Last night I pulled a box of memories down out of the cupboard in the garage…I haven’t looked at this stuff for years! Pictures from my youth. Pictures of my children when they were. A bunch of stuff they did at school….reports, stories, drawings, cards. There were notes from old friends, would-be lovers, and an exhusband who told me he thought it was over.
And I got really really sentimental. I’ll admit even to some crying (BIG surprise, right! LOL) It was like I was missing the little children that were my kids….and a life that I wanted us to have…and the young woman I was. Time goes so quickly, doesn’t it?
OK…so it might have been a little over zealous of me to start Week 1 of The Artist’s Way AND to join Nanoblomo in July! But hey, I’m a Five Star Aries! Getting things started is not only a speciality, it’s a necessity! LOL (If you’re not familiar with NaBloPoMo, it’s National Blog Posting Month) With those two decisions, I’m now writing three pages of longhand in my journal every day, and then coming here to write something. So many words, do I have enough time???
Anyway, this morning I’m off to an Organic Gardening class at the Arboretum. There’s a pot luck afterwards, but I haven’t decided on that yet. I made my World Famous Potato Salad last night, so I can always put that in the cooler just “in case”.
This is sure a different way to spend the holiday. Even though I’ll be doing something I love, I’ll be doing it with (mostly) perfect strangers. But the topic and setting are perfect, so away I go…
Over the years, I’ve spent the 4th doing (or not doing) all the more traditional things. Picnics, BBQs, Parties, Fireworks, Family and Friends. I’ve been alone, with a S.O., and in a crowd. THIS year, Independence Day has taken on a whole new symbollic meaning for me. Sure, it’s about our country but today I’m making it all about Me. My own In-Country: My life. And the motivation to do this is simple. In the last three weeks…since ending my relationship…I’m revisiting and renewing a “recovery” program of sorts. If Independence means anything to me, it means Freedom. And that’s my goal: To achieve personal freedom by recovering my sense of Who I Am.
Over the years I’ve gone through a cycle like this a number of times. But I find that working those this stuff is like peel down to the deeper layers of an onion. I’ll work, start living my work, and then watch what happens. And I’ve discovered that I’m still affected by things. Things I bought into – at the core of me – and that were tapped into through my last relationship. Here are a few of those things:
1. I’m responsible for the health and happiness of the important people in my life.
2. What I love to do (or have or be) isn’t “good enough”.
3. I must perform, look a certain way, and be “good” in order to be loved.
One of the things I’ve noticed in my inner work, with regards to relationships, is that I have unconsciously chosen to be with men who (a) come from disfunctional families. (b) have anger issues and low self-esteem and (c) have ongoing health issues. These three things, tied in with those three negative beliefs, has made for a really yucky emotional stew.
So the first part of my Independance Day has been to release the people who have used shame, guilt and fear to try to control my behavior (my parents being an example), and forgave them. I also forgave myself for any time that I used shame, guilt or fear to try to “control” another, because I recognize that I have done that myself in the past. And then I forgave myself for every time I’ve used my own thoughts to punish myself with a bunch of Should Have, Could Haves and Would Haves. I have chosen to no longer be my Jailer, but my Liberator, and I’m doing that by using these three important affirmations for transformation:
1. I am loveable, loved and loving, just as I am. I accept and love myself completely.
2. It is safe for me to express who I am, and my own personal power.
3. There is a Divine Plan for Goodness for me, and I am loved unconditionally.
There it is, my Declaration of Independence.
Seed of Heaven
Every thought, word and action is a chance to manifest heaven in your life and in the world. Let your love loose in the world while you have time and you will create heaven on earth.
Say to yourself; Today I will create heaven on earth.
“Heaven”…what is it and where is it? Well, depending on your beliefs, it can be a place of bliss and joy “out there” or “in here” or, maybe, a combination of both. Maybe you don’t believe in “Heaven” at all! I’ve personally heard it described with Mansions and streets of gold…big pearly gates and lots of creatures that sound a little bit like aliens. There’s worship, family reunions and even feasting. Nothing but Love and Peace and Joy, where All is One and One is God.
All of that may be true. Who am I to say? I’m totally down with the Love, Peace, Joy and Oneis God part. But the location? The actual setting? Well, it would look alot different to me. It would look very much like a…garden.
A couple of posts ago, I mentioned walking around the Fullerton Arboretum. If you live in the area and you’ve never gone, you really should treat yourself! They have an amazing array of plant species (some quite exotic like the Aristolochia gigantea), ponds replete with ducks and frogs and herons Oh My!, walking trails, a Victorian home (with tours), the Potting Shed (where you can buy plants), and just lots and lots of beautiful scenery. They also have a Community Garden. And it doesn’t cost a penny to go in!
Community Garden. I love just the NAME of that! For $100 a year, if any plots are available (and according to the wonderful woman I spoke to last weekend who has been gardening there for 10 years, there are only a couple) you get a plot of dirt to call your own. Veggies, flowers, 
herbs…you name it…plant what you will, embellish as you wish, and grow, Gardener, grow! When I stopped to chat with this Queen Bee (she must have been in her 70s…grubby and lively and keen), I soon found myself being taught about the local bird life, the local human life, and a little gossip about the Arboretum itself. Wow! It was wonderful. I just stood there listening, asking a question now and then, and was treated to my own lecture and tour – just a spontaneous happenstance that left a smile on my face for the rest of the day.
I seriously considered buying a plot because of this jones I’ve been dealing with: My need to get in the dirt! To feel it and smell it and GROW something! What a wonderful place to do it! My little container gardening on the patio is nice (I’m growing several veggies, a dozen herbs and another dozen flowers) but I want more. Only thing is, the Arboretum hours don’t jive with my work schedule, and gardens need regular TLC. 
The Answer? Well, as Grace would have it (LOL) during dinner with my friend that night, she mentioned a thought she had had.
“You know that area in the back by the Shed? I was thinking about maybe turning it into a Community Garden. Not charging for it or anything. But maybe just opening it up to a couple of my girlfriends and doing it all together.”
Hehe. WhooYa! So, that’s where I’m heading this morning. This large piece of ground in her backyard that’s been left to its own devices for many years now is about to get a face lift. A life lift….Transformation Station. We’ve got the tools, I’ve got the backmuscle, and she’s got the space. A little bit of Heaven, right in “our” own backyard. It’s just waiting to be entered into, tended, and enjoyed.
Just like Heaven, everywhere.
Last night at nearly 10:00, I received a call from an old childhood friend I hadn’t spoken to in over 30 years. At first, I was a little annoyed at the timing as I was sort of on the downswing of the day after working 8 hours and taking care of my grandson for a few more.
This morning, as I reflect back on our hour long chat, I’m so very glad I did.
Our families grew up together. His dad was the Principal of the elementary school I attended, and my mother was President of the PTA. Through this connection, a life long friendship developed between the “adults” that has lasted through the death of Brad’s mom, and my own fathers’ passing 9 1/2 years ago.
The conversation started out pretty light and easy….sharing a bit about ourselves now, but mostly reminiscing about our youth. We both remembered how we kids would hang out together while the parents socialized. They were all upper middle class professionals, whose “cocktail hours” lasted more than an hour and would get increasingly louder as time went on.
Brad and I laughed as we remembered my mom and his dad being the noisiest of the bunch. And then he said, “I remember your dad…he was such a nice guy!”
“Yeah, he was,” I said.
I asked about his dad, now well into his 80s. “He’s an old grouch!” Brad laughed. “I love him to pieces but he’s just so negative! But then, Dad was always grouchy….” He then went on to tell me about a father who, while guiding other people’s children all day long with his attention, his time, and his talents, was – at home – a bit…well…absent where his own boys were concerned. Mr. T., who regularly gave out ‘The Paddle” at school (does anyone remember those days but us????), never laid a hand on his own kids. 5 boys in all! Not once, not to one boy, did he raise his hand in punishment. Talk about irony. And Brad remembered his parents fighting only one time, and how it broke his heart.
”You’re kidding me!” I said.
“No, really! Dad made mom correct us boys, too! Your parents were really nice, especially your dad!” Brad obviously had warm memories of my dad, just like most people do. Al, the “Nice Guy”. Al, the one most likely to tell a joke, pick up the check, and go with the flow. Al, the loving husband and father.
“Yeah”, I said again.
He couldn’t see the look on my face, and even though I was smiling, he must have heard something in my voice.
“What?” he asked.
I proceeded to pour my heart out to this stranger-who’s-not really-a stranger. I told him about how my dad would “spank” me with his hand or with the belt. I told him about how my mom would slap me, but leave the “real” punishment until My Father Got Home. I told him how there were never any family games, although there were family gatherings and outings that usually revolved around the adults and their parties. And I told him how my mom seemed more concerned about how I acted and how I looked, that how I was. Emotionally.
Then there the arguing. The fights and the yelling and the threats of leaving. There usually was alcohol involved. There was always alcohol involved. You should see the family pictures – every holiday, there “we” are, champagne and scotch and “toddies” gallore. I would walk down the hall at night and yell at them, “Shut up! I’m trying to sleep!” Words are powerful. Words hurt.
My folks used “words” to discipline me, too. We didn’t even get into that.
Anyway, I was in 6th grade, then junior high, then high school. I very clearly remember the day my mom stopped hitting me. I was as tall as she was, and as she raised both fists in the air to come at me, I grabbed her by the wrists, holding those fists aloft. Looking her in the eye, I told her, “You will not hit me again.” She went away crying and screaming about what would happen When Your Father Gets Home.
I don’t remember when dad stopped. It’s easier to remember the hand marks or the welts that were still on my bottom (or lower back, or upper thighs) the next day. And, of course, there was love. I remember his love.
As my story sort of faded off, Brad said, “they call that child abuse now….”
I could hear the pity and the empathy and the sorrow in his voice. “I had no idea….wow…and how did that affect you. How does it affect you?”
The silence on the phone lasted a couple of heartbeats.
When I finally spoke, I told him….”I’m still trying to figure that out. But I know it does. All of the men I’ve been involved with – while not hitting me with their hands – have hit me with their words. Somehow, I’m guess I’m still Daddy’s Girl…”
…….Part III to come. Here’s Part I.
