The Longest Night

Sitting snuggled into a warm blanket amidst the twinkle of lights and the glow of candles, she faces the deepest dark.

Impatient for the return of longer afternoons and lengthening twilight, she wishes away these moments.  

But skipping the long cold days of winter for spring would mean no dormant time, no hibernation, nothing to pull the sap up into the branches.  

Spring growth requires this time of deep dark.  

And like the light, returning incrementally, almost imperceptibly until the days suddenly outlast her expectations, so comes the gathering of strength, bit by bit.  

Until suddenly, unexpectedly she bursts into bloom.

Making Memories

Moving toward Solstice, walking through Advent awaiting the return of the light, finally finding a few moments to sit in the drawing dark in silence and reflect - my mind turns to memories.  I wonder why I remember the things I remember from my childhood.  Most of the memories flit through the corners of my mind like fireflies, bright but hard to catch and hold on to.  Some specific moments stand out, etched forever because of the intensity of emotion surrounding them, but most meld and blend into a kaleidoscope of brightly lit bits and pieces of time, forming ever changing pictures of the landscape of my growing up years.  Last night, I sat with extended family I had not seen in quite some time and the memories came flooding back.  Memories of other holidays spent with family and other memories too.  Bits and pieces of family form the overwhelming majority of the shards that color these kaleidoscope pictures from those years far in the past.  But the more recent past holds less of those bits.  We've moved away and moved apart from that close-knit extended family I knew as a kid.

And I wonder what memories my children will see when they stand at mid-life and look backwards.  They will not have the same memories formed through years of repetition of extended family gatherings.  Our patterns and plans change and shift from year to year.  Growing up, I knew where we were going to be on Christmas Eve morning, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day morning, Christmas Day lunch, and Christmas Day Evening without fail.  My childrens' experience varies from year to year.  And regardless of the choices we make, they do not have the regular, repetitive contact with extended family that formed the foundation of my own experience.

We hold loosely to a few of our own traditions, but we key on loosely.  We flex and bend to accomodate schedules and distance and blended families.  We include close friends that take the place of some of that extended family and less intimate friends who find themselves adrift away from their own family connections.  We include reaching out to help a family or two with less means than we have.  We incorporate some rituals from our religious tradition that point us toward the light.  And sometimes, we just sit still and rejoice in a few hours with no demands of schedule and try to remember to just breathe. Most of the time my children seem content with this life we have crafted.  But every once in a while, they bemoan the lack of extended family.  And I wonder, should I work harder?  Should we sacrifice events and activities we enjoy and make ourselves more available?  Should we work long hours of travel into the short breaks we have?  And even if we did, would anyone else?

I cannot recreate for them the world I lived in, with six of eight great grandparents, all four grandparents, six first cousins within five years in age, a host of great-aunts and uncles, and second cousins too numerous to count within walking distance or at least within an easy drive.  My husband's family is more spread out in age, with less kids in close proximity.  My family is scattered in distance.  The great-grandparents that served as the centerpoint for much of the family time are much older or have passed on before my children knew them.  In a project I did for school, I counted over 60 family members that lived in close proximity to me when I was growing up.  In a town of about 1300, that family made up a significant percentage of my world.  That percentage for my children is barely measurable, both because of the lack of close family and the much more vast scope of the world they live in.  And it's not as if these gatherings go on without us and we choose not to participate.  The changing dynamics have changed the gatherings.  So although I sometimes feel compelled to recreate that world, I know I cannot.

But still, I wonder, what will they remember?  What will be the things that stand out and sparkle for them or that warm their hearts when they look back?  Which things will they remember with sadness and poignancy?  I cannot pretend to know.  I spend a great deal of time and energy with events and activities to keep them engaged.  But maybe what they will most remember is the four of us snuggled up on the couch sharing popcorn in the empty spaces between events, sleeping late and lounging in pajamas the Monday after school lets out, the vacations to places far and new instead of the repeated gathering of family, the time spent with friends.  And while I know for sure their memories will be much different than the things I remember, I hope we are making memories that will glow in their own kaleidoscopes some day in the not so very distant future.

Disconnected

A training seminar I attended this week focused on information from the book A Billion Wicked Thoughts, written by two neuroscientists using data from the internet to study the topic of human desire.  Some of the information didn't surprise me.  Some of it made broad generalizations, especially about gender, that created instant internal protest because the data doesn't ring true with my own experience for myself and with other women I know.  Some of the information fascinated me, including the sheer number of people who use electronic media to fuel and satisfy desire and the ways they choose to interact virtually, such as the growing trend of chain writing of erotic stories.  

But one fact that hit me between the eyes turned out to be a gendered distinction about how connected we are in general to our bodies.  The speaker pulled out of the book several studies that indicate that men generally connect sexual arousal with positive desire but that women can be physiologically aroused and psychologically either unaware of their arousal or frightened or repulsed or feeling any number of other emotions instead of desire.  I don't know if this is truly a gendered characteristic or not.  It's certainly conceivable that men, or some men, can be physically aroused and not experience psychological desire.  And I'm relatively certain that many women are quite tuned into their bodies and experience congruence between their physical and psychological states.  

However, the information presented launched me into pondering the implications of this data far beyond the realm of desire.  I am disconnected from my body, in general.  And I know I am not the only woman (or person) who experiences this disconnect.  My Jungian bent toward psychological types, popularized by the Myers-Briggs Personality Type Indicator, suggests that anyone who relies significantly on intuition as a way to interact with the world will struggle to develop a connection with the physical body and the sensory input from the world at large.  When the connection with the physical does happen, it carries with it a mysterious and sacred sort of quality, at least in the best moments.  Unfortunately the flip-side (there is always a flip side) means that often there can be a tremendous amount of unease and shame around the physical, sensory driven states of being.

I am discovering lately just how deeply disconnected I am from my body.  I had some professional photographs done earlier this year, and during the shoot, the photographer reminded me over and over to relax and drop my shoulders.  Every time he did, I was stunned.  I wear my shoulders around my ears without even registering the tension I carry in my neck and back.  I skip meals on a far too frequent  basis, not recognizing the subtle signals of hunger and thirst my body sends me, instead waiting until my body screams at me before I notice.  And when I do eat, it's often quickly and on the run, without ever even tasting my food, anxious to get on with the next item on my to do list.  I often ignore stress and pain and fatigue until I'm at a point where I find myself snapping at my kids or my husband without even really knowing why.  I hold my breath.  A lot.  And I'm not even aware that I'm not breathing until I bring a mindful focus to my breath and realize how irregular it has been.  And, as the information from the book indicates, I am often disconnected from what brings me physical pleasure in intimate sexual encounters.  I know, from the many conversations I have with others on a regular basis, I am not the only one.

It's hard for me to bring attention and focus to my body.  The tape in my head says that spending time focused on the physical is unimportant or a waste of time.  I know I need to take time to move, to breathe, to stop and smell the roses, to get my hands dirty in the garden or the kitchen, to laugh from my belly, to dance, to sing, to touch.  But there are always so many other things that need to be done.  I am uneasy with my own body.  I am shamed by the need to take time to just breathe.  Sensory experience gets denigrated and ignored in the mental and emotional gymnastics of my daily routine.

But when I can let go into a sensory, physical, body-based experience it can be sublime.  I spent four hours recently with someone who practices various forms of energy and body work.  It was an amazing evening.  Through some simple breathing, movement and touch she brought me to an awareness of my physical being that I've rarely experienced.  I feel the most connected to God through my senses - being in nature, listening to and creating music that stirs my soul, moving my body, creating with my hands, connecting with another through touch.  So why then do I resist and ignore this physical experience on such a regular basis?

I think some of the answer to that question lies within me.  But I think some of the answer is bigger than just me.  I think the culture and society and religious community I have been formed by play a part.  Women's bodies endure tremendous scrutiny and denigration.  Women's sexuality is feared and blamed and exploited.  Women's needs are subsumed by their roles of wife, mother, teacher, friend, caretaker, worker, slave to a thousand other demands.  So we learn to exist in our minds and our intuition instead of occupying our bodies.  We ignore sensory cues and pay the price in those bodies through illness, stress, disease, fatigue.  And MY culture has it easy compared to what women around the world endure daily.  My mind wants an answer.  I want to know why.  And I want someone to tell me how to change it.  

Julie Daley over at unabashedly female suggests that it's not about finding the answer to those questions, but simply about loving this body I inhabit.  And then my question becomes - how?

Not Very Merry

I want to be able to write something warm and cheery my first week back in this arena.  It's supposed to be a warm and cheery time of year.  Lights should be twinkling.  Songs should be ringing.  Fun and laughter and time together with loved ones should be the focus.  But all I have to do is turn on the news or step into my office to see sights that are not so full of warmth and hear stories that are not at all full of cheer.  That's the way it always is in this world, there will always be harsh truths and unpleasant realities, and learning to help where I am called when I can and live in the moment and enjoy the gifts I have in spite of the sorrow sometimes, most times, is all I can manage.

But, sometimes what the newsreels play grabs me and draws me in, no matter how much attention I turn to light and love.  And lately, the noise has been loud and pretty hard to ignore.  I have watched the unfolding of the scandal at Penn State, followed by Fine and the young men he abused, and magnified by local news stories that report agencies are being overwhelmed with requests for information on how to cope with all the new stories coming to light.  I don't listen to all of the coverage.  I don't seek out more and more detailed information.  But the fact that these abuses occurred around the institution, dare I say the religion, of sports means that coverage blankets the airwaves and inundates every media channel.  And the ancillary editorials and posts and comments sparked by the issue continue to multiply.  So, I find myself reacting on so many different levels that it becomes hard to sort out  my own thoughts and emotions.

I am glad these abuses have been made public and that those responsible for them are being held to at least some standard of accountability.  Such abuse usually exists, as these abuses did for so long, underground and hidden.  And part of me is even glad that the institutions being held up for scrutiny are higher education and sports related.  I think that fact has caused more attention to be brought to these cases and will keep them in the spotlight that makes us pay attention.  But I ache for the unspoken abuse that I know exists, in other places.  Schools, government institutions, churches, youth sports, and even families.  Abuses that will never come to light.  Children, youth, and women who keep the secrets because of fear.  And stories that get squelched by men (and women) with power and lots and lots to lose.

My professional life just adds to this knowledge that part of me wishes I didn't have.  I sat through a three hour workshop this week dealing with abuse, trauma and sexual deviance.  I don't want to know the statistics.  I don't want to know about the likelihood that an abused child will turn into an abuser themselves.  I don't want to know how perpetrators groom their victims.  I don't want to listen to how their twisted minds create rationalizations.  And I don't want to have to sit daily across from people struggling to put the broken pieces back together.  Not because I don't want to do the work.  But because I wish the work didn't have to be done.

As a mom, my heart wrenches in fear.  I want to keep my two daughters close.  I am cautious about where they are and who they are with.  I try to balance my own anxiety driven by all the information I have about these issues with the need to let them explore and be independent and experience life.  I try to teach them about safety and healthy boundaries and how to trust their intuition without scaring them half to death.  But sometimes, when I drop my twelve year old off at an event where I no longer know every parent or teacher or leader with the intimacy I did when she was four, I have to fight back the bile  that threatens to come into my throat and pray to every god who can hear that she will be safe.

As a woman, I am alternately supremely sad and completely indignant.  When a young woman comes forward with similar allegations, she is rarely believed.  The game of "blame the victim" begins, even among educated people.  The impact of the trauma on her life is minimized.  She stands accused of making herself vulnerable at the least and of wanting what she got at the worst.  If these had been young girls, everything they wore, did and said would have been scrutinized as if somehow they shared in the responsibility of what happened.  If they had been young women instead, they would have been labeled with sexual slurs that I don't want to print.  There will be pushback against this point, I have no doubt, but there IS a double standard that exists.

As a survivor, my heart just breaks.  I know the road these young men, and everyone else who has suffered abuse, will have to walk.  It's a long, hard journey.  I hope they have people along their path to listen, to hear, to love, to light the path.  Because it's not a journey that can be made alone.  I hope they have resources, physical, financial, emotional to be able to access the help that they will need.  I hope they find community where they can tell their truth.  I hope they can reclaim the soul that was stolen from them.  And I hope that through the courage of these young men who have stepped forward and reclaimed their voices that somehow something will shift and things will begin to change for the better.

It's supposed to be a merry season.  It's not very merry for these young men and the innumerable others who continue to suffer in silence.  But I hope they, and every person on the journey of healing, knows their courage lights the path for someone else and I hope that each and every one of them can find the light they need to continue on their way.

Stepping Back In

I have been absent from this space for a while now. But all the time, the words have called me back. I am not whole unless I'm putting words onto a page, either on paper in front of me or flung far across the reaches of cyberspace. But I also push the limits, my limits, when I write and sometimes the fear gets the better of me.  I help others face their fears on a regular basis. It feels less than true to not face my own. So, with a fresh new look and a little bit of tweaking, I'm stepping back onto the page. There are several topics on my mind and I'll try to address them over the next few weeks. Discipline and schedule seem to fail me in this medium, but I'm going to try for at least a little consistency. I'd appreciate knowing if you are reading along or when you resonate or disagree with something. The connections I've made in this space hold meaning for me beyond the words. I look forward to re-initiating some of those links and making new ones along the way. Welcome. Join the conversation.