Mini Me’s

When my daughter, my first born, arrived in the world, I was immediately struck with an intense solar plexus knowing that she was her own person. I knew that she had been gifted to us, to guide and raise, but her soul was already formed and strong; she did not belong to me.

I was so grateful for this knowing, realising that she had her own purpose in being here and that my job was not to create a perfect version of humanity through her but simply to support her unfolding into her own true self.

Accepting and following that understanding was so easy in the first couple of years but as she and her brother grow and express all facets of their personalities in a variety of social and antisocial scenarios, it has sometimes been hard to hang on to.

Surprisingly one of the hardest aspects has been my determination for them NOT to be a ‘mini me’. Not only was I conscious of them being their own soulful being, but I have recently realised that I was also attempting to make sure they didn’t become like me; the flawed, wounded, often angry and impatient me that I judge so harshly. I wanted something different for them. But of course, even though our babes have come with their own journey to explore, part of that journey is to be our imitators and our mirrors; to hold up our reflection and see how we react to it.

My children do this well and perfectly for me. They express their impatience and their fiery tempers and their annoyances (in amongst all their generosity and kindness and love) and I have come down hard, trying to force it to be different. Trying to educate them, trying to change myself to model better; trying, pushing, resisting.

And then I realised that as much as they are their very own soul, with all the beautiful unique qualities they bring to the world, they are also ‘mini me’s’. They are reflecting back to me not what I have to force myself to change but what I need to accept.

I listened to my son’s kindergarten teacher speak a few nights ago about the boisterous and energetic behaviour of the elder kids and I really heard how she described the Steiner philosophy on how to work with their energy.

‘If something is being expressed then it needs to come out, suppressing it doesn’t help. By allowing its expression there comes the possibility of transforming it into something else.’

From this I visualise the smoke that comes out of me when I feel angry or annoyed or impatient, I see it swirl into the air and transform into dragons and magic and stars and sparkles.

So let me be the container for my children, let me hold the space for them to express all these parts of themselves, that I have rejected in myself, and let us together allow these intrinsic parts of ourselves voice. By doing so let us witness them transform and flow on, from rigidness to free form, with safety and love circling them all.

My children are their own spirits but the parts of me they have chosen to mirror are intrinsic aspects of them too. By allowing these I can offer them one of life’s most precious gifts: self acceptance and with that the freedom that walks alongside.

Alone, at Last.

Last week, my husband took my beautiful children camping for two nights. It was an adventure that my husband needed to explore with them, without me there. A moment for his relationships to strengthen and bond. And the kids were super excited, camping is their absolute favourite!

But it wasn’t only a big adventure for them but also for me. It was the first time I had ever had a night away from my children and I wasn’t sure how I would feel about it.

Certainly in the lead up to the trip, I ran through a gamut of emotions from terror, excitement, anxiety, curiosity, sadness and joy. The day before, as they erected the tent in the garden to try it all out and jumped around with the unfettered joy that only exists in those depths of childhood, I felt tears and rage at not being a part of this. And woven into those intense feelings, was the knowing of how important a moment this was for them and for my husband. With that, I bade then farewell with conscious lightness, ease and blessings. Wishing them the happiest of journeys and discoveries together.

Then I turned back into my house and embraced my alone time, at last, over 8 years since the birth of my first child. 52 hours of me.

I loved it. I loved walking into town at my own speed; I loved wandering around the shops without a schedule to return to; I loved coming home and turning lights on that would otherwise have woken the babes and reading a book before bed without using a torch. I loved waking at 8am (!) just as my body asked rather than being dragged from slumber by pokes, prods and requests. There was so much that I loved, yet I missed them every minute too. And I realised how much I adore their company even with the bickers and the ‘why’s’ and the pestering because mostly they bring just the extraordinary joy of innocence, discovery and love. And whilst I loved my 52 hours I would happily have swapped it for 52 hours with them.

I know that these 8 years have flown and so will the next 8 and soon after that they will be leaving. I have plenty of time to be alone in the years ahead and instead I want to be witness to as much as I can of their childhood. Yes, I will bless them in their adventures, I will not hold them back in my arms when then want to fly, but whilst they are here, I will savour every precious minute: happy, challenging, sad or funny. Each one matters to me before I really am alone, at last.
** The picture are the gifts they brought me. Heart shaped stones and one they found with a letter F, for ‘family’.

Holding On

I believe fiercely in the importance and value of attachment; that our healthy independence comes from our trust in the solidity of a secure foundation. This is a core tenet of my parenting philosophy and why I am happy to surrender these years to care for my children.

But there is more….. my youngest child is five and happily ensconced in kindergarten and I have been envisioning increasing hours of rediscovering myself again. And I still will to a degree….

…. but I have just finished the extraordinary book ‘Hold On to Your kids’ (by Neufeld and Mate) and am thankfully awakened to the realisation that ‘attachment’ reaches way past the early years and through to early adulthood.

I have not come across Gordon Neufeld’s work before but I have long been struck by the wisdom, depth and sensitivity of Gabor Mate. I was first introduced to him by my late cousin who included interviews of Mate for his short films on addiction and the roots of it from early childhood. Powerful and compelling.

I have read a gazillion parenting books (most I have loved and drawn huge inspiration from) but two have stood out to me as carrying core concepts to feed my philosophy. Neither have been comfortable or easy reads, both have shown me the mistakes I have already made, but equally they have fed and stoked the fires of truth and passion for being the very best parent that I can. Unconditional Parenting by Alfie Kohn and Holding On to Your Kids are these essential reads.

Right now I am full of the later, having turned the last page just a few hours ago. I am inspired by the tools and opportunities and I have already seen the benefits in the last week as I start to implement the ideas.

I did attachment very well in the early years. My babes were in arms, co slept, full-term breastfed and stayed with me until 4 or 5 before heading to Kindy. But I have made a critical error by thinking my foundation has been laid and stepping a little too far back.

What I have witnessed is my eldest getting a little lost, expressing hurt and discontent, and I was flummoxed as to why. And this book explains it all. It details how our society, in less than a hundred years has moved, from a place of secure attachment to our parental lines, to insecure attachment to our peers. We have forgotten to hold our children close enough to be able to seek their wisdom from their elders rather than scrabbling for answers with friends who are scrabbling too. The effects have been devastating. Mental health issues in children and teens are sky rocketing and suicide is through the roof. Our children are floundering and in desperate need of our help.

Just like a tomato plant growing from seed, which requires a tall and
solid stake from which to anchor itself, my children need me to be their base-point to hold on to. Once they have flowered and born their first fruit, they can sow their seeds and decide where next to plant themselves but for that they need maturity and experience and I intend to stand by their side until then.

This book opened me up. It showed me why my daughter was hurting, it enabled me to reflect on my own childhood and the desperate years I spent seeking attachment in my peers. It is a statement for our society, frightening in its implications and simple in its healing.

Hold On and they will let go when ripe and ready, blooming with vitality and with faith in the world and that hardy, weather worn stake.

Belief vs. Intuition

I was involved in a discussion on social media recently; one of those totally random engagements with complete strangers whom I will never cross paths with again, yet had a compelling urge to connect to for a flash of time.

One of those.

I was hooked into this one by the curiousness of her statement. She stated that her intuition has told her to have a c-section ‘knowing her baby was too big to birth’. Doctors had refused, her labour halted and off she went for her section.

Well, a few of us jumped straight onto this. ‘That’s not your intuition, that’s your belief’. We petitioned her in numerous ways to explain that her conscious or subconscious belief that she couldn’t birth big babies was leeched into her by who knows whom, but that it certainly wasn’t an innate inner knowing that told her this, babies just aren’t too big to birth.

A belief is entirely different to intuition.

She was having none of it and was enraged that we were trying to squash her intuitive vibe, which had, seemingly, proved her right.

Then I heard it again a couple of days ago, someone describing their difficult interaction and judgements towards another as an ‘intuitive response’. They ‘knew’ with absolute assurity that a stranger was a particular personality because their intuition told them so, full stop, end of story. That person was then tried and sentenced based on that intuition.

It’s a hard one. I do believe that as a western society we are certainly low on the intuitive front, we prefer solid, hard and immovable facts over anything vaguely floaty or unclear. AND I think it’s sad how squashed and dampened our intuition has become. But what exactly is our intuition?

Mine was definitely hiding in some dark recess of my forgotten self, until more recent years when I have braved the fear and poked it into the cracks of light. What I have discovered about my intuition is that it is super subtle, so used to its banishment that it is quick to flee under any cross examination. But when it does rise up, it is a moment of knowing deeply, feeling without confusion and total clarity. It’s the moment when the words fall from my heart onto the page; when I know my child’s mood by the movement of their eyes; when a sentence pours from my mouth and brings healing to a client’s soul. Subtle, gentle, quiet….

What I have learned also is that my anxiety and beliefs can pretend they are intuition, giving me countless messages to listen to and to heed, added to which they name themselves as my intuitive voice: ‘listen, this is your intuition, there’s a car coming and it’s going to run over your kids’; ‘listen, this is your intuition, that person has hair like your old abusive friend, they must be an abuser too’; ‘listen, this is your intuition, no one will like your book, don’t bother writing it’.

Except that none of those, self proclaimed intuitive memos, are really my intuition, they are simply my fears. And my fears can come true, and they can prove me ‘right’, but they are still not my intuition.

Learning to distinguish between the emotional beliefs and the inner wisdom of our intuitive selves is like unraveling two identical, twisted and impenetrable balls of yarn, anciently meshed and knotted. They look the same, feel the same, but as they unravel, one leads to heartache and one leads to happiness.

Listen carefully. Which one is speaking to you?

Role Models

I am sensitive to the role models that pass through my children’s lives. Not for the obvious reasons, I care less about their differing values to mine (as long as they’re not morally corrupt!) in fact I enjoy my children being exposed to different view points and exciting their curiosity and questioning, but I mind greatly about their consistency in our lives.

I know I can’t control where life takes us and friends pass through over the years and that itself is a great lesson for my children, but there is still a place for acknowledging the importance of each role model and their influence.

I speak from a place of loss. I speak from a place of sensitivity to those moments where an adult left my childhood world without word or explanation.

Growing up, the role of father was a gaping hole in my life, my own being emotionally incapable of filling it. Later in life, my early choice of boyfriends certainly reflected my desire for a father figure before therapy and personal development moved me beyond it. But in my childhood itself, certain men stepped forward to offer themselves as a surrogate; family friends, my mother’s boyfriend, uncles, many spoke directly to me, acknowledging the gap and asking permission to represent a father to me.

Every single one left me.

Not a single one remains in my life as a guide or elder. This is not a pity party, I have beautiful support around me now, but at the moments of their leaving, I grieved a loss every time, alone and unacknowledged. Each one just disappeared from my life, sometimes out of loyalty to my mother; sometimes out of separation from my mother; others, I project, because I was too challenging or difficult for their perspective, but for whatever reason they felt no need to say goodbye. And that hurt beyond measure.

So for my children, I ask, when life takes you away from us, when our paths diverge, please just take a moment to say farewell.

Acknowledgment

 

I have been accused, at times, of raking up past events without the ability to ‘let go, forgive, move on’.

I will not deny that there is probably some truth to that but not quite in the negative vein that implies.

When I behave in ways that sadden me towards my own children, I rely on a promise I have made to myself, to help me forgive myself. That promise is to remember to acknowledge their feelings, if not instantly, then at least after reflection. When they come to me in their midlife and relay how such an event between us caused a shift in their emotional trajectory, that something I said or did hurt or wounded them, I have promised myself that I will acknowledge that seriously and soulfully.

Because that is all I have ever wanted for myself.

When I look back at the shape forming events in my life, those that have been painful and hard, I don’t hold blame, condemnation or anger towards any of the protagonists, in fact, more often than not, I understand enough of their own history to see why and where their stories connected with mine. But if there is to be any deep connection with them, a deepening and growing relationship, then I crave acknowledgement of my feelings. I struggle to move on, not from anger, lack of forgiveness or misunderstanding, but from the lack of acknowledgement that my feelings had been affected or created by the dynamics of an event.

Ultimately, I struggle with the sense that my feelings have been dismissed or denied.

And I see this classic fracture point arise from the smallest to the largest scale; I see it in every toddler tantrum and minor domestic dispute, right the way through to the diplomatic negotiations between warring countries.

Acknowledgment doesn’t mean a retraction of behaviour or action, it doesn’t mean one party is right or wrong, it literally means ‘I can see that this event has caused feelings in you’. It’s really that simple and basic. When I think of every argument, or rather every reconciliation, those that have created connection and healing are those where I have been heard for my side, my feelings, no matter how unwarranted or unreasonable someone might judge them to be; they are still what I felt in that moment. Equally when I have accepted another’s feelings, without insisting on correcting or changing them to suit my own agenda or story, I have witnessed how freeing that has been for them.

It is so easy to underestimate this, I can see how I have often dismissed or redacted my children’s, my husband’s and my friend’s stories for fear that it will reflect badly on me; create bigger issues; or for numerous, ultimately spurious, reasons. It’s societally habitual to ‘not want to hear’ the other side, so that I don’t have to face my own story with honesty and perspective. Long term, that will not serve me, it simply creates alienation and resentment.

What I wish for myself, and for my relations, is to be soulfully heard. How deeply and powerfully healing that would be.

Emancipation

I wasn’t sure if I would ever write this post, if I would ever talk about it so very openly. It is delicate, because I am not wanting to hurt those involved and yet inevitably, just by broaching the subject, I will. So the choice becomes between knowingly causing pain to another and healing myself.

I have chosen to heal myself.

I have chosen to withdraw contact from my mother, for the time being. It has not been an easy or light decision, but after 40 years of a very fragile and damaging relationship, it is time for a break.

The rain is buffeting ferociously as I type these words and I feel the chill run through me from the safety of my sitting room. The fierce rain reflecting the power of my tears.

I am not going to discuss the minutiae of wounding that has occurred to create this breaking point, that would be unnecessary pain for all involved, but it is important to know that it goes against every aching cell of my body to cut the energetic life line to my mother; that this has been the very last resort of a gazillion resorts. To feel that I have no longer have a mother, and not by death, is the most painful thing I have ever had to experience.

And I write about it because there is huge shame surrounding these dynamics in life. Shame that my mother can’t love me enough; shame that I have failed as a daughter; shame that the most primal and most basic of relationships has been severed; shame that I deprive my children of their grandmother. Shame, shame, shame…

We went to therapy before Christmas, my mother and I, one of those last resorts….. It didn’t bring us closer as I had hoped. It didn’t help to create a mutual understanding. It did help me to see that I cannot keep asking, begging for something that cannot be given. It did help me see how the shame I carry for not making it ‘work’ poisons my own family, the heaviness of rejection and pain leaks out in unhealthy ways.

And with that I saw that I needed to take a break. To give myself a chance to be the best I can be without the burden of being a ‘difficult daughter’.  To give my family a chance to start afresh without the binds of ancestral suffering.

I hope that one day I will be able to walk beside my mother again in total acceptance of who she is, but for that to happen I need to be clear and strong and grounded with who I am without her.

I need to emancipate myself.

 

With grateful thanks to Bethany Webster and her phenomenal work  ‘Healing the Mother Wound’.

 

 

Did Women Birth the Patriachy?

‘The job of the initiator…. is to prove to the boy or girl that he or she is more than mere flesh and blood. ‘

Iron John by Robert Bly

I struggle with the polarities of feminism and patriarchy. We are, not only, interconnected beings, but, more critically than that, the perpetrators of patriarchy have been birthed from the vaginas of women.

Women have been just as much of an integral cog in the creation of the ‘demonised’ patriarchy as men; we are a dominant and powerful influence on the children we birth and raise in this world.

This is what we can no longer ignore. We can no longer speak from the place of victim but must acknowledge our own accountability towards the state of our lives and the lives of our ancestors and our future generations.

When we raise our children we need to be deeply aware of the choices we make towards them, this is not about academic education, status, employment; this is about the psychology of raising a child. What creates a grounded, stable, kind, compassionate being? Our role as parents, mothers and fathers, is critical.

The deep truth is that it is not about gender, it is about love. Both women AND men are being abandoned by our current structure, where we place emphasis in all the wrong places. Women’s opportunities being suppressed, men committing suicide at horrendous rates, LGBT communities persecuted. This is not about feminism or patriarchy, it is about our humanity towards each other.

Our children need to feel deeply & soulfully loved in order to be able to walk into the world with kindness and compassion. And this is not as simple as saying ‘I love you’ and packing them off to daycare or nannies or school or extra classes. This love is not about who there are going to be in the world it is about who they already are – a soul, born with all the potential of total acceptance. We teach our children to hate, we teach our children to fear, we teach our children to create clear separate identities to each other. Parents are responsible for every generation that comes forth, it is the single most important job in the world and it’s time to take it more seriously.

It is time to focus on healing the wounds that prevent us from raising our children well, to be wholly accountable for the impact our own actions and choices create in the world.

I will not call myself a feminist when my brothers are being punished for acting out their wounds nor will I align myself with the patriarchy when my sisters are struggling to reach their power.

I will continue to advocate for emotional healing and natural parenting to be the only recourse to humanitarian living, to kindness.

To love.

“… It is easy to love the part of ourselves which resembles a radiant God but real love is to also to love the part of ourselves which is like an imperfect, lost, grief-stricken wanderer lying by the roadside. This wandering, grief-filled soul exiled in the broken world is redeemed by our love, and at the same time this lost wanderer is the one who will guide us home…”

Jason Hine

I believe…

I watched my daughter fly into a fury the other day and, from that simple but emotional outburst, I have witnessed my own, deeply held & damaging, belief unravel.

She came to me with a problem between herself and a playmate; she shared her story to which her playmate immediately denied and refuted (standard), but what happened next was that the playmate’s parent spoke quickly and clearly stating that their child was not a liar. I believe they were just trying to be positive to their own child, showing support for their own upset, and I do understand that, but from my daughter’s perspective she heard ‘the playmate is not a liar and therefore you must be, as your stories are different’ and she raged and screamed. In observing that clearly, I realised that had happened a few times to her in different guises, that a comment, innocent or otherwise, had left her to feel that she was not believed.

In this understanding of her, this rage coming from lack of validation externally but more importantly, internally, not being able to hold her truth without fear of it being stripped away, I saw myself.

Those moments in films where flashback pictures litter the screen, running through countless memories to create the story that is now; that was me. My life rewound as I watched myself try and validate my values, thoughts and ideas via external sources; sharing books, memes, research, videos, anything and anyone else’s perspective to show another that my own thought might have value. And I do all of that because my belief in myself, in my own voice and opinion has not been strong enough. How different it would feel if I could speak my truth and leave it on the table of discussion, just leave it there, to be exactly what it is, my own; to no longer feel the need to explain it away or tie myself in knots to convince someone else to listen and validate me. To know that my worth is enough to stand alone, to be taken, received or rejected and still be OK.

And as I wonder how best to help my daughter, who has absorbed that sensitivity from me, I know that the only way forward is for me to have the courage to leave my opinions on the table and walk away, to take a deep breath, trust in my own wisdom and no longer seek the validation from outside.

It is time to step up and into My Self and hold my own truth securely within my soul, so that my daughter can also hold hers.

Marching Backwards

The #womensmarch didn’t resonate for me and here’s why:

Firstly, it’s called a ‘women’s march’. I want to clarify that I fiercely support the sisterhood of women and the power then can evoke when united, I understand that women need to rise, to shine their light and remember their innate wisdom to be able to gift to the world. I am behind all of that 100%.

I don’t understand why a march that is to unite people to stand up against their belief, in Trump being a disastrous president, excludes half the population. Surely that is counterproductive? And yes I understand that men went along too, but did they go feeling fully in their power? I know men that, though liberal, thoughtful and kind, would not wish to attend because they have had enough of the segregation that ‘feminism’ creates, they don’t want to attend a walk like this as a feminist but as a man, because that is what they are. Just like the women are women. It would have been so easy to create a march with an inclusive name – Humanitys March for instance.

And then what is the purpose of this march? To show their disdain and dissatisfaction with the morality of President Donald Trump…. and yet 63 million people voted for him, so they are also showing huge disdain and judgement towards 63 million voters. I am not a Trump supporter, nor do I like the majority of his ideals, as I’ve seen them expressed in the media, but I’m not going to sway anyone’s opinion by telling them they’re flat out wrong to have voted for him.

I might be able to understand them if I invited them to gather in small circles; sat together, broke bread together and listened to each other’s stories. In that scenario, I reckon I’d learn a lot, but marching with placards calling them liars and bullies (because everything labelled at Trump, also labels them), is just continuing the separation and alienation.

Some of my very favourite women rose up and marched and I honour them in their determination to do something and to stand up for what they see to be gross insults to humanity. I recognise their spirit, love and intention AND I don’t know how this march is going to change a single thing. I don’t know how this march does anything other than increase the unhappy feelings of inferiority/superiority, control or lack of, division and hatred.

People are shocked by the arrival of President Trump and what he represents, but only by understanding why and how he came to power will anything change.

#grassroots #meetthevoters #compassion #unconditionallove