubbish. Gems maybe.
I read a few sober blogs last night. There are always themes going around. Last night is was the hole inside. The hole that happened at age 4, the God-shaped hole, the black pit, the self abuse, the meaningless, lost, dark struggle that life seems to be. Everyone's got it. Well not everyone, but many many people. Many suffer.
That's what I'm feeling. That hole. That empty place that I tried to fill with booze, business, work, longing, dreaming. As a teenager it could be made happy with the right pair of jeans. Now it's not that easy to appease! (Write about this more.)
So then I read an old post on the 6 Year Hangover blog, about what he was doing last time he got sober. How he just stopped drinking and tried super super harder to be an artist instead of a drunk. He didn't do any recovering. He just switched his passion for drinking to his job making art. He tried to fill that hole up with something else. Not booze, but work. And for him, work success was all about recognition. Acceptance of his work by peers, professionals, reviewers -- all outside. I feel like that all the time. Like I don't exists unless someone else is responding to me. Constantly checking to see if I'm OK, if I'm valid, real. And trying harder and harder and harder till exhausted and feeling like 110% disappointed and ripped off. So.
That's me, I said. Looking out there for meaning, where it isn't.
________________________
Downstairs, thinking it might be healthy to go to bed without a book and have a nice long read inside my own head instead. But I scanned the bookshelf, as I do every night, and this time picked out Care of the Soul by Thomas Moore. I bought that book 20+ years ago and have read it several times. Like many books I own, it feels like a completely new read every time I pick it up.
Last night i started at the beginning and read slowly. And I understood--knew for sure--something I have missed in previous readings. The hole we feel -- the empty dark scary uncomfortable thing we're all so desperately trying to soothe and fill isn't a hole. It's our soul. Our soul is suffering. From childhood when it's slammed and bashed by insensitive people. From rejection, from hunger, from just being a human being, with all the complexity and intensity. From birth, or before. It's not a hole to be filled. It's a part of us that is vital to happiness, and grossly neglected.
We feel this pain because our souls are neglected. Hungry, exhausted, abused, ignored, rejected. We don't need to fix it. We need to accept it and listen to it, and start to honour it like we honour the rest of our needs -- our hunger, tiredness, sociability, health. We need to pay it attention.
I am not talking about religion here. I'm talking about spirit. About the imagination, the hope, the wonder, emotion, creativity, sparks of joy, moments of utter peace.
_______________________
So if we become additcts, depressed, mad, lost, despairing when our soul is neglected, we can see those things not as afflictions to be fixed, but as messages, gifts.
Perhaps an urge to write, to pick scabs and stir up grief, is my way of reaching my soul. Perhaps this suffering is actually healing.
NEXT: Emo
I was going through the same process this time last year. Keep coming back. Keep creeping closer to healing.
___________________________
Overnight I knew some things. Some important things that have faded into rubbish all of a sudden. But perhaps, by writing them down, they can become not rubbish. Gems maybe.
I read a few sober blogs last night. There are always themes going around. Last night is was the hole inside. The hole that happened at age 4, the God-shaped hole, the black pit, the self abuse, the meaningless, lost, dark struggle that life seems to be. Everyone's got it. Well not everyone, but many many people. Many suffer.
That's what I'm feeling. That hole. That empty place that I tried to fill with booze, business, work, longing, dreaming. As a teenager it could be made happy with the right pair of jeans. Now it's not that easy to appease! (Write about this more.)
So then I read an old post on the 6 Year Hangover blog, about what he was doing last time he got sober. How he just stopped drinking and tried super super harder to be an artist instead of a drunk. He didn't do any recovering. He just switched his passion for drinking to his job making art. He tried to fill that hole up with something else. Not booze, but work. And for him, work success was all about recognition. Acceptance of his work by peers, professionals, reviewers -- all outside. I feel like that all the time. Like I don't exists unless someone else is responding to me. Constantly checking to see if I'm OK, if I'm valid, real. And trying harder and harder and harder till exhausted and feeling like 110% disappointed and ripped off. So.
That's me, I said. Looking out there for meaning, where it isn't.
________________________
Downstairs, thinking it might be healthy to go to bed without a book and have a nice long read inside my own head instead. But I scanned the bookshelf, as I do every night, and this time picked out Care of the Soul by Thomas Moore. I bought that book 20+ years ago and have read it several times. Like many books I own, it feels like a completely new read every time I pick it up.
Last night i started at the beginning and read slowly. And I understood--knew for sure--something I have missed in previous readings. The hole we feel -- the empty dark scary uncomfortable thing we're all so desperately trying to soothe and fill isn't a hole. It's our soul. Our soul is suffering. From childhood when it's slammed and bashed by insensitive people. From rejection, from hunger, from just being a human being, with all the complexity and intensity. From birth, or before. It's not a hole to be filled. It's a part of us that is vital to happiness, and grossly neglected.
We feel this pain because our souls are neglected. Hungry, exhausted, abused, ignored, rejected. We don't need to fix it. We need to accept it and listen to it, and start to honour it like we honour the rest of our needs -- our hunger, tiredness, sociability, health. We need to pay it attention.
I am not talking about religion here. I'm talking about spirit. About the imagination, the hope, the wonder, emotion, creativity, sparks of joy, moments of utter peace.
_______________________
So if we become additcts, depressed, mad, lost, despairing when our soul is neglected, we can see those things not as afflictions to be fixed, but as messages, gifts.
Perhaps an urge to write, to pick scabs and stir up grief, is my way of reaching my soul. Perhaps this suffering is actually healing.
NEXT: Emo
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
The Screaming Baby
Emo me is like a screaming baby. And wise me is her mother.
I never had kids. I can see now, I've actually always had a kid -- deep inside myself. I'm my own kid. And I've been screaming for years. Exhausing myself. What to I really need here?
I don't need numbing out. That's for sure.
I don't need entertaining.
I don't need food. I'm not hungry.
I'm not sick either. I don't need medicine or a doctor.
What do I really, really need?
I need someone to look at me and see me. That's all. I just need to be looked at, and seen.
Can wise me do that? Look at emo me, like a parent could look at a child, and see her... give her a sense of existing, mattering, being alright, being safe?
There's been a line of the Desiderata going through my head: You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars, you have a right to be here.
I always loved those words -- I think they might have even been up on our kitchen wall, at Princes St, on a poster. I wanted to be like that. No less than the trees and the stars. But I wasn't. I felt like a nuisance, in the way, expensive, invalid. And underneath all the wonderful things that life has given me, there's still that little cesspool, poisoning things. Not good enough. Not trying hard enough. Who wants to know what you've got to say?
In short, the baby's still screaming.
So. I'm going to look at her, and see her for who she is. I can do that. It's not that hard.
I did the same thing for my secret little addict when I gave up drinking. I gave her attention. I really listened to her demands and needs and fears and concerns. I heard her screaming and whining and bargaining and manipulating. I saw her hurting herself, getting in trouble. Wise me decided to take over that situation and get the booze problem sorted. Not by bashing and blaming and slamming. But by being there, all the time, taking notice and staying calm. It worked.
So wise me can now do a little basic parenting. I have a feeling it's not going to take much. A bit of time and attention. Some kindness, a soft quiet approach to start. I remember babysitting the kids next door. They were both screaming and I started doing ujyyia breath -- ocean sounding breathing -- that I learned in yoga. It only took minutes for the kids to be quiet and calm down -- the breath was infectious. Maybe it's as simple as breathing consciously. No more running away, wishing it would just stop. Wise me just needs to look emo me in the eye and hold her gaze for a while. Look at her with love.
NEXT: That only happens when I write
I never had kids. I can see now, I've actually always had a kid -- deep inside myself. I'm my own kid. And I've been screaming for years. Exhausing myself. What to I really need here?
I don't need numbing out. That's for sure.
I don't need entertaining.
I don't need food. I'm not hungry.
I'm not sick either. I don't need medicine or a doctor.
What do I really, really need?
I need someone to look at me and see me. That's all. I just need to be looked at, and seen.
Can wise me do that? Look at emo me, like a parent could look at a child, and see her... give her a sense of existing, mattering, being alright, being safe?
There's been a line of the Desiderata going through my head: You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars, you have a right to be here.
I always loved those words -- I think they might have even been up on our kitchen wall, at Princes St, on a poster. I wanted to be like that. No less than the trees and the stars. But I wasn't. I felt like a nuisance, in the way, expensive, invalid. And underneath all the wonderful things that life has given me, there's still that little cesspool, poisoning things. Not good enough. Not trying hard enough. Who wants to know what you've got to say?
In short, the baby's still screaming.
So. I'm going to look at her, and see her for who she is. I can do that. It's not that hard.
I did the same thing for my secret little addict when I gave up drinking. I gave her attention. I really listened to her demands and needs and fears and concerns. I heard her screaming and whining and bargaining and manipulating. I saw her hurting herself, getting in trouble. Wise me decided to take over that situation and get the booze problem sorted. Not by bashing and blaming and slamming. But by being there, all the time, taking notice and staying calm. It worked.
So wise me can now do a little basic parenting. I have a feeling it's not going to take much. A bit of time and attention. Some kindness, a soft quiet approach to start. I remember babysitting the kids next door. They were both screaming and I started doing ujyyia breath -- ocean sounding breathing -- that I learned in yoga. It only took minutes for the kids to be quiet and calm down -- the breath was infectious. Maybe it's as simple as breathing consciously. No more running away, wishing it would just stop. Wise me just needs to look emo me in the eye and hold her gaze for a while. Look at her with love.
NEXT: That only happens when I write
Keep telling your story
She: Keep telling your story.
Me: I'm so tired. But I'm full of stories, ideas. Every day they're bubbling up from somewhere/nowhere deep inside. Every night as I'm falling asleep, every morning when I wake up, sometimes in my sleep, have ideas that seem brilliant, and then I lose them. They're gone, or seem lame, and I get defeated. Worst, I second-guess myself, and start drowning in that horrible overwhelming sneering "Who cares what you've got to say?"
It really is like a dark blanket that drops over my head, blotting me out, shutting me up, forcing me to be nobody. It comes and goes. I know it's not the truth. I know it's just doubt or fear or a primal survival tactic. I'm a chameleon, or a moth or insect, disappearing into nothing, making myself invisible.
She: And yet you've got a drive to write.
Me: I know. It's ironic. It's cruel. It's funny. It's kind of embarrassing. I've wanted to be a writer since I was a child. I have been a writer since I was a child. But it feels like I've never really let myself believe that.
It's a theme -- not owning my own life, feeling like I'm not actually here, in this life. Like I'm someone else, living in a costume or something. I'm not connected to my own reality.
She: That's one of the purposes for writing. To connect yourself to your own reality.
Me: Really?
She: Yes. Definitely.
Me: Wow. When you put it like that, it gets a whole different look.
She: Yes. So keep telling your story.
Me: OK, I'm going to write how it feels to be disconnected from my own reality.
She: OK, go.
So sometimes I'm living my life, which is pretty peaceful and calm, and pretty awesome in so many ways, and I feel worried and concerned, anxious about who knows what, but that's the default feeling. Something's wrong. But then I think that if I were a journalist, writing a story about me, I would write something totally different to how I really feel. All the surface stuff is great. I am almost too embarrassed to write about how perfect this life is. I am healthy, I am fit, I do and teach yoga, I have a great working situation, I live in a lovely house with a lovely man and a lovely dog, in a beautiful city. We eat well, have the cutest garden. We travel regularly. I have lots of time to do creative things, to cook, and garden. I have lovely friends, family, neighbours. I even quit drinking two years ago --which was the one thing I thought would make my life finally perfect and happy.
(If that's not laying it on thick enough, we are building a lovely new house in Nova Scotia and we're going to move there in six months, and semi-retire, and have a whole acre of amazing fertile soil to grow food on. How fucking perfect can my life be?)
And frankly, I haven't exactly struggled or strived, or made huge sacrifices to get this life. It's kind of just worked out this way.
I feel like I'm writing about someone else. Because that person, in those paragraphs up there, should be so happy and amazed and thrilled and content. That person has absolutely no reason whatsover to be anxious, or blocked, or worried or afraid of anything.
I have time to write. I have material to write about. And yet I kick and scream and get mired down about writing. Over and over again. What is that about?
These are the things I've struggled with all my life. My emotions and feeling and reactions seem to have absolutely no connection at all to my reality.
She: Those feelings and suffering are your reality too.
Me: They just seem so invalid.
She: What do you mean?
I mean that I feel like my emotional self is so disconnected, so far behind the game, so completely not in sync with the rest of me. Part of me is growing up and thriving. The other part of me is cowering in a corner with my head covered, freaking out.
I had this idea the other day to write a story or blog post called "Wise Me". I feel like wise me is the one who's quit drinking and teaches yoga and goes to work and keeps the household humming along, and has relationships with people. Wise me does all the normal stuff and the hard stuff. Then there's emo me who's dragging along in the dust, whimpering and cry-babying, and feeling all freaked and terrified. About nothing really. About nothing. I used to do all sorts of things to pacify her. Drink to numb out the pain, get lost in endless mindless TV, socialise aimlessly, nap obsessively. But mostly drink. And recently I've stopped doing all those things. So the struggle is just more obvious, more constant. But I still just want it to stop. It's so exhausting.
She: Who wants it to stop? Wise you?
Me: No. I think she's cool with it. She gets it. She knows it's just how humans are. This is how we suffer.
You know, the times I most wanted to drink alcohol -- drink with some urgency -- was after doing long yoga sessions. I remember walking up the hill after the weekend workshops or training sessions, desperate for a cold white wine. Pouring myself one as soon as I got in the door, and pretty much sculling it. I could feel it tingle through my blood stream and start to dull me down, numb me out. I'd drink more till I couldn't feel so much. Yoga got me in touch with myself, my feelings, and it was very very weird and odd and frightening. Uncomfortable. Drinking took care of that.
Now I have nothing to take care of that. But it's still happening. I don't know what to do instead. Crochet? Drink tea? Do I just need to experience whatever this anxiety is, and let it work itself out? Is that the answer? Is there an answer? Are these even questions?
NEXT: The screaming baby
Me: I'm so tired. But I'm full of stories, ideas. Every day they're bubbling up from somewhere/nowhere deep inside. Every night as I'm falling asleep, every morning when I wake up, sometimes in my sleep, have ideas that seem brilliant, and then I lose them. They're gone, or seem lame, and I get defeated. Worst, I second-guess myself, and start drowning in that horrible overwhelming sneering "Who cares what you've got to say?"
It really is like a dark blanket that drops over my head, blotting me out, shutting me up, forcing me to be nobody. It comes and goes. I know it's not the truth. I know it's just doubt or fear or a primal survival tactic. I'm a chameleon, or a moth or insect, disappearing into nothing, making myself invisible.
She: And yet you've got a drive to write.
Me: I know. It's ironic. It's cruel. It's funny. It's kind of embarrassing. I've wanted to be a writer since I was a child. I have been a writer since I was a child. But it feels like I've never really let myself believe that.
It's a theme -- not owning my own life, feeling like I'm not actually here, in this life. Like I'm someone else, living in a costume or something. I'm not connected to my own reality.
She: That's one of the purposes for writing. To connect yourself to your own reality.
Me: Really?
She: Yes. Definitely.
Me: Wow. When you put it like that, it gets a whole different look.
She: Yes. So keep telling your story.
Me: OK, I'm going to write how it feels to be disconnected from my own reality.
She: OK, go.
So sometimes I'm living my life, which is pretty peaceful and calm, and pretty awesome in so many ways, and I feel worried and concerned, anxious about who knows what, but that's the default feeling. Something's wrong. But then I think that if I were a journalist, writing a story about me, I would write something totally different to how I really feel. All the surface stuff is great. I am almost too embarrassed to write about how perfect this life is. I am healthy, I am fit, I do and teach yoga, I have a great working situation, I live in a lovely house with a lovely man and a lovely dog, in a beautiful city. We eat well, have the cutest garden. We travel regularly. I have lots of time to do creative things, to cook, and garden. I have lovely friends, family, neighbours. I even quit drinking two years ago --which was the one thing I thought would make my life finally perfect and happy.
(If that's not laying it on thick enough, we are building a lovely new house in Nova Scotia and we're going to move there in six months, and semi-retire, and have a whole acre of amazing fertile soil to grow food on. How fucking perfect can my life be?)
And frankly, I haven't exactly struggled or strived, or made huge sacrifices to get this life. It's kind of just worked out this way.
I feel like I'm writing about someone else. Because that person, in those paragraphs up there, should be so happy and amazed and thrilled and content. That person has absolutely no reason whatsover to be anxious, or blocked, or worried or afraid of anything.
I have time to write. I have material to write about. And yet I kick and scream and get mired down about writing. Over and over again. What is that about?
These are the things I've struggled with all my life. My emotions and feeling and reactions seem to have absolutely no connection at all to my reality.
She: Those feelings and suffering are your reality too.
Me: They just seem so invalid.
She: What do you mean?
I mean that I feel like my emotional self is so disconnected, so far behind the game, so completely not in sync with the rest of me. Part of me is growing up and thriving. The other part of me is cowering in a corner with my head covered, freaking out.
I had this idea the other day to write a story or blog post called "Wise Me". I feel like wise me is the one who's quit drinking and teaches yoga and goes to work and keeps the household humming along, and has relationships with people. Wise me does all the normal stuff and the hard stuff. Then there's emo me who's dragging along in the dust, whimpering and cry-babying, and feeling all freaked and terrified. About nothing really. About nothing. I used to do all sorts of things to pacify her. Drink to numb out the pain, get lost in endless mindless TV, socialise aimlessly, nap obsessively. But mostly drink. And recently I've stopped doing all those things. So the struggle is just more obvious, more constant. But I still just want it to stop. It's so exhausting.
She: Who wants it to stop? Wise you?
Me: No. I think she's cool with it. She gets it. She knows it's just how humans are. This is how we suffer.
You know, the times I most wanted to drink alcohol -- drink with some urgency -- was after doing long yoga sessions. I remember walking up the hill after the weekend workshops or training sessions, desperate for a cold white wine. Pouring myself one as soon as I got in the door, and pretty much sculling it. I could feel it tingle through my blood stream and start to dull me down, numb me out. I'd drink more till I couldn't feel so much. Yoga got me in touch with myself, my feelings, and it was very very weird and odd and frightening. Uncomfortable. Drinking took care of that.
Now I have nothing to take care of that. But it's still happening. I don't know what to do instead. Crochet? Drink tea? Do I just need to experience whatever this anxiety is, and let it work itself out? Is that the answer? Is there an answer? Are these even questions?
NEXT: The screaming baby
Thursday, September 4, 2014
Filing the Underwear
Having five girls was a challenge when it came to clothes, and in particular doing laundry and keeping track of the underwear and socks. Don't forget we all had identical clothing, including our school uniforms, and we were all much the same size. I'm sure it was dad who invented the underwear filing system. Mum made it, but it had dad's practicality and rationale written all over it. It was a sheet of fabric with 9 pouches sewn onto it, hung on the inside of the hot-water cupboard door. The idea was that there was a row of pouches for each of us who were at school -- me, Julie and Polly. It was an underwear filing system. I had the top row, with one pouch for undies, one for socks, and one for singlets (today they'd be camisoles). Julie had the middle row. Polly, the smallest, had the bottom row. It was one of those moments: "From now on, all the underwear will be folded and put in the right place. Every Day!"
But it didn't work. Because it required things to be sorted according to child, and who knew, with all the matching gear, whose was whose stuff? If that had been easy or obvious, we wouldn't have needed an underwear filing system.
So things went from good to bad fairly quickly "From now on, all the underwear and socks will be folded up properly in these pouches!!" Soon all the undies were stuffed into the middle row pouches. All the socks were in the bottom, and all the singlets in the top. We had no idea whose was whose. The system became first up best dressed. You got up, came downstairs in pjs, raided the pouches for the best stuff you could find, then went back upstairs to get dressed for school.
Mum did have one very clever solution to this though. When I turned 11, I was "allowed" to do my own laundry. This meant I could control my own underwear. I was rapt. Seems like a very small victory in the telling, but it was huge at the time. Huge.
I was also "allowed" to learn how to iron dad's shirts. Which I did for years. And all the school uniform shirts in the house too. It was a good job. I love the smell of ironed cotton.
NEXT: Keep telling your story
NEXT: Keep telling your story
Monday, August 25, 2014
Mum is Dumb and Dad is Mad
I often wonder how mum coped with having five children by the time she was 31. Married to a man who was so utterly different to her. Did they love each other? I have no idea. They survived together. They had a few laughs, but often at each other's expense. They tolerated each other. They didn't have a choice really. They made it work.
Dad used to say "Rosie, it's a good thing the girls got your looks and my brains, because if it was the other way around, it would be a disaster." And that totally sums it up!
Once, I have heard from an aunty who was there, mum was going on and on, entertaining a crowd gathered in our living room, that while dad was known as "Peter bloody Ward" because he swore so much, he had never said, and never ever would say "the F word". Everyone challenged her noisily, but she stuck to her guns and refused to accept anyone else's arguments. The phone rang in another room, and mum went to answer it. As she passed through the doorway and shut the door, dad said to anyone who would listen "She's a silly fucking bitch sometimes." That sums it up!
Mum looked after the kids, the food, the housekeeping, and was the social coordinator (aka party animal). Dad worked to earn the money to pay for things. He was an un-qualified but competent carpenter. He'd worked with builders, bricklayers, and watched and learned. When I was born, and he was only 26, he'd had 27 different jobs. Not long before I was born he left a good office job and took one at the Tisbury Cheese Factory as a delivery person. His good friend, Les Macaskill (career teacher and school principal) questioned his judgement. Dad was quick with his reasoning. "I need a vehicle to get Rosie to the hospital when the baby comes. This job comes with a van." Pragmatic.
Mum made a career out of being ditsy, and it was something I really didn't like about her. She thought it was funny to be irrational and twist reality. If she bought a pair of shoes for $10, on sale from $20, she would proclaim proudly, "I earned $10 today!" And she would argue the point, for the fun of it. She did this constantly. Shopping for a bargain wasn't just a hobby, but it was a way to show off, flaunt this silly side.
She would often say outrageous things, drop her false teeth out of her mouth to scare the kids, make her eyes so crossed she looked horrific. Just do stupid things.
This reminds me of the day she got all her teeth taken out. They were doing that in the 60s. Cosmetic purposes I think. I was very small. Three or four at the most. Mum left me with Nana Baird, and went to the dentist and got her teeth pulled out. All in one go. She came back to nana's place looking horrific. Totally. She went to lie down in nana's bed. It must have been quite physically traumatic, but lots of people did it. I was in the little bed -- Joanne's bed -- beside her. I didn't want to look at her. She was scary. I said "Is your mouth looking?" And she said "No." And I peeped out from under the covers, and there was her caved in, collapsed, ugly mouth grinning at me. I screamed and dived back under the covers. It was a game. Like a lot of the games in our household, I didn't like it. Fortunately I was too young to know about being a good sport, so I just stayed under the blankets and cried.
Mum used to drop her teeth as a party trick. I always found that excruciating.
____________
When I turned 18, my friend Greg McIlhinney threw a party for me. I think he knew that any birthday party held at my home would be my parent's affair, not mine, and he was determined to do something for me. So we had the party at his home -- he lived alone with his mother, who we called Maude -- and invited a load of people. We had loud music, dancing, and alcohol. I remember at one point toward the end of the evening saying to Greg that I thought someone had spiked my drinks because I felt really woosy. I'm sure now it was just that I didn't expect the alcohol to affect me the way it did... get me drunk!
Anyway, around 10pm, there was a rucus in the front room, with a lot of hooting and hollering, so I went to investigate. My parents had shown up. Dressed in long dressing gowns, wearing ape masks, dancing around like lunatics. At first, I was the only one who knew they were my parents. I recognised the ape masks and the dressing gowns. I was supposed to think this was funny. Everyone else thought it was hilarious. I withered. I'm totally sure mum harranged dad into doing this, or waited until he'd had several beers and was up for it. Whatever. It was mortifying.
People thought my parents were great, especially mum. When friends came around, there was always hilarity and pranks. Someone always got thrown, fully clothed, into the swimming pool. Someone always ended up wearing a stupid wig or mask or a wedding dress or knickers on their head. There would be chickens in the house, or someone trying to walk up the stairs on their hands, or on stilts, hiding, chasing and shrieking, mum playing moonlight sonata in the wrong key three times too fast, dropping her teeth... boozing and laughing, and mortification.
We lived in a party house. Well it was a party when there were visitors. Which was too often, in my not so humble opinion.
______________
Dad always made mum a cup of tea in the morning and delivered it to her in bed. I insist on this treatment myself, even now! As we all got a bit older, he would bring us all drinks in bed in the morning. Coffee or tea, however we liked it. He'd come upstairs with the tray, make all the drink deliveries, and so started the day in the household. That was very civilised. Things usually degenerated into chaos fairly quickly, with scraps over clothing, school lunches never made until the last minute, flat tires on bikes, running late and the car not starting if mum was driving us to school.
__________
The title for this post is a quote from my sister Julie, who recited that wonderfully funny poem at the dinner table one night, and got in trouble for it. That was grossly unfair -- her poem was true.
NEXT: Filing the Underwear
Dad used to say "Rosie, it's a good thing the girls got your looks and my brains, because if it was the other way around, it would be a disaster." And that totally sums it up!
Once, I have heard from an aunty who was there, mum was going on and on, entertaining a crowd gathered in our living room, that while dad was known as "Peter bloody Ward" because he swore so much, he had never said, and never ever would say "the F word". Everyone challenged her noisily, but she stuck to her guns and refused to accept anyone else's arguments. The phone rang in another room, and mum went to answer it. As she passed through the doorway and shut the door, dad said to anyone who would listen "She's a silly fucking bitch sometimes." That sums it up!
Mum looked after the kids, the food, the housekeeping, and was the social coordinator (aka party animal). Dad worked to earn the money to pay for things. He was an un-qualified but competent carpenter. He'd worked with builders, bricklayers, and watched and learned. When I was born, and he was only 26, he'd had 27 different jobs. Not long before I was born he left a good office job and took one at the Tisbury Cheese Factory as a delivery person. His good friend, Les Macaskill (career teacher and school principal) questioned his judgement. Dad was quick with his reasoning. "I need a vehicle to get Rosie to the hospital when the baby comes. This job comes with a van." Pragmatic.
Mum made a career out of being ditsy, and it was something I really didn't like about her. She thought it was funny to be irrational and twist reality. If she bought a pair of shoes for $10, on sale from $20, she would proclaim proudly, "I earned $10 today!" And she would argue the point, for the fun of it. She did this constantly. Shopping for a bargain wasn't just a hobby, but it was a way to show off, flaunt this silly side.
She would often say outrageous things, drop her false teeth out of her mouth to scare the kids, make her eyes so crossed she looked horrific. Just do stupid things.
This reminds me of the day she got all her teeth taken out. They were doing that in the 60s. Cosmetic purposes I think. I was very small. Three or four at the most. Mum left me with Nana Baird, and went to the dentist and got her teeth pulled out. All in one go. She came back to nana's place looking horrific. Totally. She went to lie down in nana's bed. It must have been quite physically traumatic, but lots of people did it. I was in the little bed -- Joanne's bed -- beside her. I didn't want to look at her. She was scary. I said "Is your mouth looking?" And she said "No." And I peeped out from under the covers, and there was her caved in, collapsed, ugly mouth grinning at me. I screamed and dived back under the covers. It was a game. Like a lot of the games in our household, I didn't like it. Fortunately I was too young to know about being a good sport, so I just stayed under the blankets and cried.
Mum used to drop her teeth as a party trick. I always found that excruciating.
____________
When I turned 18, my friend Greg McIlhinney threw a party for me. I think he knew that any birthday party held at my home would be my parent's affair, not mine, and he was determined to do something for me. So we had the party at his home -- he lived alone with his mother, who we called Maude -- and invited a load of people. We had loud music, dancing, and alcohol. I remember at one point toward the end of the evening saying to Greg that I thought someone had spiked my drinks because I felt really woosy. I'm sure now it was just that I didn't expect the alcohol to affect me the way it did... get me drunk!
Anyway, around 10pm, there was a rucus in the front room, with a lot of hooting and hollering, so I went to investigate. My parents had shown up. Dressed in long dressing gowns, wearing ape masks, dancing around like lunatics. At first, I was the only one who knew they were my parents. I recognised the ape masks and the dressing gowns. I was supposed to think this was funny. Everyone else thought it was hilarious. I withered. I'm totally sure mum harranged dad into doing this, or waited until he'd had several beers and was up for it. Whatever. It was mortifying.
People thought my parents were great, especially mum. When friends came around, there was always hilarity and pranks. Someone always got thrown, fully clothed, into the swimming pool. Someone always ended up wearing a stupid wig or mask or a wedding dress or knickers on their head. There would be chickens in the house, or someone trying to walk up the stairs on their hands, or on stilts, hiding, chasing and shrieking, mum playing moonlight sonata in the wrong key three times too fast, dropping her teeth... boozing and laughing, and mortification.
We lived in a party house. Well it was a party when there were visitors. Which was too often, in my not so humble opinion.
______________
Dad always made mum a cup of tea in the morning and delivered it to her in bed. I insist on this treatment myself, even now! As we all got a bit older, he would bring us all drinks in bed in the morning. Coffee or tea, however we liked it. He'd come upstairs with the tray, make all the drink deliveries, and so started the day in the household. That was very civilised. Things usually degenerated into chaos fairly quickly, with scraps over clothing, school lunches never made until the last minute, flat tires on bikes, running late and the car not starting if mum was driving us to school.
The title for this post is a quote from my sister Julie, who recited that wonderfully funny poem at the dinner table one night, and got in trouble for it. That was grossly unfair -- her poem was true.
NEXT: Filing the Underwear
A Cold Hard Fact
She: Are you still there?
Me: Yes. It's been such a busy holiday. I've had no time or space to write. Until now.
She: Keep telling your story.
Me: I will. I want to. The more I write, the more I remember. I thought I'd only have one page of memories about mum. Thought I didn't really have much to say about her. But there's a lot. I keep remembering more and more.
She: How is it feeling?
Me: I am feeling more compassionate, less hateful. Less resentful. I feel like I'm seeing things for what they were. What they are.
She: And what is that?
Me: Just people, trying to make sense of themselves, trying to make the best of their lives. Dealing with their pain and insecurities. Trying to be happy. Not having a bloody clue about anything. Screwing up. Kind of like my life!
She: Good observation.
Me: Through all of this, I am confronted with a tough fact. I didn't love my mother, or even like her. Still don't. I was afraid of her and alienated from her. I couldn't speak honestly to her, couldn't let her see who I really was. The relationship was based on survival tactics and pretense. That makes me really sad. It's like a huge hole. I've known it forever. I've just always tried to ignore it, think it doesn't matter. Maybe it doesn't matter. Who knows? What good can come of not liking or loving your mother? What possible reason could there be for that? What fix, cure? Does there need to be one? I don't know what to do with this cold hard fact. I can't make myself feel something I don't feel. This might explain why I've been so hard on myself, so tough.
She: It's harder to love yourself when you don't know parent love. Much harder. But not impossible. You just need to work at it a bit harder at it.
Me: 110%?
She: You're good at that.
_________________
I feel quite shitty writing this. Not angry, just mean and low. Like I failed at something utterly fundamental. And now, suddenly, I remember:
One day a year or two ago, I was walking on Oreti Beach (the beach near Invercargill where I was born and grew up), and knew that I had chosen this birth. I had chosen to be born into this environment, this time, and to these parents. It wasn't some flash of light epiphany. It was just a knowing. I chose this. All of it. For a reason. And that reason was to crack my fucking egg open!
NEXT Mum is Dumb and Dad is Mad
Me: Yes. It's been such a busy holiday. I've had no time or space to write. Until now.
She: Keep telling your story.
Me: I will. I want to. The more I write, the more I remember. I thought I'd only have one page of memories about mum. Thought I didn't really have much to say about her. But there's a lot. I keep remembering more and more.
She: How is it feeling?
Me: I am feeling more compassionate, less hateful. Less resentful. I feel like I'm seeing things for what they were. What they are.
She: And what is that?
Me: Just people, trying to make sense of themselves, trying to make the best of their lives. Dealing with their pain and insecurities. Trying to be happy. Not having a bloody clue about anything. Screwing up. Kind of like my life!
She: Good observation.
Me: Through all of this, I am confronted with a tough fact. I didn't love my mother, or even like her. Still don't. I was afraid of her and alienated from her. I couldn't speak honestly to her, couldn't let her see who I really was. The relationship was based on survival tactics and pretense. That makes me really sad. It's like a huge hole. I've known it forever. I've just always tried to ignore it, think it doesn't matter. Maybe it doesn't matter. Who knows? What good can come of not liking or loving your mother? What possible reason could there be for that? What fix, cure? Does there need to be one? I don't know what to do with this cold hard fact. I can't make myself feel something I don't feel. This might explain why I've been so hard on myself, so tough.
She: It's harder to love yourself when you don't know parent love. Much harder. But not impossible. You just need to work at it a bit harder at it.
Me: 110%?
She: You're good at that.
_________________
I feel quite shitty writing this. Not angry, just mean and low. Like I failed at something utterly fundamental. And now, suddenly, I remember:
One day a year or two ago, I was walking on Oreti Beach (the beach near Invercargill where I was born and grew up), and knew that I had chosen this birth. I had chosen to be born into this environment, this time, and to these parents. It wasn't some flash of light epiphany. It was just a knowing. I chose this. All of it. For a reason. And that reason was to crack my fucking egg open!
NEXT Mum is Dumb and Dad is Mad
Sunday, August 17, 2014
Good and Bad Surprises
Some happy memories associated with mum's obsessions.
When I went to school, I had a home made school uniform, in red and white gingham. When I cam home from school after my first day, my doll, Squinty (because of her squinty eyes), was waiting for me on the kitchen table, wearing a full school uniform identical to mine, with a red school case to finish off the look. Mum must have spend all day making that doll's outfit.
When mum and dad bought the big old house in Princes Street, before we moved in mum decorated our bedrooms with bright, cheerful wall paper, matching curtains, and bedding. We didn't know what our rooms would be like until the day we moved in. My room (I got my own room!) was orange and yellow, and it really was a happy place for an 11 year girl. Julie's room (she got her own room too) was pink and sweet, perfect for an 8 year old girl.
That same year, 1971, on my 11th birthday, mum organised a surprise birthday party, and invited all the girls from my old class at Sacred Heart, and all the girls from my new school, St Patricks. She also made me a beautiful dress -- one of a kind, no matching copies for my sisters. It was a large blue and white check, full long skirt cut on the bias, with a bib in the front, straps over the shoulders that crossed over the back, and a ruffle over the shoulders, and down the front of the bib. It was hanging in the window of the downstairs living room when I came downstairs that morning. I loved it, more because it was one of a kind than anything else.
These were the nice side of mum's surprises.
___________
Mum was pretty emotional, and there was a lot of up and down in the atmosphere of the house. She was always "on" for guests. She was often "off" on Saturday mornings, which always had an air of anger and frenetic energy about it.
The time she was most upset with me -- to the point that she cried for an entire day, and wouldn't look at me or speak to me, was when I was 19 and she found contraceptive pills in my toilet bag. What was she doing in my toilet bag? Snooping. Looking for evidence that I was having sex. Which I was, finally. And no thanks to anyone else, I was having safe sex, and taking care of the potential not to get pregnant. But I had committed a mortal (unforgiveable) sin by going on the pill. This was horrendous. This Must Stop NOW. How could I betray my parents like this? (I just got more pills after mum had thrown the pack she found out. I hid them better. There was no way I was going to get pregnant before I figured out what to do with my life.)
Here's how I got ready for my first sexual experience. I read a couple of books. From the library and from mum's bedside table (this one was about Catholic marriage, which did involve sex, and details about a woman's fertility and the menstual cycle, so she could avoid getting pregnant by timing things right, rather than the sinful pill. I became an expert in this, and later kept myself un-pregnant for years using that science.)
After I read the books, I made an appointment at the Family Planning Clinic. Not the family doctor. He would have said something to mum, or that's what I believed. I told the Family Planning doctor that I had a boyfriend and was ready to have sex, but didn't want to get pregnant. She listened and took me 100% seriously, and told me what my options were. I was dumbfounded. I'd expected to have to plead my case, beg, and be denied contraception. But no. I think she might have even praised me for being sensible and getting prepared ahead of time. Wow.
Somehow mum thought that by banning the pill, she was stopping us from having sex. She never asked me if I was sleeping with anyone. She demanded, hurt and crying, "Why do you need to be on the Pill?"
"To control my PMS."
"You haven't got PMS!!" (Once I told her I was feeling depressed and she shouted, "What on earth have you got to be depressed about?" and stormed out of the room before I had a chance to answer.)
But anyway. I lied about why I was on the pill. I felt I had to. I suppose I could have said, "Mum, I'm 19 and I'm sleeping with my boyfriend, and I'm on the pill because I don't want to get pregnant." I'm pretty sure she would have had a breakdown and kicked me out of the house. Which wouldn't have been a bad thing, in retrospect.
Fads and Fashion: It's better to look good than feel good.
Mum had fads. Lots of them. Wall papering -- she even put wallpaper on our old Simca (car) to cover up the rust at the bottom of the doors. Rug-hooking. Amethests. Antiques. Bantams. Sun bathing. Cafe curtains. Fondues. She wasn't a fussy seamstress, but during the 1960s and 70s, when you couldn't get anything but the most basic clothing in shops in New Zealand, she made all her and our clothes, and we were known for being "well turned out".
She was up with the fashion, and every season we'd have the latest styles and colours. We had the long tartan skirts cut on the bias. We had smock tops. We had halter dresses (modest ones), and we had the shoes to match, the head bands. When pastels were in we had pastels. When florals, or primary colours, or whatever was in, we had it. We didn't have a lot of clothes. Each season, summer and winter, we'd get a new good dress and an outfit for wearing around home, new pyjamas (also home made), and maybe a new cardie.
Mum took our appearance very seriously. She spent hours, days sewing our outfits. She was constantly bringing home yards of material, cutting, pinning. I can still see mum's mouth full of pins -- she used to hold them between her lips while she was sewing, which gave her a weird smiling grimace. Whenever we went out anywhere, we'd have to get dressed up, in identical outfits (well until I was 11 -- more coming on that), be washed, get our hair done in identical styles, and stay clean until we arrived at our destination. This last point was critical. We had to arrive in good shape. No slops or smudges on anything. It was probably dad's idea to make sure that our top layer of clothing, usually a cardigan or jersey, was put on us in-side-out, and only taken off and turned the right way in the car, once we'd arrived at our destination. All the signs that we were ordinary kids with ordinary sloppy habits were well hidden on the insides of our cardies or coats.
One year we had mustard coloured skirts with suspender-type straps that sat over the top of cream blouses. The blouses had a flash mustard stitch trim that mum's new sewing machine could magically spit out with the turn of a dial. I think they might have had hand-covered buttons too. And we had brown lace-up knee-length boots, fake crocodile-skin if I remember correctly. What I remember most about those outfits was that we could only get boots to fit Julie and me in Invercargill. They didn't have Polly's size. And we were going on a trip, to the North Island, to visit nana Ward and the Ward relatives.
I remember nothing about that trip except that mum got dad to stop at every shoe shop along the way to try and get those boots. It was so important to her that we arrived all perfectly matching. None of the shops had the size we needed, until Levin, which was so close to our destination it was almost a Total Disaster. But the boots were there, just as mum had always believed they would be. Actually, now that I think about it, she would have bought them too big if that was the final option. But we arrived matching. That was all that needed to happen.
None of us liked this, by the way. Well I don't think we did. I certainly hated being dressed the same as my little sisters. Especially when mum got her final triumph and made matching outfits for all five of us. The fabric was nice and colourful, but honestly, at 11, the last thing I wanted was to be part of a matching freak show with my sisters aged 8, 5, 3 and 1. But too bad for me. I had no say in what I wore. That was entirely true. We never got to choose what we wore. Mum told us what to wear. She did it well into my teenage years. And after it became obviously ridiculous for her to do this, she swapped it for saying "You're not going to wear that are you?" I was already wearing that, but it wasn't unheard of for her to make such a fuss that I got changed just to make it stop.
I had a terrible sense of personal style for years, and found it really hard to make choices about clothing. I remember going shopping for a skirt and jacket for a wedding, not long after I was first married. I was with my Aunty Angela, and showed her what I was thinking of getting. She said something I've never forgotten. "If I had a lovely figure like yours, I'd get something much more slim fitting to show it off." "But that might tempt boys!" squeaked a tiny little voice deep within my mind. But I was always thankful to Angela for saying that. I had no idea I had a lovely figure, but I did. All I knew how to do was hide it.
I feel now I have a good sense of what suits me and what I like, but I still tend to dress down, pick the lowest common denominator so I don't draw attention to myself. I do still second guess myself about clothes. But there is that moment when I try something on, and see immediately "Yes, that's the right colour and style for you!"
Mum taught me to sew when I was 10. So at that young age I was able to put together a simple outfit. Mum told me what to make, and picked the material, but I was allowed to make it. My first outfit was in the gypsy theme that was the rage in one year of the 1970s. It was a long gathered skirt in bright reds, oranges and yellows, with a white searsucker gypsy blouse, with red rick-rack trim. It was simple, but effective, and I did enjoy being able to say "I made it myself." I still love saying that about things I sew or crochet.
A recent clothes story: Aunty Pat, mum's older sister, recently gave me a bag of old but lovely woolen clothing, to use for my upcycling sewing projects. One of the wool coats was mum's. We gave it to Pat when mum died 15 years ago. It was good quality, but so long it dragged on the floor, and was far too big for me. But I felt I couldn't felt it and cut it up like the other garments. This was mum's coat, and I really should keep it. It hung around in my sewing stash for a few months, annoying me. One day I was having a bit of a mum-memory meltdown, part of my personal therapy that's been ongoing these past few years, and I slammed my journal shut, dried my eyes, and thought "Fuck it. Fucking mum is not getting way with this one minute longer. I'm felting her fucking coat!" And I did. I put it in the hottest wash, and the hottest dry. Later I pulled it out of the dryer, expecting to hack it up with my super sharp dressmaking scissors, and make it into a cushion or a doormat, but it hadn't felted that successfully. It had shrunk though, to a perfect size for me. I put it on, and it was super warm and cosy. It was as if mum was giving me a warm hug, for the first time. So I kept that coat -- it's more like a house coat, but I sometimes wear it out of the house. It's warm and comforting. The hug I always wanted from her. I had a funny feeling she arranged it all.
Some of mum's fads were traumatic. Like the ringlet fad. I don't know where that came from, but mum decided we'd all have ringlets in our hair (not her, just Julie, Paula and me). This involved wrapping our hair up at night in strips of damp cotton rags, the theory being that the damp hair would dry overnight and retain its curl from being wrapped around the rags. It was like having thick wads of bandaged sausages sticking out of your head. Horrible, painful for sleeping. But there was no arguing about it. We were not in charge of our hair or our clothing. We were a bit like dolls, to be dressed up and paraded around. In the morning, she'd unwrap all the sausage bandages, and tie the hair in pig-tail wringlets. I seem to remember Julie and I had stubbornly straight hair, but Paula's had good curl potential. That fad might have only lasted a week or two, but it's stuck in my memory all these years.
Another one was the '100 strokes a day' hair fad. This involved having our hair brushed 100 strokes, every night before bed. That didn't last too long either.
I remember mum declaring often, and often in frustration, "Right, from now on ___________ fill in the blanks." It could be from now on you'll polish the brass every Saturday. From now on you're all having Lanes Emulsion every day. From now on, you're biking to school and doubling your little sister. From now on, you're getting your hair brushed 100 strokes a day. From now on, you're doing your own laundry. From now on there will be no more colouring-in on the lounge table. From now on, we're going to 9 0'clock mass every Sunday. Whatever it was we were going to do from now on only ever lasted a while.
I understand now, that when mum got married and had kids, she was determined to get her life right, perhaps to exercise control over her life that she felt she didn't have growing up. We probably all do that. If we take the measure of her need to control as an indication of her own insecurity, she was off the charts. She was utterly obsessed with appearances. The white picket fence, the white lace curtains, the five little girls all in a row. So well dressed. So well behaved. Looking stylish. It was definitely better to look good than to feel good!
She was up with the fashion, and every season we'd have the latest styles and colours. We had the long tartan skirts cut on the bias. We had smock tops. We had halter dresses (modest ones), and we had the shoes to match, the head bands. When pastels were in we had pastels. When florals, or primary colours, or whatever was in, we had it. We didn't have a lot of clothes. Each season, summer and winter, we'd get a new good dress and an outfit for wearing around home, new pyjamas (also home made), and maybe a new cardie.
Mum took our appearance very seriously. She spent hours, days sewing our outfits. She was constantly bringing home yards of material, cutting, pinning. I can still see mum's mouth full of pins -- she used to hold them between her lips while she was sewing, which gave her a weird smiling grimace. Whenever we went out anywhere, we'd have to get dressed up, in identical outfits (well until I was 11 -- more coming on that), be washed, get our hair done in identical styles, and stay clean until we arrived at our destination. This last point was critical. We had to arrive in good shape. No slops or smudges on anything. It was probably dad's idea to make sure that our top layer of clothing, usually a cardigan or jersey, was put on us in-side-out, and only taken off and turned the right way in the car, once we'd arrived at our destination. All the signs that we were ordinary kids with ordinary sloppy habits were well hidden on the insides of our cardies or coats.
One year we had mustard coloured skirts with suspender-type straps that sat over the top of cream blouses. The blouses had a flash mustard stitch trim that mum's new sewing machine could magically spit out with the turn of a dial. I think they might have had hand-covered buttons too. And we had brown lace-up knee-length boots, fake crocodile-skin if I remember correctly. What I remember most about those outfits was that we could only get boots to fit Julie and me in Invercargill. They didn't have Polly's size. And we were going on a trip, to the North Island, to visit nana Ward and the Ward relatives.
I remember nothing about that trip except that mum got dad to stop at every shoe shop along the way to try and get those boots. It was so important to her that we arrived all perfectly matching. None of the shops had the size we needed, until Levin, which was so close to our destination it was almost a Total Disaster. But the boots were there, just as mum had always believed they would be. Actually, now that I think about it, she would have bought them too big if that was the final option. But we arrived matching. That was all that needed to happen.
None of us liked this, by the way. Well I don't think we did. I certainly hated being dressed the same as my little sisters. Especially when mum got her final triumph and made matching outfits for all five of us. The fabric was nice and colourful, but honestly, at 11, the last thing I wanted was to be part of a matching freak show with my sisters aged 8, 5, 3 and 1. But too bad for me. I had no say in what I wore. That was entirely true. We never got to choose what we wore. Mum told us what to wear. She did it well into my teenage years. And after it became obviously ridiculous for her to do this, she swapped it for saying "You're not going to wear that are you?" I was already wearing that, but it wasn't unheard of for her to make such a fuss that I got changed just to make it stop.
I had a terrible sense of personal style for years, and found it really hard to make choices about clothing. I remember going shopping for a skirt and jacket for a wedding, not long after I was first married. I was with my Aunty Angela, and showed her what I was thinking of getting. She said something I've never forgotten. "If I had a lovely figure like yours, I'd get something much more slim fitting to show it off." "But that might tempt boys!" squeaked a tiny little voice deep within my mind. But I was always thankful to Angela for saying that. I had no idea I had a lovely figure, but I did. All I knew how to do was hide it.
I feel now I have a good sense of what suits me and what I like, but I still tend to dress down, pick the lowest common denominator so I don't draw attention to myself. I do still second guess myself about clothes. But there is that moment when I try something on, and see immediately "Yes, that's the right colour and style for you!"
Mum taught me to sew when I was 10. So at that young age I was able to put together a simple outfit. Mum told me what to make, and picked the material, but I was allowed to make it. My first outfit was in the gypsy theme that was the rage in one year of the 1970s. It was a long gathered skirt in bright reds, oranges and yellows, with a white searsucker gypsy blouse, with red rick-rack trim. It was simple, but effective, and I did enjoy being able to say "I made it myself." I still love saying that about things I sew or crochet.
A recent clothes story: Aunty Pat, mum's older sister, recently gave me a bag of old but lovely woolen clothing, to use for my upcycling sewing projects. One of the wool coats was mum's. We gave it to Pat when mum died 15 years ago. It was good quality, but so long it dragged on the floor, and was far too big for me. But I felt I couldn't felt it and cut it up like the other garments. This was mum's coat, and I really should keep it. It hung around in my sewing stash for a few months, annoying me. One day I was having a bit of a mum-memory meltdown, part of my personal therapy that's been ongoing these past few years, and I slammed my journal shut, dried my eyes, and thought "Fuck it. Fucking mum is not getting way with this one minute longer. I'm felting her fucking coat!" And I did. I put it in the hottest wash, and the hottest dry. Later I pulled it out of the dryer, expecting to hack it up with my super sharp dressmaking scissors, and make it into a cushion or a doormat, but it hadn't felted that successfully. It had shrunk though, to a perfect size for me. I put it on, and it was super warm and cosy. It was as if mum was giving me a warm hug, for the first time. So I kept that coat -- it's more like a house coat, but I sometimes wear it out of the house. It's warm and comforting. The hug I always wanted from her. I had a funny feeling she arranged it all.
Some of mum's fads were traumatic. Like the ringlet fad. I don't know where that came from, but mum decided we'd all have ringlets in our hair (not her, just Julie, Paula and me). This involved wrapping our hair up at night in strips of damp cotton rags, the theory being that the damp hair would dry overnight and retain its curl from being wrapped around the rags. It was like having thick wads of bandaged sausages sticking out of your head. Horrible, painful for sleeping. But there was no arguing about it. We were not in charge of our hair or our clothing. We were a bit like dolls, to be dressed up and paraded around. In the morning, she'd unwrap all the sausage bandages, and tie the hair in pig-tail wringlets. I seem to remember Julie and I had stubbornly straight hair, but Paula's had good curl potential. That fad might have only lasted a week or two, but it's stuck in my memory all these years.
Another one was the '100 strokes a day' hair fad. This involved having our hair brushed 100 strokes, every night before bed. That didn't last too long either.
I remember mum declaring often, and often in frustration, "Right, from now on ___________ fill in the blanks." It could be from now on you'll polish the brass every Saturday. From now on you're all having Lanes Emulsion every day. From now on, you're biking to school and doubling your little sister. From now on, you're getting your hair brushed 100 strokes a day. From now on, you're doing your own laundry. From now on there will be no more colouring-in on the lounge table. From now on, we're going to 9 0'clock mass every Sunday. Whatever it was we were going to do from now on only ever lasted a while.
I understand now, that when mum got married and had kids, she was determined to get her life right, perhaps to exercise control over her life that she felt she didn't have growing up. We probably all do that. If we take the measure of her need to control as an indication of her own insecurity, she was off the charts. She was utterly obsessed with appearances. The white picket fence, the white lace curtains, the five little girls all in a row. So well dressed. So well behaved. Looking stylish. It was definitely better to look good than to feel good!
Girls are Better than Boys
Like most women of her day, the minute mum got married she stopped working to become a housewife. She said all she ever wanted to do was get married and have babies. Only girls. It was a Known Fact in our house that girls were better than boys. Both mum and dad swore by that, and mum even suggested that she wasn't able to have any boy babies-- as in not physically able to carry one, and it was clear she didn't see this as a failing. It was a triumph and a talent to produce only girls.
When I was a bit older and understood about miscarriages, I heard mum saying that she thought the miscarriages she had were all boys -- her body rejected them. I am not kidding. What did I think about that? It was a bit creepy to be honest. It sounded a bit extreme. A bit "not quite right". But I couldn't ask or say anything. I just tucked it away as a strange thing, and never forgot it.
Mum obviously felt afraid and powerless about males. For all her bravado and outrageous flirting, she was terrified. "Don't tempt boys!" That was the central theme of my sex education. Don't dress in a way that could tempt boys. Don't talk or look or do anything that might tempt boys. If you do tempt boys, you'll get in trouble and it will be your fault. Needless to say, I thought boys were incredibly dangerous -- anything you did might tempt them, they might do anything if they were tempted (although I had no concept of what that could be, not having a grasp on the deeper realities of gender differences), and they weren't responsible for their actions! Girls were definitely better.
Being the oldest of five girls, I had the additional message that if I 'got in trouble' with boys, then my sisters would too. If I didn't, they'd be OK. Basically, I would set the moral tone for the whole gang of girls. I didn't question that, and took it seriously and literally. While I was having a chaste and worried adolescence, my sisters were living it up with boys! Oh well.
When I was a bit older and understood about miscarriages, I heard mum saying that she thought the miscarriages she had were all boys -- her body rejected them. I am not kidding. What did I think about that? It was a bit creepy to be honest. It sounded a bit extreme. A bit "not quite right". But I couldn't ask or say anything. I just tucked it away as a strange thing, and never forgot it.
Mum obviously felt afraid and powerless about males. For all her bravado and outrageous flirting, she was terrified. "Don't tempt boys!" That was the central theme of my sex education. Don't dress in a way that could tempt boys. Don't talk or look or do anything that might tempt boys. If you do tempt boys, you'll get in trouble and it will be your fault. Needless to say, I thought boys were incredibly dangerous -- anything you did might tempt them, they might do anything if they were tempted (although I had no concept of what that could be, not having a grasp on the deeper realities of gender differences), and they weren't responsible for their actions! Girls were definitely better.
Being the oldest of five girls, I had the additional message that if I 'got in trouble' with boys, then my sisters would too. If I didn't, they'd be OK. Basically, I would set the moral tone for the whole gang of girls. I didn't question that, and took it seriously and literally. While I was having a chaste and worried adolescence, my sisters were living it up with boys! Oh well.
Mum Stories. Growing up and getting married
Me: I think it's time to write about mum.
She: OK.
Me: I'm writing in San Francisco today. Woot!
She: How does that feel?
Me: Amazing. Last time I was here I wasn't feeling anywhere near as good as I feel now. I feel like myself, you know? Something essential has come with me this time and it's good. I chose to spend a chunk of time alone today. Came to a lovely tea shop instead of a coffee place, ordered a pot of chai, and now I'm tapping away on my new laptop, which is fabulous.
She: What do you want to write about your mother?
Me: Just what I knew about her life, kind of what I wrote about dad a while ago.
She: OK, go!
Mum was the third of eight children. She was born on February 10, 1939, the same year as World War 2 broke out, but several months sooner. She had two older sisters, and would be followed up by four brothers in a row, then a baby sister.
She told me that sometimes nana would put the three girls to bed, and in the morning when they got up there would be three dresses hanging up in the kitchen -- nana had made them overnight.
Mum's father, Reginald, died when mum was only 15. Joanne, the baby, was just 2. So nana brought up eight children on her own. Mum did talk a lot about growing up feeling poor. She said she and her sisters didn't have the proper school uniform, so the nuns made them stand at the back of the line on the way to mass. Mum also said something about taking a pack of sanitary pads to school on the carrier of her bike, thinking that was pretty special, but being laughed at by other girls. She probably had her own nightmare first period to deal with.
They went to dances, made their own clothes, and by the looks of the old black and white photos in the photo box they had a good time. They wore lipstick and earrings and pearls, and looked quite stylish. Apparently nobody was allowed to leave the house to go out to a dance before the family rosary was said. And any boys who arrived to take the girls out had to kneel down and say the rosary with the family. For those of you who don't know, the rosary consists of saying, in a row, 50 Hail Marys, in groups of ten with an Our Father in between, and some miscellaneous other Hail Holy Queen type prayers at the end. You kneel for the whole thing, and it seems to take forever. Everyone had rosary beads in those days, for keeping count of the Hail Marys and the whole procedure. I got a set of rosary beads that belonged to Sid, dad's father. I have been trying to get rid of them to an appropriate family member (thinking that since I don't have kids of my own to leave them to, I might as well see them off into another branch of the family), but nobody wanted them. Meanwhile I've been wanting a set of Mala beads -- 108 beads on a string for counting meditation mantras. I got the inspiration to check out the rosary beads one day recently, and discovered that one round has 54 beads on it, so if I go around twice, I get 108 mantra counts. Not sure what the grandparents would think of using rosary beads for mediation, but really, what's the rosary if not a meditation -- repeats of the same thing, to help focus the mind. Perfect.
_________________
Mum married dad when she was 20. The match was a bit of a worry for her older sisters, one in the convent and one not. There is a letter between them, discussing the engagement and questioning dad's character and suitability. He was a bit of a party animal, and five years older than her too. But they married. Mum had a very stylish dress, the bridesmaids (mum's sisters who were not in the convent) wore red velvet. It looked like a really lovely wedding -- it was on July 25 1959.
(An aside here. Dad looked really good too in his suit, but apparently the pants were many sizes too big for him, and they ended up pinning the pants to the armpits of his shirt to get them to look half decent. He had to keep his jacket on all day. He used to say "The guy who measured me for those pants must have stuck his ruler right up my ass to get the legs that long!!" Roar with laughter.)
Another story, and I don't know if it was true, or made up to prove how chaste mum was. On their honey moon, they had to go to a doctor so he could confirm to mum that sex was normal and what was happening was the right thing to be doing. It sounds ridiculous. It was always followed up with another story about mum's sex education. She and her little sister were in bed one morning, laughing at the sparrows "piggy-backing" on the power lines outside their window. Nana asked "Do you know what they are doing?" Mum answered "Yes!" And that was that. Mum thought they were piggy-backing.
Mum also said that she didn't want to go to Mass on Sunday morning if she and dad had had sex on Saturday night, because she thought everyone in the congregation and the priest would know what they'd been up to.
All this seemed and still seems a tad unconvincing, but it could be true I suppose. Mum was the first of her siblings to marry, so she wouldn't have had any advice from her sisters. But I doubt nana would have sent her out into the world with that little preparation. These stories were told in the context of us being warned about how important it was to be "moral" (not have sex before marriage). Our mother had been so utterly chaste when she got married, and we should be the same. But it's just as likely to be the result of trauma. (How would this kind of thing even come up in conversation? After a few drinks, when we were a bit older. It's strange... the family stories were definitely themed around dad having a cruel upbringing (poor dad) and mum being 125% pure and innocent (good mum). Interesting.)
______________
One night when mum and dad were engaged, they had a fight. Dad was dropping mum off in a car, and things blew up to the point that mum gave dad back her engagement ring, got out of the car and slammed the door. Dad wound down the car window and threw the ring into Queen's Park (just across the road from the Baird house) and drove off. I always imagine the wheels smoking as he took off. Mum was horrified that he'd thrown away the ring, and spent a couple of hours trying to find it in the dark, in amoung the long grass and weeds under the huge macracarpa hedge. She couldn't find it, and got in a panic, and ran through town, crying, all the way to the Ward house (it probably wasn't raining and thundering, but let's just say it was).
That was a long run in a party dress and shoes, right across town from 174 Kelvin Street to XXX Tweed Street. She ran into dad's room, and found him sound asleep, with the engagement ring safely hanging on a nail in the wall beside the bed. They made up. It kind of sums up their relationship. Mum was always the dramatic, emotional one. Dad had things under control, but was a bit of a trickster.
I don't know how they got engaged, and I wish I did. Maybe aunty Pat would know.
Before she got married, mum worked in an office. I don't know what she did there. It was just a stop-gap before marriage. It must have included typing, because she could touch type, and liked to impress us by showing us how she could type without looking what she was doing. She also used to do that while playing the piano, but starting the tune (she only knew one, Moonlight Sonata) on the wrong key, but playing it anyway... we really thought that was hilarious.
NEXT
She: OK.
Me: I'm writing in San Francisco today. Woot!
She: How does that feel?
Me: Amazing. Last time I was here I wasn't feeling anywhere near as good as I feel now. I feel like myself, you know? Something essential has come with me this time and it's good. I chose to spend a chunk of time alone today. Came to a lovely tea shop instead of a coffee place, ordered a pot of chai, and now I'm tapping away on my new laptop, which is fabulous.
She: What do you want to write about your mother?
Me: Just what I knew about her life, kind of what I wrote about dad a while ago.
She: OK, go!
Mum was the third of eight children. She was born on February 10, 1939, the same year as World War 2 broke out, but several months sooner. She had two older sisters, and would be followed up by four brothers in a row, then a baby sister.
She told me that sometimes nana would put the three girls to bed, and in the morning when they got up there would be three dresses hanging up in the kitchen -- nana had made them overnight.
Mum's father, Reginald, died when mum was only 15. Joanne, the baby, was just 2. So nana brought up eight children on her own. Mum did talk a lot about growing up feeling poor. She said she and her sisters didn't have the proper school uniform, so the nuns made them stand at the back of the line on the way to mass. Mum also said something about taking a pack of sanitary pads to school on the carrier of her bike, thinking that was pretty special, but being laughed at by other girls. She probably had her own nightmare first period to deal with.
They went to dances, made their own clothes, and by the looks of the old black and white photos in the photo box they had a good time. They wore lipstick and earrings and pearls, and looked quite stylish. Apparently nobody was allowed to leave the house to go out to a dance before the family rosary was said. And any boys who arrived to take the girls out had to kneel down and say the rosary with the family. For those of you who don't know, the rosary consists of saying, in a row, 50 Hail Marys, in groups of ten with an Our Father in between, and some miscellaneous other Hail Holy Queen type prayers at the end. You kneel for the whole thing, and it seems to take forever. Everyone had rosary beads in those days, for keeping count of the Hail Marys and the whole procedure. I got a set of rosary beads that belonged to Sid, dad's father. I have been trying to get rid of them to an appropriate family member (thinking that since I don't have kids of my own to leave them to, I might as well see them off into another branch of the family), but nobody wanted them. Meanwhile I've been wanting a set of Mala beads -- 108 beads on a string for counting meditation mantras. I got the inspiration to check out the rosary beads one day recently, and discovered that one round has 54 beads on it, so if I go around twice, I get 108 mantra counts. Not sure what the grandparents would think of using rosary beads for mediation, but really, what's the rosary if not a meditation -- repeats of the same thing, to help focus the mind. Perfect.
_________________
Mum married dad when she was 20. The match was a bit of a worry for her older sisters, one in the convent and one not. There is a letter between them, discussing the engagement and questioning dad's character and suitability. He was a bit of a party animal, and five years older than her too. But they married. Mum had a very stylish dress, the bridesmaids (mum's sisters who were not in the convent) wore red velvet. It looked like a really lovely wedding -- it was on July 25 1959.
(An aside here. Dad looked really good too in his suit, but apparently the pants were many sizes too big for him, and they ended up pinning the pants to the armpits of his shirt to get them to look half decent. He had to keep his jacket on all day. He used to say "The guy who measured me for those pants must have stuck his ruler right up my ass to get the legs that long!!" Roar with laughter.)
Another story, and I don't know if it was true, or made up to prove how chaste mum was. On their honey moon, they had to go to a doctor so he could confirm to mum that sex was normal and what was happening was the right thing to be doing. It sounds ridiculous. It was always followed up with another story about mum's sex education. She and her little sister were in bed one morning, laughing at the sparrows "piggy-backing" on the power lines outside their window. Nana asked "Do you know what they are doing?" Mum answered "Yes!" And that was that. Mum thought they were piggy-backing.
Mum also said that she didn't want to go to Mass on Sunday morning if she and dad had had sex on Saturday night, because she thought everyone in the congregation and the priest would know what they'd been up to.
All this seemed and still seems a tad unconvincing, but it could be true I suppose. Mum was the first of her siblings to marry, so she wouldn't have had any advice from her sisters. But I doubt nana would have sent her out into the world with that little preparation. These stories were told in the context of us being warned about how important it was to be "moral" (not have sex before marriage). Our mother had been so utterly chaste when she got married, and we should be the same. But it's just as likely to be the result of trauma. (How would this kind of thing even come up in conversation? After a few drinks, when we were a bit older. It's strange... the family stories were definitely themed around dad having a cruel upbringing (poor dad) and mum being 125% pure and innocent (good mum). Interesting.)
______________
One night when mum and dad were engaged, they had a fight. Dad was dropping mum off in a car, and things blew up to the point that mum gave dad back her engagement ring, got out of the car and slammed the door. Dad wound down the car window and threw the ring into Queen's Park (just across the road from the Baird house) and drove off. I always imagine the wheels smoking as he took off. Mum was horrified that he'd thrown away the ring, and spent a couple of hours trying to find it in the dark, in amoung the long grass and weeds under the huge macracarpa hedge. She couldn't find it, and got in a panic, and ran through town, crying, all the way to the Ward house (it probably wasn't raining and thundering, but let's just say it was).
That was a long run in a party dress and shoes, right across town from 174 Kelvin Street to XXX Tweed Street. She ran into dad's room, and found him sound asleep, with the engagement ring safely hanging on a nail in the wall beside the bed. They made up. It kind of sums up their relationship. Mum was always the dramatic, emotional one. Dad had things under control, but was a bit of a trickster.
I don't know how they got engaged, and I wish I did. Maybe aunty Pat would know.
Before she got married, mum worked in an office. I don't know what she did there. It was just a stop-gap before marriage. It must have included typing, because she could touch type, and liked to impress us by showing us how she could type without looking what she was doing. She also used to do that while playing the piano, but starting the tune (she only knew one, Moonlight Sonata) on the wrong key, but playing it anyway... we really thought that was hilarious.
NEXT
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)