The Good, The Bad & The Ugly

I wrote recently about my kids bickering (A Ruthless Mirror) and how I know that I need to model some more consistent kindness & patience myself before I can really ask much more of them. 

I sincerely believe that our children are reflections of those closest to them and if their behaviour is errant in anyway, more often than not, the adjustments can be made by owning our own shadows and influences. 

But it can feel rather hard and exhausting to feel that weight of responsibility when facing challenging childhood dynamics. Unless of course there is a counter balance. 

This balance would be the ability to see and own the reflection of their gold; their kindnesses, their humour, their generosity and love. 

And I caught myself the other day being unable to hold that gold. I realised the message I told myself was that all their gold belonged solely to them, they were born that way and it was in spite of me rather than with-the-help-of-me that they expressed their brilliance. Yet I would happily flagellate myself when their shadows and darkness expressed themselves too fiercely. 

So to balance my own self-criticism I am going to allow myself a little bit of accountability for all their deliciousness too. I cannot, nor do I wish to, claim it all, for I have witnessed how much they have brought with them in their own souls; but sometimes there are moments when they reflect back to me the positive influences I have had. So now I will absorb these moments, wrap them in love and tuck them into my heart to help me harmonise our little unit. 

I will remember that all is welcome, the good, the bad and the ugly; I will remember to keep on shining my own light to rebalance my darkness. 

And I will be proud of me just as much as I am achingly proud of them. 

I Need A Man

There is a huge part of me that is sitting in anxious resistance to this title but I also know that now is the time to walk through this barrier and embrace a new paradigm. 

I have spent 40 years of my life adamantly claiming that I don’t need a man to be happy or complete or to help or support me. It’s an added nicety that I’ve had one by my side for the last 13 years, who has fathered my children and kept food on the table (organic at that!) and a roof over our head. But in my head and in my speech I have still maintained that I have never ‘needed’ him. 

In fact, in some ways that was a part of our success so far, the fact that I didn’t need him, but I did want him. Need is the ultimate vulnerability and hey I wasn’t going to give into that without a fight! My mother brought me and my brother up mostly single handedly from when I was 8 years old; she was fiercely independent, DIY-ed her way around the home and shunned the lesser skills of her masculine counterparts. She could do a better job and so often that was absolutely true. 

But I have finally clicked. I don’t just want a man, my husband, but I need him too. 

As much as I can take on most of the skills, often assigned to the masculine, there is one thing I absolutely cannot do for myself. I cannot create life. 

No matter how I choose to conceive; in or out of relationship, with or without the actual presence of a man, naturally or aided, personally or anonymously, I still NEED a man’s sperm to unite with my egg in order to create life. 

It was this flash thought that made me reconsider my stance on needing and wanting. In light of the energy of radical feminism, blanket equality and other passionate discussions on gender roles or otherwise, I realised how much my refusal to ‘need’ my man is damaging my relationship with him and with the masculine. 

If I ‘have’ to need him in order to create life, I can either consider that need and minimise it to crude function or I can enlarge it to the more spacious picture of balance; two sides, two offerings, two parts to make one whole. 

By allowing myself to need him, I can expand this idea into exploring where we can support each other within our own personal strengths and weaknesses; to be the yin to his yang and work as a whole unit rather than just as connected individuals.

All of this makes deep spiritual sense to me now.

How much have I been holding and carrying simply because I have refused to need him? Now we can share our loads with respect and harmony, acknowledging our united power and grace whilst balancing our souls. 

I am curious to take this back out into the world and let myself openly need others too; to offer my willing vulnerability as a partnership in so many ways, with my children, with my friends and peers and, most significantly, with the masculine. Just because I can do and achieve something on my own does not mean it is the best or most enlightened way for it to be done.  

Nature offers me constant visual reminders of the beauty, significance and necessity of duality and, as I choose nature to be my guide, I am proud to say how much I need my man. 

A Ruthless Mirror

Recently the bickering of my kids has been driving me a little demented. Hearing the impatience retorts, and unsympathetic reactions that then spiral into fisticuffs and cruel words, triggers me something rotten. 

So I hear myself saying all sorts of unhelpful snaps: ‘stop!’; ‘be kind!’; ‘there will be consequences if you continue!’. And then they look at me square in the face, deaf to my protests. 

And I know why.

Everything that I accuse them of, I am guilty of myself. Am I patient with their needs and issues? Often not, I am too frequently distracted by the next need of meals, or school runs or crazy head thoughts; I judge their problems of colouring pens or space or choice of game to be of lesser value than my preoccupation and I respond with sighs and frustration. 

Am I kind? Oh yes, lots of the time I am but not when I am pushed and tired, then I can be careless with my words and energy and hurtful with my reactions. But somehow I am expecting my kids to be above that. They ‘should’ be better at controlling those bitchy words age 8 and 6, seeing as I’ve got it handled aged 41. Not! 

Am I generous? With all of the things I have plenty of then I am super generous, but I know I can horde and snuffle away my precious and less abundant treasures, including my time and attention.  

Am I violent? Never. Well never with my fists or feet, but I can carry the violence of energy in my huffs and silences when hurting. Just like them. 

So I recognise this ruthless, searingly honest mirror of my children.  I know that the trigger, the unbearable bickering, is my lesson to walk through. 

I said to my husband yesterday, I have used my will power to overcome so many obstacles in my life, to change patterns and habits that have been destroying me. I have cured myself of eating disorders, quit addictive substances, abandoned my self harming, walked away from abusive relationships, all through the power of my own choice and determination.

Yet this space, where I know that it is ‘I’ who needs to model the change I wish to see. ‘I’ need to offer more patience, kindness and generosity so that my children have that reflection in their mirror of learning. If I am triggered, it is my issue to work through, not theirs to force into submission. 

But I am finding it astoundingly hard. I want to make it their fault, I want to make them wrong for not being able to work through their issues with calm and resolve. I want to abdicate all the responsibility of being their guide because otherwise I have to face the fact that I’ve still got to dig deep for some strength to create change in myself so that my children have a role model I can be proud of. 

I have done well for children and I have conquered many mountains to give them a start in life that they and the world deserve.  And this is the next station on my journey, uncovering the source of my trigger, to free us all for our next destination. 

Literally

I have come to the conclusion that the world has become too literal.

Dogmatic science has replaced dogmatic religion and we are no better off for it.

Dogma is bad in whatever form – irony at its finest!

What I see, as indicative of this literal attitude, is the lack of softness towards each other. The words we speak or write are to be perfectly crafted or suffer being torn to shreds by baying hounds. The nuance and subtlety of life are lost in favour of documented evidence. Science is dictating how life must look, from education, medicine, child rearing and career trajectories, everything seems to have a right or wrong way defined by statistics and data. Non-conforming becomes a label of conspiracy theorist or anarchist rather than simply a different perspective.

Recently some mothers inferred that one of my children should somehow be different and I saw this ‘literal’ thread play out in their reasoning. Firstly, they couldn’t seem to grasp that children aren’t always literal (our beautiful shining lights of sanity is this crazy world), therefore strong words or adult themes were read from the adult standpoint of shocking brevity rather than understanding how children explore and play with ideas and concepts that cross their paths in a truly innocent and harmless way. Second to that was the right or wrongness that comes with this societal indoctrination, if my child behaved differently to theirs, they must label mine wrong, so that their way would still be ‘right’. No allowance for different child personalities, developmental stages, parenting influences, beliefs and values… just simple right or wrong.

And it is utterly exhausting. One of the nails in the coffin with my mother was her determination to contradict and undermine my parenting values because they were different to hers. I saw that for her, it felt like I was somehow rejecting her by choosing a different approach and I understand how easy it is to interpret that but just far more simply, I’m my own person with my own viewpoint and that is all. I don’t have to back it up with data and science and facts and figures and I don’t want you to either.

Last week, a stranger mum apologised to me because her son was standing in my pathway and gazing dreamily up towards the sky. Shockingly, I managed to take an extra moment out of my day to walk around him rather than demand him move! But it really hit me hard how that mum felt she must apologise for her naturally day dreamy little one because we have become so desperately unforgiving as a society.

The rigidity of belief is what defines dogma and be it science or religion both lose their true beauty and power under these terms. Science can be a place of magical discovery with the full allowance to release a past belief in order to welcome a new and faith offers us the gentleness of understanding and forgiveness. All so beautiful when held lightly and playfully rather than with heavy and fearful hands.

One of my most memorable lines
from Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden is ‘There’s nowt so queer as folk.’

Yes! Yes! Yes!

I am happy to be as queer and different to my neighbour as they are to theirs. It makes life so much more vibrant and gentle and interesting.

The Phoenix Decade

It has started. The Phoenix Decade.

Our 40’s are a time typified by the clichéd ‘midlife crisis’: fast cars, affairs, career change, divorce and unexpected death.

Sadly, our society seems to sneer and judge a lot of these changes rather than embrace this as a natural life transition and of course that judgement comes from the fear of ‘us’ and ‘them’, separating the shadow and placing it in someone else’s court. But the truth is, our 40’s are the time for our spiritual renaissance.

Biologically, most of us will be coming to the end of the early years of parenting, the dance of mating and conception taking up so much of our 20’s and 30’s.  And with those elements ‘in the bag’, there opens up a space in our lives to observe ourselves in greater depth. Our children and loved ones will be offering mirrors to the darkest parts of our souls through their triggers and button pushing and it is here that we have the greatest opportunity to dig out the roots of our deepest wounds and raise them up into the light.

This is the decade of philosophical thinking, of reflecting back on our own upbringing, how we might do things similarly or differently; exploring the aggrievements that have entrenched reactions and personality traits that may no longer serve us into true maturity and adulthood. It is the golden ticket for change and transformation, to allow your past to die and your renewed and invigorated self to rise from the ashes.

As I look around my peers, I am seeing sickness that is shaking souls to their very cores – cancers, strokes, depression; I am seeing relationships flounder and stumble with what appear to be unbridgeable chasms of disconnect; I am seeing denial where materialistic choices are covering the voids of love and connection.  For me these are all symbolic gifts to face the Phoenix.

For myself I know I was close to great sickness. The levels of stress and discordance that I was carrying in relation to my mother were putting a burden upon my system that was unsustainable. Despite my healthy lifestyle, organic nutrition and conscious living, I could still feel the poison of unhappiness in my body. I had early warning signs singing through my nervous system, twinges, aches, pains, exhaustion. That was why it was so necessary for me to face that relationship head on and take the space I needed from it.  I could have sat in the dynamic continuing our mutual unspoken discomfort and pain, I could have pretended it didn’t really exist, it wasn’t surely that important, but I didn’t want to die. And that was what that choice felt to me, that my body could no longer carry such a consistently high level of stress, something would eventually crumble.

So I am walking into this decade of the Phoenix with my eyes wide open. I want to face the shadows that will twist and turn out of the ashes; I want to address what needs to be explored.  My husband and I will look into the fragile places of our love and relationship and dig out the dirt and attempt to replace it with light. I will stare into the mirror of my children and try my best to listen to their messages of reflection, to own what is mine and to return what is theirs.  I don’t imagine that this decade is going to be my easiest, moreover because I am also having to witness my dear friends as they uncover their own phoenixes and the joy and suffering that that can bring.  But I am also full of the excitement and possibility that this decade of renewal offers. I am excited to release the shackles of my past and to step fully present (with the best of my intention) into the second half of my life.

I will rise out of the ashes and I will soar.

 

Heartbroken

A little over a year ago, my mother and I were in therapy together.

I voiced the words I feared the most.

‘I don’t feel like you love me, I feel you tolerate me.’

To which, my mother nodded and added ‘that’s because you are so difficult’.

And my heart broke

It broke so hard and so deeply that I felt swallowed by my grief.  My head accepted this status, my head has compassion for the wounds of my family, but my heart….. my heart hurt beyond anything I could have imagined.

I have carried this pain gnawing at me day after day, knowing that I needed to find a way through, to accept, to surrender, to move on and past and up and over and and and and….

And I couldn’t. Because I knew I needed mother love. I knew and know that Mother Love is the most powerful and healing and soulful of loves and how was I to face the rest of my life being so undeserving of that.

I couldn’t see my way out of the darkness.

This last weekend, I left my family for four days, to explore the depths and murkiness of this pain. I stepped into a weekend of holding, healing and transformation so that I could emerge again into a space of love.  And I was terrified that I wouldn’t, that no one would be able to help me.

Whilst the moments and details of these weekends are confidential, I can reveal a vignette of what I received.

I was held by a woman, loved by a woman, nurtured by a woman who channelled the power of the Divine Mother from the heavens to me. I know that I shall never forget the face of this Goddess who offered her healing to me, who showed me what it was to be wholly and unconditionally loved. It has changed me profoundly.

I experienced Kintsugi.

Kintsugi is the Japanese art & philosophy of mending pottery with the fissures of brokenness healed with gold. The pottery becomes more beautiful and of greater value from this process.

And that is what happened to my heart. My heart will always carry the cracks of its break but, just two days ago, those sharp & painful edges were filled with gold.

~~~~~~

With love and gratitude to all the Facilitators, Staff & Women from The Celebration of Women, The Goddess Workshop, Celebration of Being.

 

Maverick

This week I watched ‘The Darkest Hour’ with Gary Oldman playing Winston Churchill. One of the core pieces that I loved within this film was how clear it was that Churchill was an emotionally messy individual; by all accounts an alcoholic, perhaps without financial savvy, fractious, demanding AND alongside this a brilliant mind, a wordsmith, family man, and the one who determined to save Great Britain from Adolf Hitler.

He was a maverick: ‘an unorthodox or independent-minded person’

When my brothers and I had to decide which three words we would have on my father’s gravestone, I pushed for Maverick. I can’t even remember now what the other two words are but I knew I wanted a word to honour his fuck-ups and his genius all at once. That is who he was to me.

What I saw from the film was that it took the character of a Maverick to save us from invasion, it took that single minded belief, that ability to walk against the tide, and a little bit of ‘crazy’. I watched the film and I saw my father.

My father did terrible things, he sexually molested me, he paid little attention to the emotional needs of his children, he was frightening in his temper. And he did wonderful things too. He transformed people’s lives both through his psychiatry practice and his generosity in bringing in to his home those in need, including the homeless. He invented psychometric computer programs that are still used globally today (he just forgot to patent them!). His mind was brilliant and broken.

I was not really able to see my father this way until after he died, until then our relationship was just too painful. In watching ‘The Darkest Hour’, I was reminded how important Mavericks are in the world and how an individual can be two parts simultaneously – dark and light.

There is a cleansing going on in our western society right now, where anyone who has ever faltered, made a mistake, royally fucked up or, worst case, been severely abusive is being silenced and shut down. I’ve seen on social media something to the effect of: ‘it doesn’t matter what good they have done, abusive behaviour wipes all of that away’. Does it? Should it?

I just don’t know if life is this back and white, that right and wrong is so clear cut. What if someone can have blurred and damaging boundaries and also create magic in the world? My relationship with my mother is super toxic but she is also a wonderful friend to others. I worked with Jamie Oliver once upon a time and I personally found him difficult (others found him inspiring) but I also hugely respect his drive to change the health of our children through food. My experience of someone can be diametrically opposite to someone else’s. I can also dislike one aspect of someone and appreciate another. One person can experience abuse another healing at the hands of the same person. So how does this tally? How do we bring abusers or fault makers to justice without cleansing our society of the inspiration and necessary change that they sometimes bring?

It makes me wonder how Einstein, Marie Curie, Van Gogh, Michael Angelo, Mother Theresa, Alexander Fleming, Emmeline Pankhurst, Jesus or Mary Magdalene would fair on social media today? Would we celebrate their achievements or chastise them for their failings?

How I reached this place with my father, of being able to respect his achievements whilst not accepting his abuse, was through conversation. Before he died we spoke about my accusation of molestation, he said his mother had done the same to him and there wasn’t anything wrong with that. It wasn’t an apology, it wasn’t really even an admission; soulfully, he still had a long way to go before being accountable to his actions. Yet from that conversation I could understand that he had been taught as a child that this behaviour was ok, that to look at it from my perspective (and indeed much of society’s) was something quite unfathomable to his psyche. He was acting from trauma. I have compassion for that.

And before I am shouted down from the rooftops, yes I still believe abuse must be called to account and appropriately dealt with. But that is the extreme end of our current cleansing and there are multiple shades of grey in between for all the characters and individuals of the world.

I am a flawed and loving person, which part do you see?

Victim Complex

When I was 22, I was operated on to remove a large ovarian cyst. Keyhole surgery and back home that afternoon was the suggestion; instead I nearly died.

The operation did not go as planned and I had to have four blood transfusions to replace my significant loss. I was a week in hospital and it was several months before I felt my strength return on so many levels.

During my recovery at home (if memory serves, just a few days back from hospital), I became upset when my mother left me alone in the shower to answer the phone. I couldn’t lift my right leg more than a few centimetres off the ground and I felt trapped within the high bath sides. My mother returned to find me in floods of tears. She sighed and told me that I was getting a ‘victim complex’.

What I really had was PTSD.

My mother’s family and background is one of army and boarding school, so I fully understand that she had been raised to have that stiff, British, upper lip and empathy was not a trait much nurtured, but wow those few words smacked me hard.

They spun around my head for years and years trying to tally with the way I had felt post that operation (and all the others shifts that had been made because of it – change of job, country and relationship). I believed my mother. I believed I was not handling my trauma ‘well enough’.

What I also noticed over those years was how invested I was in telling the story of my operation. It felt like such an enormous part of who I was; I would drunkenly insist on revealing my physical scars to all those that listened; it became an excuse for all my failings – weight, relationships, jobs. Most telling of all, I could barely recount the full story without feeling like collapsing into unending tears.

It was only when I began to explore the world of healing that I started to empathise with that younger self and the overwhelm I had been dealing with. I realised that without the right tools and support I had been left with two choices, the stiff upper lip of denial or the Groundhog Day story that defined me completely.

But there is a space in between denial and holding on to the story, neither of which serve, and that place is one of healing. That delicate place of acceptance – something happened to me and I was a victim without becoming victim to that trauma. I think that nuance is key to addressing how trauma can be honoured and processed and also crucial to moving beyond the potential to remain fixed in a story that can inhibit growth and vitality.

That space is one of liberation and is the right of everyone and it is a space that needs to be consciously chosen and strived for. It is a doorway that requires effort and application to open. It is not easy nor is it meant to be.

As Scott Stabile’s quote says ‘…I could survive it. It wasn’t comfortable, but it didn’t destroy me.’

Scapegoat

I have so much to say and I’m not sure how’s it’s all going to come out but it’s a real mixture of what’s tumbling around my head, heart and soul and also how that relates to the pertinent space the global media is reflecting right now.

I received a real lashing for a recent post (Weinstein et al). It hit me hard and I have taken some time to reflect on it. As much as I work hard to construct my opinions as solely mine and I endeavour to use ‘I’ statements to emphasise that, I have realised that when I post something on someone else’s social media page, it turns my I statements into a ‘you should’. It can feel as if I am telling someone that my opinion belongs in their space. So I have learned from that and will be more cautious about how and where I share my thoughts.

But the essence of that blog still stands for me and I have delved a little deeper into my psyche as to why I hold these beliefs which are perhaps in conflict with a majority. What are my reasons?

What comes up for me is the concept of the Scapegoat. Because not only I have created a scapegoat to escape facing my own issues in the past but I have also been heavily labelled as the scapegoat in my family of origin.

Being the scapegoat within my family dynamic has meant that I am the excuse for them to not be accountable and responsible for their own actions and parts within a story. If I am the person who is ‘wrong’ then that makes those labelling me ‘right’.

And the water is murky because as sure as some of what I’ve been accused of are downright lies, some rumours are carried in truth. Which, more than anything, gives them greater fuel. But what I have come to learn is that my truth and their truth are two very different animals. So whilst my behaviour may be judged by one to be sordid, or untrustworthy, neurotic or perhaps even a little bit crazy. My truth is that I can see the cause and effect on how these events unfolded. I can see the beginning of pain and woundedness that developed into acts of desperate love seeking, or unhealthy out-letting. Once I stopped believing the stories about me from them, I started to see how unhappiness evolves.

And truthfully, it has been the most extraordinary gift, because now I can no longer see ‘bad behaviour’ but only brokenness. I can no longer label someone a predator or an abuser because I see their desperation, their shattered spirits trying to find a way home. I know that being labelled the bad one only spiralled me into deeper despair and I can’t see how it is a solution to anything except the abdication of accountability for all parties.

Because not only have I been the scapegoat but I have also made others my scapegoat. I have been abused and I have abused. When I think of the #metoo campaign, I wonder how many of those speaking out have ever abused others in some form? How many people have used their power to manipulate a person or scenario for their own gain or safety? And why is sexual abuse the pinnacle of this discussion? Some of my experiences that have had no sexual overtones or physical violation have been far more damaging to my spirit than the more overt domination. None of it is right but perhaps neither is it simply wrong.

I cannot stand on a pedestal and say #metoo without also saying that perhaps I have left others uncomfortable, damaged, hurt by my own actions – from a place of unconscious woundedness maybe. But isn’t that the same for most?

Speaking out, speaking up, reclaiming our power is vitally important but with that comes the core piece of accountability and compassion. Where are our own  wounds reflected in these others? How can healing really occur without understanding?

I am a scapegoat, I am an abuser, I am a wounded and healing woman.

Time to Fly

In the past few weeks I have been assailed by anxiety; heart racing, breath suffocating and waking for hours in the night.

This is not new to me but it has been a long time since I have experienced such a prolonged and unceasing episode.

Old habits rise up and tempt me to ease the sensations, the desire to numb (food, drugs, alcohol) or distract (replacing with the physical pain of self harm), but my commitment to myself and my children helps me to reach for the healthier soothers that I have developed over these years of healing. One tool has been the learned ability to sit with the feelings and witness them unfold rather than a trying to escape them. Ooof! A hard one but it has been enlightening to observe the trail of my thoughts in the early hours of the morning.

Another of my soothers is reading. Falling into a world of delicious and enticing fiction calms me and takes me out of my own world for while, a break from the pressure on my chest. When it’s not fiction, I choose works that inspire me to reconnect with my spirit, to bring me back to faith and trust in the Divine; words & belief that can draw me away from my obsessive and destructive anxiety spiral.

Last night, my early hours were occupied with the words of Dr Eben Alexander, a neurosurgeon, who experienced a profound NDE (Near Death Experience) that filled him with the ultimate trust in the Universe, in Love and Light. His words and description of his journey between life and death are beyond beautiful and a wonderful reminder for me to hold that bigger picture in my daily life.

When I was growing up, my mother used to say that I would need to meet somebody who could let me fly but who could also ground me. She was half right; I do need to be around people that don’t inhibit my wish to fly, to dive into the world of divinity and philosophical exploration, but the grounding she spoke of was a need to be held back into the ‘reality’ of our practical world and what I have realised over the past few weeks is that it is those details that create so much of my anxiety. Constantly pulling myself back into the minutiae of daily life, I keep forgetting my core belief of trust, I step too far into the fear of left brained conditioning and up springs my anxiety.

Eben Alexander’s ‘Proof of Heaven’ is one of those gifts that reminds me to reconnect with my spiritual reflections.

It’s time to fly.