Happy Thanksgiving ...

When I was growing up me and my siblings couldn’t wait for Thanksgiving dinner to be served. I remember wanting to set the table for dinner as soon as the breakfast dishes were cleared. The smell of the turkey, which my mother had put into the oven about 4am, would waft through the house every time she opened the oven to baste it. I liked her new oven, because it had a window in the front and a light inside so we could squat in front of the warm oven and watch the bird turn golden brown. The smell of yams with brown sugar, three bean casserole, and pumpkin pie; it was the fragrance of plenty. Family and friends would begin arriving in the late morning hours, and laughter would fill ever room in the house. There were stories of future dreams and days gone by. Warm hugs and pinched cheeks enough for everyone. The house was over flowing with the sounds of life.

When the proverbial dinner bell rang, like bees to the hive we swarmed. The table was a beautiful sight; the best china, crystal, silver flatware, and real cloth napkins. Of course the children had their own table decorated with handprint turkeys, paper plates, Tupperware cups, plastic utensils and orange paper napkins. Ever year at least one teenager attained their rite of passage at the adult table. We would bow our heads and the eldest person at present would say grace. Thanking God for all he had given us, being sure to bless the hands that prepared the meal, and those who could not be with us.

As each of us grew and moved out in to the world the distance became too great to have the gatherings as those from our childhood. But I wanted my children to be able to experience the sights, sounds, smells of plenty. So I would invite people for to have Thanksgiving dinner with us, and prepare the traditional dinner I remembered from my childhood. However I added a new tradition to our family meal, before we could eat each person had to tell of something they were grateful for. We share our gratitude for the food and the one who prepared it, for those who are with us and those who are not, we are thankful for warm socks, a favorite blanket or perhaps new toy.

I have never needed to stop and think about what I am grateful for. It is the experience and expression of life (the good the bad the ugly). Every morning before I feel the warmth of the sun coming through our bedroom window, before I see the light of a new day, I feel gratitude. I feel it every breath, the breath that carries within it …Life. The whole of life exists within each breath and I am truly grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving Dear One, I am grateful for you!
Namaste

Elections: Just Another Transition

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

     Here we are the day after Election Day, some people are happy, some are not, but we all should be hopeful. Ultimately we all want the same thing, right? I recall in the days after the last Presidential election as I watch and listen to the inaugural speech of our new President without any preconceived ideas of the man or his race. Upon listening to the speech the first time, I was impressed with the eloquence with which he delivered his message of change and hope for the future. I did not see nor hear a man of any particular skin color. My ability to disregard the color of a person’s skin is rather good, actually. I have spent years working with all types of young children and not seeing a “race’ but a child. My 70 year old mother likes to take credit for her children being so open-minded and accepting of others who are “different”.

     I listened to the speech a few more times and then called my mother to see what she thought about the President of the United States. It turns out that she sees President Obama as a man of his word who intends to down-size government. She fears more what the other branches of government may have up their sleeves. As for me, I have chosen to stay away from the political debate altogether.

     I asked my mother how her father may have reacted to President Obama. She said that he would have been very upset about a black man being president. It would have been the sign of the end of the world. Apparently my grandfather thought that white men were superior to the “darker races”. I asked her if he would have preferred a woman president, and I thought she was going to fall out of her chair. “Oh, No! We are not ready for that yet!” I was a bit surprised to hear her say that in such a firm tone of voice. Even more so, when I realized that that was her opinion and not that of my grandfather. Or was it? So I asked her about why her father had felt superior to the black men of his time. Was he more educated? Did black people live so differently or have strange customs? What was it that made Grandpa think he was better? It seems that her father had a fourth grade education and couldn’t read, although he got really good at pretending he could. He spent his whole life working menial jobs, and living below poverty level and he had to see himself better than somebody or everybody would be better than him. It was better to be at the bottom of the white race than at the bottom of all the races.

     I asked my mother if she shared any of Grandpas beliefs. She said when she was younger she was very afraid of any black person, even small children. I asked if a person of color had harmed her or if she had ever seen a black person scare or cause harm to anyone. She had not, but the fear was real. Once while sitting in the car by the railroad tracks, some small children came near the car and were playing. She yelled at her brother to roll up the windows and lock the doors. I asked why, and she said, “Because that is what the adults always did.” I realized then, that I was having a second hand conversation with my grandfather, whom I had never even met. Although she says that she is not afraid of black people anymore, and that we are all the same under the skin, mixed marriages are still wrong.

     I could not resist the chance to push the envelope just a bit further. I told my mother that President Obama is not one hundred percent African American, and wanted to know if he were only five percent black and ninety-five percent white, would we have a black or a white president? She said that he would be “a black president, but maybe if he were really light (she) may be able to think of him as white.”

     As I listened to President Obama’s speech one last time, and pondered all the hidden heritage my ancestors had passed on to my mother; how much of that has been passed on to me, and how much will linger in my grandchildren and future generations. I would like to think the conceptual bloodline of human superiority would end with my mother, but through past conversations with my five siblings I have come to realize that they have a shared bond, chains if you will, of a prejudicial philosophy. However, their views have been altered in comparison with my grandfather’s in that they do not see the end of the world, but want President Obama to do well. How much of this is self-serving? I really don’t know, but I remain hopeful that future generations will observe the individual and not the pounds of flesh. We are undergoing transitions... as individuals, a country, and a universal community.

     Consider the leaves on a tree they all come from the same source; they are the same in every way except they are uniquely different in appearance. However each one experiences its transitions in different ways. Some are plucked from the tree to soon, some succumb to disease and die during its summer. Even those that last throughout the seasons transition into different shades and colors at different times.

     I am hopeful that as the world, the country, and we the people can be supportive of one another through all the transitions ahead.

Blessings, Namaste

Is it making a difference at all?

I found an interesting article in Storytelling Magazine, January/February 2006; More Than Memory by Meg Gilman (pg 21). Meg tells of her first experience in storytelling with a group of Alzheimer’s patients. Many of my clients are not only the children of Alzheimer’s patients, but caregivers as well. I understand the feeling of not knowing if the people you are interacting with are interacting in return. Asking yourself if what you are offering is wanted or needed, is it making a difference at all? Ms Gilman stuck with it and when she talked with the nurses a months in, they told her what a marked difference they saw on a day to day with the patients. So much so that they began a daily reading, not the same as a storytelling, but a good way to keep their imaginations moving.
I utilized storytelling through music to capture and hold the attention and motivate special needs children for years. If I could find a tune that they could repeat and recall then add bits of verbal cues and information then they would take it to the next step and add new information then build on what they already knew. Not only did it make it easier for them to learn a new task, but also they could recall old tasks and information more quickly.
Currently I am a storytelling facilitator at several nursing homes in my local area. Sometimes I hear the same story many times and sometimes it is the same story but with different facts. Either way I enjoy listening, and they enjoy telling. Sometimes I tell a story that they have told me and it brings some smiles of recognition.

Sometimes there is no immediate gratification for a job well done, but if you are diligent and mindful of those you serve, you can be richly rewarded with out a word being said. When you witness the spark of a connection that can only be seen when you look into a persons eyes; that is the reward.

Your don't have to preserve a memory, you can create a new one.
Namaste Dear One's

A Coming of Age

Most people from the north will tell you all about the winters. They are not just cold they are bitter cold. When you breathe your breath looks like the smoke from an old coal locomotive, and you never want to have a runny nose, it only leads to icicles hanging and glistening like diamond earrings. You wear so many layers of sweaters and jackets and mittens and socks and scarves that if you’re not careful you just might end up getting all the way home before you realize you have grabbed the wrong kid. There is a time for every season and a season for coming of age.
Summer…. ah the New York summer, that was my time of year.
The front porch roof!!
Every summer my older brothers would climb out their bedroom window and lay on the front porch roof. It was the best view for watching the stars and my brothers always bragged it up to their friends. And every year I would ask if I could go with them and they would tell me “NO WAY”
Early the summer of my 12th year my parents divorced and my brothers went to live with my father and my mom moved me into the coveted front bedroom overlooking the front porch roof.
I had finally earned the right of passage. Even if it was by default,
I moved my stuff in the room and that night as soon as I knew my mother was asleep I quietly opened my bedroom window and climbed out… I just stood there for a minute WOW it was all they said and more. I reached back in the window and grabbed my blanket and carefully spread it out on the rooftop and sat right in the middle. It was very humid and I could feel the moist night air on my skin, there was a slight breeze and I could hear the sounds of crickets, an owl and off in the distance an occasional car. Across the road a field of golden rod moved ever so slowly back and forth, like a rippling ocean of gold. I lay back on and gazed up at the night sky. It was even more beautiful than I thought it would be. The night sky was deep blue and the stars hung like a necklace around the moon. I just lay still and listened to the sounds of the night.
What is your coming of age story?

A tale of personal reflection

 Wednesday, August 4, 2010

I read "The Magic Towel" in Storytelling Magazine, to me it isa tale of personal reflection as we age and move into the second half of life’s journey.
Brief story synopsis; mother-in-law (MIL) jealous, and mean to beautiful kind hearted daughter-in-law (DIL). Magic towel makes DIL more beautiful, MIL uses towel and makes her uglier, MIL begs for help DIL feels sorry and helps, MIL grateful and good from then on.
When we are young we learn how to wear all the social and emotional masks. And with these roles come certain conventional behaviors. Psychologist Carl Jung called these social appearances the persona, from the Greek term for the masks that the ancient actors wore to identify their particular roles in a play. Jung argued that a major task of growing up, and other psychologists concurred that learning complex social roles and mastering the masks that go with them is a vital challenge for youth. This story The Magic Towel suggests that as adults we must learn to remove them and attend to inner substance.
I feel that the first half of our journey is not truly for “finding ourselves” but finding out about the world around us; and the second half is when we really begin the journey to self-awareness. It is when others begin to see us as eccentric that we are being true to our inner selves and expressing the truth beneath the surface of the masks we have donned until now.
I have worn the masks of mother, dughter, wife, employee, christian, artist, teacher and student; just to mention a few. Like all of you, I spent my youth learning and acting out the complexities that went with each mask. And although I still am all of these things I no longer wear the masks, I am learning to let go of the roles and let the inner me express freely without the constraints of my youth and society. I am free to be me... I am free to just be.
Namaste

Slice or Dice?

When a long term relationship ended, and I didn’t cry or mope about the house, I was accused of being “cold” and “heartless”. I thought about this for awhile before responding. I knew I wasn’t heartless, but was I cold? I had no desire to cry, and I wasn’t angry. What did I feel?
The relationship, although lasting many, many years had been abusive and I was relieved it was finally over. Unless you have been in an abusive relationship it is difficult to understand how or why anyone would stay in such a situation. Even when I was in the midst of the emotional and mental turmoil I made so many excuses for his behavior to others that I believed them myself. I had convinced myself that it wasn’t so bad and those other women who were physically beaten suffered the “real” abuse.
Walking on eggshells, never knowing when, or what was going to cause him to explode in fits of rage was a daily experience. Being told over and over that I was sickening to look at, a week and pathetic excuse for a woman took its toll on my spirit. I didn’t only believe the lies I told myself, but the lies he viciously spewed as well.
Now that it was over; what did I feel? I didn’t only feel relieved, I felt sad, and then I felt sorry. I didn’t feel sad for lost or wasted years… I felt sad for the life I had always thought I could create and knew I never would. In my mind amidst the pain I had created a happy ending to the abuse that was about staying and enduring; Being the martyr that prevailed over the darkness (that is sad in and of itself). Then I felt sorry, not for me but for him. Not in a pathetic way, but genuinely sorry.
It was my fault; yes you read that right. It was my fault; I lead him to believe I was someone I wasn’t. No matter how the relationship began or ended, I had wanted to be the perfect one; so I became the person I thought he wanted me to be. My friends fell away not because they didn’t like him and the way he treated me, but because they didn’t know this person I had become. My own children didn’t know the real me. I did things that were so far out of my God-self that even I did not recognize me anymore. If only I had remained true to myself I would have saved so many people and myself such terrible grief. For this I was truly sorry.
So at the end of the relationship when I finally allowed my true spirit to shine and he wanted to know how I could be so cold when the family was being torn apart… I explained that some people are like an egg in a food chopper, their emotions are scattered all over for everyone to see; and then there are the people who are more like an egg in an egg slicer, they look whole and put together, but they are in as many pieces.
So why was I in his words "cold"? Well,it wasn't that I lacked feelings or that I was hiding my emotions; I was trying to sort them out. I wasn’t cold, I was pain too. So try not to be judgmental of others or yourself. We all deal with grief in our own way: some people cry, scream, get angry, become afraid, or even contemplative. There are as many ways to deal with grief or loss as there are people.
I also apologized to him and took full responsibility for what I had done by allowing him to think I was someone I was not. These days I leave all my acting for the stage. To live is to be true to your spirit, your God-self.
 In the words of my friend… “In the moments of living, wisdom unfolds.” ~Carla Christina Contreras
TaTa Dear One. Namaste

What will you be remember for?

“When it's time for your transition out of this earthly world, what will you be remembered for?” A friend of mine posted this question on Face Book this morning and it brought a smile to my face, as a memory warmed my heart. So get your favorite beverage and cozy up to your computer, it’s story time: As a young adult in my twenties I never gave much thought to this topic. After all it is a well known fact amongst the younger set that we are going to live forever.
I was married and had 4 beautiful children ages 6months,17months,9 and 10years old. we lived in a log cabin in the woods and had a dog named Bo. Life was good!! One afternoon I received a phone call informing me that a dear friend of mine had just died. Needless to say it hit me hard; she was my age with a wonderful husband and had two darling little boys. How could this happen and why? I looked at my family and was so grateful for them… but after a few weeks of sadness… life went on as usual.
As my life was getting back to its normal chaos, my arm had swollen so I went to the doctor. They did an ex-ray and ran some tests. About a week later they called me; it’s funny how one moment can change the course of you entire life! I was told that I had Lupus. It was the same disease that had killed my dear friend just a few months before. I was in shock. I couldn’t cry, eat, or sleep, I couldn’t function at all, the only thing I could do or wanted to do was watch my children. And I did; every moment… I watched them play, eat, and sleep. For two entire weeks I would sit in their room all night and watch their quiet little bodies gently rise and fall with each precious breath. I took notice of every detail of their angelic sleeping faces. 

At the end of the second week my husband stepped in and called the doctor. I was killing myself, before the Lupus could. The doctor prescribed some sleeping pills and my husband made sure I took them. I didn’t think I could ever sleep again, but I slept for almost 3 days. I don’t recall dreaming, but when I awoke, my life was completely different. I had a feeling of peace and contentment; there was a clarity about my life, and an acceptance about death.

Prior to this I had been a neat freak (think female Felix Unger), there were neither dust-bunnies, nor kitchen-corner-crumbs in my house, the children and my husband’s clothes were always impeccably cleaned and pressed. I ironed the sheets, pillowcases, and even the cloth napinkin's (that were washed daily). I never said “No” to anyone when asked for a favor, I clipped coupons and shopped for groceries at three different stores to save the most money. I was as perfect as any woman could be.
The question came to mind, “If I die today what will my children remember about me?” Perhaps something like; “We always had clean clothes.” Or “The house was always so neat and tidy.” I realized they probably wouldn’t be able to say anything about who I was… they didn’t know me! I had spent so much time trying to be perfect that I never took the time to just be me. Now I could see everything so clearly: This was a wondrous awakening, I didn’t need to be perfect to be perfect!
So, I set the bunnies free to roam about the house, and had a food fight across the dinner table with my children. I'll let the clothes have the wrinkles, and I’ll charish the laugh lines. I don’t have to do everything for everyone; letting them find their strength is a gift. And saving a few dollars won’t buy me more time.

Although what you think of me is none of my business, I just hope I leave this earth a little happier and with a little more light and love than when I arrived.

So, “When it's time for your transition out of this earthly world, what will you be remembered for?”

"Good Enough"... just what is it?

Today I had to help a child who had been told by the adults in her life that she wasn't "good enough" and "Just who do you think you are?" She has heard it so often that people don't even have to say a word...she can see it in their actions, tone of voice or in the rolling of their eyes.

Tonight she KNOWS the only truth is her truth, and she is so much better than "good enough" and that who she knows herself to be...is all that matters! (When somesome asks..."Who do you think you are?" What they are really asking is: “Who do I think I am?” As Wayne Dyer said, "When you judge another, you do not define them, you define yourself."

If you have ever rolled your eyes, or been anything other than accepting with your words and actions toward someone who has expressed a desire or a dream, (and most everyone has); This adult could just as well have been YOU. It is important that we do a "self check" and just be aware that how we respond to others can and often does have an affect beyond that moment.

 *ireneism: Insecurity breeds doubt not only in ones-self but in others.

Be happy, be kind, and be secure in the knowledge that you are an expression of God. Namaste

Finding My Voice

When I was a child, I felt invisible. Everyone seemed to talk over me as if I had said nothing. For many years I thought that others found what I had to say as not worth acknowledging. When I was a pre-teen, someone commented on what a soft sweet voice I had and that is when I realized it was not what I was saying but how. So I worked at being heard and speaking up. This presented a whole new problem; I didn’t like my own voice. It grated on me. My mother was always whacking me in the back of the head and telling me to stop talking through my nose. Well, okay, but how in the world do you do that?

I joined the church teen-choir. We traveled the east coast during the summer months performing at other churches and a few community centers. It was fun off stage, but when we got in front of an audience I wouldn’t sing out, often I would just mouth the words because I didn’t want anyone to hear me above the others.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror late at night, I talked out loud to myself. To make it interesting, I would make my monologues into television commercials, trying on different vocal personas hoping to find the one that fit me. I would try them on for size with my family and friends. They would laugh at me and say how funny I was. At first I didn’t like the laughter, but then it was sort of kool. (I know kool is spelled with a “c” but I think “k” is way under rated and swap it out when ever I can.) Laughter was way better than criticism. Somewhere along the line I forgot to try, and just started being comfortable with me. I was able to laugh at my self too.

I had been in the theatre department since about 1992-2010 (with a hiatus of about 10 years). During finals of my first semester I suffered from PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) and became unable to speak. When I tried I stuttered so badly that I would run out of breath before I could get out two words. But I didn’t want to stop going to school, I loved it so. But I was unable to drive, and would become lost if I walked out my own front door; so I was walked to classes’ everyday then taken home to work alone. Then I took Voice and Diction, with Dr. Hillman. It was a difficult task, but I was determined to be able to tell my children that I loved them. It took an entire semester before I could speak well, and a year before I had fluent speech. I resumed theatre classes (as well as many others) and registered for a few acting type classes, but mainly stayed behind the scenes (long story). I had several teachers who would tell me that I was good, and I believed them. However it only takes one brick to break a window. One professor told me that I would never make it as an actor because of my voice. I respected this person and thought, “She must be right”. I became very self-conscious, went back to the behind the scenes classes and shortly thereafter withdrew from school completely. Of course now, after many years of self-reflection, I think, “what a shame it was that I handed over that much power to someone else”. Obviously if I was going to put that much stock in one person’s opinion when I had many others to the contrary, my childhood story was still holding on to me.

I have learned a lot about myself since leaving school. My best teachers were the children I worked with in my home as a special needs childcare provider. Many of them had verbal difficulties for various reasons, but through research on my part and determination on their parts, most all of them now have a voice, some verbal and some signing.

I still tell people all the time that I “can’t carry a tune in bucket”. However, I have recently started voice lessons, and was told that I have a very large range and that I am on pitch. So I guess I should just get over myself, and let the “old story” go.

P.S. I Did finally get the courage to audition for a play at MTSU and I was cast. The director told me that they cast me because of my great voice quality. Who Knew?

The Declaration of Independence and Happiness

The Declaration of Independence proclaims the pursuit of happiness to be an inalienable human right. But Thomas Jefferson might be surprised at today’s mounting crowds of seekers. A host of social science researchers and allied practitioners are developing a “science of happiness.” Among other projects, researchers are compiling happiness “indexes” and comparative happiness scores for countries and individuals. The new study of happiness, or subjective well being, is a growing interdisciplinary field; college courses are offered that explore the why and wherefore of human flourishing—complete with homework assignments and happiness exercises. I myself have taken the Philosophy of Happiness course at Middle Tennessee State University. Any monopoly that religion or political philosophy once held as the favored guides to Eden is over.

Aristotle summed this up best when he said, "Happiness is the meaning and the purpose of life, the whole aim and end of human experience." With the exception of survival, happiness is the goal behind every human activity.* Reflection on the definition of happiness suggests that it is a personal experience, therefore also a personal responsibility. How and if one chooses to accept this responsibility is as individual as a breath.

I too spent many years waiting for my happiness to come to me, or for someone else to make me happy. Thankfully these days my personal journey for happiness never reaches beyond the bounds that are me.

Storytelling

I could tell you my life story and probably will before all is said and done. After all that is what we humans like to do most is sharing our stories. It's not a fault, mind you, it is what it is. People tell stories for many reasons... some tell their stories as an instructional "how to" or "how NOT to". Others engage in storytelling as a means of validation of self or self worth. Many people as they get older tell their story as a way to just stay engaged in life. I have been privy to many who just like to hear themselves talk and some who use words to heal themselves and others. We created language so that we could share our stories.