Christmas 2012

Christmas 2012

As Christmas approaches I reflect back on my spiritual year. Not my social year or my business year or even my familial year but rather my year with God.

Here I am waiting for God through Jesus to come on Christmas, which seems this year to be merely a formality since I have felt God’s presence in every aspect of my being since I welcomed in 2012.

God’s presence in my own children and in the children I have been blessed to serve.

God’s presence in Rob, my soul’s mate.

God’s presence in all of my dear friends through the goodness and struggle.

God’s presence in the earth. In the desert, mountains and sea that I have been graced to have felt this year.

God’s presence in my mentors and heroes-dead or alive.

God’s presence in all those I oversee and guide. I pray that I am doing what is right and helpful and good at every turn.

God’s presence in me.  A growing awareness to be a good steward to my intrinsic gifts.

So, as I think of God in all of this, I realize that my spiritual year is inextricable from my social, business or familial year. It is all the same really; God present in all things, all the time. My hope and prayer is to continue to move through my life’s journey with grace, peace and love.

Merry Christmas.

Childhood Desire

Childhood Desire

The other day, my 7-year-old daughter Lizzie asked me, “When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?” It took me an uncomfortable amount of time to remember and then formulate an answer. “I wanted to be an artist,” I said with a heavy amount of irony. Her response was simple, “What happened?”

That was really a great question. It would seem that I certainly have the genetic make-up that would lend itself to the arts, with my parents both having been musicians. I remember being very little and playing alone in my room and concocting various imaginative scenarios that would have been generous fodder for a budding artistic career if they had been nurtured; or maybe not. Perhaps my internal imagery was intended to remain, just that, internal. I often wonder if those who are determined to express their inner workings without regard for natural talent are the same people who produce bad art. Regardless, I do question what took me away from my childhood desire.

From the time I can remember my parents were always in economic turmoil. Would there be enough money for housing, food and clothing? The answer was generally as follows: Possibly enough for housing and food and sometimes enough for clothing. I remember feeling a high level of anxiety as a child and my mother would always wonder why. Apparently she had not yet been familiarized with Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. In my family there would be histrionic warnings of financial impending doom, and then hollow reassurance, peppered with a mix of condescension and confusion about why on earth I would be concerned about my basic needs. I do feel that this early experience has allowed me to connect to many of the families that I come into contact with. I often can sense a level of comfort in meetings with those in the lowest of socio-economic levels. Unfortunately, this does not translate well to higher socio-economic groups where I find myself at a dearth to engage in conversation about topics that I find vacuous.

Whether or not my childhood experience was a blessing or a curse or both, I believe it played heavily into the vocational path that I have chosen; a path that for the most part has been laden with scientific training, reasonable explanations, limited creativity and a desire to always state fact. Psychoacoustics, statistics, anatomy/physiology, neuropathology and clinical writing were all part of my training. These subjects did wonders to disguise any form of visionary talents that might lie within me. Ultimately, my hard science studying paid off. I was awarded with a Masters of Science. With all the rights and privileges pertaining to that piece of paper in that frame on my desk. Almost 16 years later I am able to, on occasion, sound really smart at meetings because my primary preparation was as a scientific clinician and this impresses people. In fact our society rewards people monetarily and in their social stature for this type of training; the very reason I chose a “safe” career to begin with. 

I am still reconciling having made a heavily fear-based choice of occupation. I knew I would always be able to get a job and that I would not have the worries that infiltrate ones existence when basic needs are in question. I also happened to have chosen something that I am relatively good at.  For these things I am grateful. I am angry with myself for allowing a complete disconnect between my inner most core and my mind to disintegrate my being. I have spent years trying to exclude non-rational thoughts from my life. A misguided attempt to control my reality through research and scientific “truth.” This thinking seemed safe to me. It helped to keep the mysterious unknown that lurked just below my conscious level at bay. It allowed for easy answers; at least for me because I was up to date on much of the current scientific data. The expression, “cite your source” still haunts me. As if something can’t be true unless someone else of greater importance said it or it was published in a journal.

Too much “sensible” thinking and focus on completion of linear tasks are the poison to my soul. It is how we live. A society of check marks on to-do lists, compliance audits that need to be passed, and 5 to 10-year goals to be met. My creativity snuffed by obligation and adherence to the minutia of life. I pray that my children are not sucked into the utilitarian rabbit hole of our society.

Thus, the long answer to Lizzie’s question of, “What happened?” is this: Life happened. And because I am a human, fear happened. And because I am a human animal, fear of scarcity happened. I would not have wanted it any other way because my basic needs are met and that childhood desire to create is still in me and just needs a little rekindling.

The Bob Ross Effect

The Bob Ross Effect

“When are you decorating for Halloween?” A sweet, seemingly innocent question was posed to me by my friend’s child. My brief response of uncertainty was weighted with shame, anxiety and a bit of anger. The mere thought of adding more items to my already stuffed home caused me to feel momentarily panicked. I was not sure if the basic décor that I had tucked away in storage would be displayed prior to or after vacation or perhaps not at all. Then the following day while I was having coffee with the friend whose daughter asked the frightful question, I freaked out. I completely spun out of control about decorations and more specifically crafts. Oh, the loathsome idea of crafts!

 Some months ago, my therapist suggested that I try to do something artistic. “You need to work that right brain!” was his professional suggestion. “Some professional he is!” I thought to myself, “What does he know!” I quickly responded to his suggestion with a glare and an angry, “I HATE crafts!” He was confused and advised that I try to find a form of, “fine art. NOT crafts” to busy myself with. I walked out of his office and realized that I really don’t have much use of my left hand and that my right hemisphere has probably atrophied to the size of a walnut. Perhaps I should look into artistic endeavors after all.

I researched watercolor classes through the local community college. I found one that was cheap, close and at a convenient time. I did not register for it. My lack of willingness to commit got me thinking of my visceral reaction to crafts and my fear of the possibility of producing “art” in a classical medium.

My negative response to crafts was easy to figure out. As a child, I had been exposed to a litany of items made from toilet paper rolls, yarn and clothespins. These crafty objects were to be used as potholders, baby dolls, covers for Kleenex boxes or the like. Even in my childhood they seemed creepy, cluttery and unnecessary. To make matters worse, “Holiday Craft Fairs,” that featured plastic, cherub-faced Mr. and Mrs. Clauses with crocheted garments of polyester yarn, were always a requisite stop during our family’s yard sale Christmas shopping. All of this added up to a severe disdain for crafts and crafty ideas/people/projects.

Still, the question remained, “What about the fear of producing ‘art’?”

I believe the answer lies with Bob Ross. The marginally famous 1980’s T.V. show, “The Joy of Painting” featured Ross creating acrylic landscape art in less than half an hour. He was well known enough to have his own line of starter paint sets that would sell-out at the art supply store I worked at in High School. My manager knew his holiday clientele and would stock extras of these amateur art kits in expectation of the deluge of desperate gift buyers that would inevitably descend on the shop every Christmas Eve. I remember these last minute shoppers well. They were always middle-aged men with a wild look in their eye.  I could spot them as they frantically pushed the glass door and approached my sales counter. The story was always the same, “My wife really wants to get into art and she watches this guy (wait don’t tell me) Bob Ross on T.V. and I think she would really like to do some paintings like his. Can you recommend something?” Absolutely! I would promptly show them the two levels of “The Joy of Painting” sets. One was $29.99 and the upgrade (more colors and brushes) was $79.99. I could always tell the men who were more desperate to get laid because they always opted for the more expensive model. The less needy males would reason, “Well, she can start with the smaller one and if she likes painting we can always buy more.” Sure thing cowboy! I wasn’t paid on commission and could not have honestly cared less.

Thinking back on these men, it dawned on me that Rob could easily be one of them.

Were those customers buying for their wives who were told to, “utilize their right brains”? Is this what I have become? A middle-aged woman who needs a, “creative outlet” with, “happy little trees.” I may as well commit myself.

Perhaps it is not that bad. After all, I was looking to take watercolor and not acrylic. Also, maybe it is all right to attempt to use my right brain on a third rate artistic venture. Also, who really cares if my visual art sucks or is cliché? Isn’t it for my own edification? I think it is time for me to register for that class.

I will, however stop short of knitting a toilet paper cozy.

Scabs

Scabs

A wound from decades past revealed,

There is no going back.

The cut is as fresh as yesterday,

There is no hiding it.

Water and air offer to help,

The bandage is worn thin.

In time a scab begins to form,

Softly covering the abysmal hole.

The situation, though not linked, is undeniable.

A swift kick to the gut.

Blame is assigned and shame floods back in,

The scab is off.

Reeling nightmares of self-doubt,

A wound reopened.

What to do? Where to go? Helpless.

Nauseous pleas with the divine take over,

Begging for a new scab to usher the way.

Hopeful for true healing someday.

Legitimate Rape on a Soapbox

Legitimate Rape on a Soapbox

I really try to not say much about politics. I attempt to take seriously the old saying of “never talk about religion or politics in polite company.” Except, I don’t follow the, “religion” part and I question the definition of, “polite” company. I will, however, state that Representative Todd Akin-R from Missouri managed to make me re-think my stance on my self-imposed political gag order. Don’t get too excited. This will not be a partisan rant accusing all members of the GOP of some form of buffoonery, ethical missteps or outright evil. I am well aware that these human faults can occur in any political camp. Rather, I want to share some instances in my life of sexual harassment that bordered on sexual assault. I would like to step on my soapbox for a few minutes to decry the outrageous amounts of sex crimes committed against women and children daily. Although, my experiences do not come close in severity to those who have suffered from what Rep. Akin calls, “legitimate rape.” I also think it is important for those of you who have not endured such victimization to become aware that these offenses not only violate people’s minds and bodies but also their souls (more on this later).

An excellent date rape mobile

The senior from the local all-boys Catholic high school peeled up on my driveway with his fully resorted and hopped up ’67 Chevy Cheville. He was ready to whisk me away to dinner and a movie and possibly some date rape. I sprang from my front door. It was the beginning of summer in 1988 and I was happy to be done with my freshman year in high school and thrilled to have a date. I was 15.

(Pause) How many of you just thought, “15! Why was she being allowed to date at 15!?!” If you didn’t think that thought or anything equally as condemning, please disregard what I am about to say. If you are passing judgment, let me ask you if you think it was justifiable for this boy to rape or attempt to rape the 15 year old me? No? Ok, let’s continue. (Yes? Please tell me so I can cut you out of my life).

After finishing the flick he drove me out to lover’s leap. The spot he actually took me to was an abandoned housing construction site in the far west valley. No homes were built yet in this would-be suburban development. Only the roads were completed and he easily found a secluded cul-de-sac. The necking began and it started off as fun and then his manner changed. Within minutes I was forcibly being pushed into the back seat over his newly recovered front bench. I resisted physically and told him to, “stop” but my pleas were not acknowledged and his passion seemed to turn to anger. At which point something inside me rose up and I pretended to relinquish control for a brief moment. Then I grabbed his head and slammed it repeatedly into his driver’s side window while clawing his face. “Stop it bitch! Stop it!” is all I can remember him saying. He drove me home and barely stopped to let me out. “Fuck you! Dick tease!” were his parting words.

I was lucky. Lucky that he didn’t have a weapon. Lucky that I was bold and knew I would not let anyone victimize me if I could prevent it. Even with all of this luck,  I would venture to say that if he had been able to rape me my reproductive system would not have, “shut down.”

Several years after that high school incident I slapped one of Rob’s fraternity brothers across the face for soliciting me for a blowjob. It obviously didn’t bother him that I was dating one of his, “bros.” I ran into him years later. He had his young daughter with him and I wondered what advise he would give her if she were ever to be pestered for oral sex at a party.

Then one night while partying in Mexico (don’t judge) my female friends and I had to fight off would be attackers. (I thought of leaving this out because there is part of me that has been culturally conditioned to think, “We were asking for it.”).

Through talking with many female friends these propositions and physical intrusions are commonplace. In fact you might be bored right now hearing about it.

When I became a professional, I really doubted that the stories of workplace sexual harassment were real. I would wonder if they were just cases of uppity, sexually repressed women trying to get attention or if they were being just plain old whiners. As I think back over the past 15 years I can’t even remember all of the instances of inappropriate talk and physical advancement I have been witness to at rehab and educational facilities.

Two instances stick out in my mind. The first was an unsolicited shoulder rub from a vice-principal while I was attempting to make copies (this sort of stuff always starts out at the copy machine). Mr. Rico Suave whispered in my ear, “You always seem so tense” followed by, “Your husband is a very lucky man.” I squirmed away and laughed nervously. I avoided him at all cost the rest of the semester.

A school leader also flung the second instance at me, but this time it was a female. I was working at a residential facility devoted to adolescent sex offenders. A snickering psychologist made me aware that I was a patient’s, “journal fantasy.” In other words, I was a “healthy” mental image of someone to beat-off to. When I approached the woman principal about my concerns she scoffed and said, “No wonder he fantasizes about you. You wear those tight shirts and you have those large nursing breasts.” No wonder, indeed.

Currently at my job I encounter numerous children every year who are either acting out or not talking at all because of sexual abuse. Speech Therapy always seems to be brought in for behavioral problems and obviously if the child is mute. The amount of victims is sickening and from what I have heard, the prevalence has actually decreased over the last 30 years because of awareness.

I just saw Deepak Chopra talk about how sexual energy is the same as spiritual energy because they are both creative energies. I think this might help to explain why sex crimes hit people’s souls. It has been documented that it is the worst kind of abuse but many current and hopeful legislatures seem to neglect this issue. I guess it is too hard for them to talk about.

I’m off my soapbox now.