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Mermaids and My WomanchildSpent a day hanging out with my pre-teen and her friends. We went to see a screening of "Aqua Marine", Hollywood's "Little Mermaid" for the slightly older crowd. Suffice it to say, it was a very longggg day.
Being with young, pert "we know everything and you're old" girls was nothing if not mind bending. And it made me think about how Madison Ave. sells to these little ones. The not so subtle way beauty (as defined by those who sell it) is glorified - every young girl wants to be beautiful, but not every young girl wants to be capable and smart and gloriously living out the power of her person.
I struggle with this because I want the womanchild I am raising to Love herself unconditionally and to expect everything from Life. I want her to cultivate her mind and her body, but I want her to be intimate with her Spirit.
I am a woman who has rejected the importance of the beauty of the physical form. It's a carry over from childhood and it's a liability. I suffered from being told I was unattractive and flawed and overweight for all of my young Life. So, that when I finally looked into a mirror, I could not see the swan staring back at me - she looked always like a duck. To compensate I decided that beauty, my beauty especially, didn't matter.
Now, it truly is the inside of a person that counts, but what draws many to that light is what they see on the outside. I get it, I'm just not buying it. I still think it's a waste of time and money to pay others to do my hair, and paint my nails and sand the dead skin off the soles of my feet. All the rituals of feminine beauty (which more and more men now partake of) seem smoke and mirrors to me; a slight of hand and suddenly I have much less money in the bank, lots more little containers filled with color of all types and a sense that all this will somehow make me more attractive.
More attractive than my self, prettier than I am, sexier and more appealing to those men I am trying to ensnare. After about two weeks, the thrill is always gone and I begin to wonder why the uneven skin tone, the pinkish brown tones of my lips, and every other bit of me is not beautiful to the world around me. When I look at myself through the eyes of others I am disheartened. Not that I think others are repulsed by me, but they are not drawn in by my physical form. No, that would take a little make believe and pretend out of a bottle. It's ironic that I just want to be seen and Loved and viewed as beautiful by the world around me, but the world requires I do a little enhancement first. And, except for plucking those chin hairs which I just can't abide and coloring the grey which seems to make me feel old, I simply won't take the time or energy to do.
It's a stand I have taken in Life that has proven to be like spitting in the wind. It doesn't help to be so out of touch/step with the rest of the world. It gets you discounted.
But, back to my womanchild. She hasn't yet started experimenting with make-up in earnest. She is just beginning to be conscious of her body and what she wears. I watch her stare at her image in the mornings and hope she like what she sees. I hope she Loves what she sees. I do, when I look at her, but my opinion means less (or appears to anyway) these days.
As long as she knows that her full lips, hips and her broad nose are beautiful and that the milk choclate skin that covers them is exquisite. I want her to feel in her soul that her brown and golden touched hair is perfect in its kinky and locked state - gorgeous just the way it grows from her beautiful head. Because what I learned (maybe too late in Life) is that if you know your beauty and believe it to be so, others will be enamored with you. They can't help it, confidence is beautiful.
For all the little girls, no matter their color or shape or size I wish a sense of peace and wholeness with their physical form. That they reject the notion that there is some standard of beauty against which they fall short. That they shine from the inside out, always and forever...
post script: a few of you over these past months have mistaken me for the beautiful brown woman holding my great neice. That's my sis-in-law, Ethel, the dove from Harlem. I'm the lady in the pink turtleneck with her handsome nephews. I considered flying incognito for a bit longer, but the layers peeled back and there it is...Later Gators... F*ck the MuckThis week has been a funky ride. I've been immersed in the muck of me. I thought my little experiment "What if..." would free me from my self criticism. As it turns out, the years have allowed me to hoard a heap of negativity related to my self image. So, I find myself asking "What if..." thousands of time a day - or so it seems.
And that, my friends, makes me think "What is wrong with me?" and that sends me right back to my never ending line of questioning. So, for the past few days I have been in a pouty, menstrual and basically foul mood. I tend to isolate when I get like that - it never occurs to me to just bitch out loud in my blog. However, Lynn (dearheart, who is taking her blog underground or out of bounds) suggested in her last blog that that's the whole point. We can get as plain and funky as we like.
So, sitting on my family room futon, watching American Idol with the wonder-child, ignoring the pangs of cramps and the river of red that pours forth from my womb, I've decided to write.
This week has seen my dear friend and neighbor laid low by depression. She's been diagnosed with a small tumor in her brain, on the pituitary. Tonight she told me the shrinks think she may also be bipolar. She and I worked together a few years ago (when I had my consulting thing going) and I love and care for her deeply. I spent a couple of evenings this week sitting in her presence making her laugh, and when I couldn't do that, settling for a smile and when I couldn't get that, just filling the silence with my voice because I thought she needed that and when that wasn't right, I just listened. Listened to the pain that fills her body and how tired she is of bearig it, to the stress and tension and fear behind every one of her words. And, I listened to her hope and I shared it.
At work I discovered that my new boss, who is also a work friend, is (as most people are) running her own agenda and actively working to draw me into it. Now, I am just not cut out for the intrigue and politics of American worklife. It's stupid, or maybe I'm stupid, but I just find the whole game lacking in integrity. My aim is to remain balanced, true to the work and committed to finding the adaptive, higher order solutions to the issues and changes that we're facing.
But, I realize that others may attempt to force me into choosing sides (because there is always another side in these matters) and engaging in their lower order war games.
I just hope they don't force my hand on a day when I have my period.
There you have it my blogland friends. F*ck the muck - right now life sucks. (Typing that felt really good, in the most juvenile way!)
Take it light... Tell Me Something GoodLeave a comment, share a sentiment, argue a point. Whatever you've come to say, say it with respect and human kindness - I don't require agreement (not at all!), but I do require care. There's a little Love for you here... Whew...The Morning AfterThankfully, the sun rises and also sets. A new day, a new thought.
While hibernating, I began to think about those 'reality, what is it and how is it formed' questions that have been bouncing around my head. I came out from under my blanket for a few quick minutes to try to sort out the way consciousness, specifically my consciousness, percieves reality, and if shifting that perception could shift reality. Intuitvely, it makes sense to me, but my intuition, like my rational mind, has never been 100% accurate.
So, I'm entering a phase of experimentation (the last time I did that illegal substances were involved, but that was a long, long time ago and probably the reason for all my current Life problems
 ). This experiment requires that upon waking, before sleeping and whenever I find myself engaging in self-critical mental murmuring, I ask myself this essential question: "What if I am perfect exactly as I am?".
I'm just wondering what short-circuiting the negative rumblings about myself might do. As I observed myself yesterday, I was surprised at how many judgemental thoughts I had about myself. My attitude might have been impacted by how funky I felt about Valentine's Day, but I really felt much better once I wrote it out in the blog. No, the times I caught myself were during everyday conversations - with my Mom about dinner, a friend about finances, my colleagues about work.
I can't say for certain, but I think my level of negative self-talk has increased over the years. I can tell you with certainty that I felt a sense of calmness when I asked myself the essential question yesterday. So, even if it doesn't change my external reality, I think my internal reality could use a lift!
I've committed to this for the next week - so, that's until 2/22/06. I'll check in at some point and let you know what (if anything) is revealed, if I have any ahh-ha moments, or if a major miracle takes place.
I can hear you laughing - stop it!
Enjoy your Life today; take it light... Valentine's DayMy head's under the covers. I'm snuggled warm and in my bed.
I will not answer the phone because it's just a saleperson or bill collector - not a lover, friend or family member calling to say "I Love you". They (friends & family) know I know - at least I hope that's why they're not calling.
Every year, it's the same.
I know I'm supposed to live each day free from the past, unencumbered by old and empty spaces. But, come on! I know what this is and it's just easier to get through this day without hoping for those things that are not here.
I'll be better tomorrow - promise.
Happy Valentine's Day - I Love you (just in case you didn't know).
Gayle Family HistoryI was tickled that a couple of people were surprised that I encouraged my family and friends to check out my blog. It led me to think about family, mine in particular and the concept in general. So, here are my ramblings...
Mi Familia, an odd collection of loveable folk, and you have to catch some of them at the right time and place in order to see just how loveable they are. But, they are mine and we are (for the most part) for each other; we've got each other's back.
That was the obligatory Gayle's Love-and-Light statement. Now comes the part where I tell you that my family is as rife with dysfunction and self-inflicted pain as any other. More than many, I suspect.
I have lots of good memories of my family while growing up. But too many of them are attached to memories of what happened after the night wore on and the quart bottles (anyone remember them - before we joined the world and made liter bottles?) of gin, scotch and bourbon became depleted. I understand what happens to families trapped in poverty, racism, sexism and dreams deferred.
I watched my dad, one of the smartest men I ever met, live a life of few options. My father, who introduced me to the Greek philosophers by requiring I read his collection of works. He would engage me in friendly dinner debate every evening, during grades 7 and 8, to test my understanding. Those are some of my best memories. But, Dad was marginalized at work, often having decisions overturned by his bosses and then reinstated (as their ideas) later, when their interventions did not work. And he was a drinker, prone to sharing his true feelings and thoughts when he'd had too much; prone to the old kick-the-dog syndrome when he'd had more than his share of the world's funk. Only problem was he liked the dog better than he liked my Mom, so Mom paid the price. (The topic of my Mom requires a blog all it's own!)
My aunts and uncles, each had their own story of pain and, my grandmother, my Nana, Ruth, was the most remarkable woman. I discovered as a young woman, while caring for her that she had been quite wealthy when young. Her Mom (my great grandmother) married a French landowner in Trinidad and she was raised to be a wealthy woman. Educated in the art of embroidery and sewing, because, well, what else did she need to know? Nana's father died when she was an adolescent and her uncles took over his land, effectively leaving her mom with nothing. ( Women and property rights - don't get me started) She came to the US in 1915 or so, chasing after the Love of her life. I hardly think he was worth it, but I entered this love story at the end; the beginning, I pray, was worthy of her commitment.
Headstrong and full of Love, Ruth made her way to NYC and found herself unskilled and black. And, though she didn't know how to make a bed (she always had maids to do that) she knew how to stitch and became a seamstress in the garment district. She supported her children (7 in all, the twin boys died as children) doing piece work in sweat shops. The father of those children left when the youngest was a toddler. I forget when they were married, but I think it was when the youngest was about 7 or 8 and had something to do with benefits or schooling for the kids.
I was surprised at my grandmother's guts when I heard the whole story. I always thought she had some sort of poor, black version of an Ozzie and Harriet life that went awry. But it was so much more than that - riches to rags, immature love, single motherhood - amazing. It was a comfort to know that I could make my wild and insane decisions and survive them - it had been done before (thanks, Nana).
Blatantly absent from the family, except on hoildays, my grandfather was a player, a ladies man, an ass. He had been an attorney in Trinidad before fleeing the wrath of a family who felt he should marry their pregnant daughter. A girl, who was not my grandmother. Unfortunately for him, grandpa couldn't practice law in the US, and though a highly educated man, the only work he could find was as a porter. This was way before the depression (so there were certainly prestigious jobs to be had) and way before civil rights (so there were no prestigious jobs for a black man).
While I discounted most of what my grandfather said, because he was just a drop-in, I can never forget the pain of his storytelling. He suffered indignities for which he was unprepared and he tried to make sure we grandchildren would know what we were up against, and that we were prepared. The funky thing is that there really is no way to prepare a human for the pain and shock of rejection based upon some attribute you cannot control. Even though you know someday you'll experience that rejection, that someday whatever safety and Love you have will not be enough, when that day comes the pain and rage are not lessened. But you don't show it, you close your mouth instead of shouting out loud, and in a world of oppression that can save your life. (Thanks, Grandpa)
So, there's a bit of my family history, I'm sure I'll share other stories of dysfunction and pain as time goes on. I'm reminded of my query a couple of blogs back (Woe, Wow, Woman) regarding the intersection/interdependence of the internal, the external and the creation of our reality. I still don't have the clarity I seek, but I see the results of the process in my family.
As for sharing my blog with my family and friends, if they can't see me and love me without my censoring my truth, then I am more troubled than I thought. They're the ones I count on to be willing to work through the sh*t with me. (Besides, based on my traffic stats, they don't come around that often) If it's about Love and honesty then I'll be okay, 'cause I'm as willing to listen as I am to speak.
Take it light my friends (and family)... Let There Be Peace and DreamsQuite a few friends and family were shocked when they looked at this blog for the first time. (Mind you many of them didn't know what a blog was, asking, "What's a blog?", "Will it give my computer a virus?", "What? What are you talking about?") Okay, that wore off and then came the real question. "Why haven't you talked about your book?"
I didn't have a good answer for that, or even a bad answer. I must admit I felt guilty (and I can't stand that feeling), as if I had left my child with a neglectful caretaker. And I suppose, in some ways, that's what I have been. A neglectful caretaker of my dreams. I'm trying to sort this out, to understand how I came to be this person, and this is what I have uncovered thus far:
I have lost a certain energy that I could always count on to see me through, to spur me on, to take me over whatever obstacle or setback confronted me. And, while it's scary for me to write this (speak it out loud, acknowledge it with my conscious mind), I trace it back to the gestation, birth and subsequent raising of my daughter, Sky.
My pregnancy was difficult and I was in bed for almost 8 months. I was also single, older (37) and her biological father was pointedly absent. Which was ok with me, in most ways, because he was borderline abusive (threatening, withholding, scary really). I broke up with him as soon as I discovered that side of his personality and 2 weeks later discovered I had won the Grand Prize. He chose not to participate I said 'thankee sai', with a sigh of relief. Oops - I think I might be rambling.
So, 8 months in bed, a horror story of a c-section (and I won't start a tangental paragraph about that) and for most of the first two years I thought I might not make it. Financially, mentally and emotionally the bells were tolling and they were tolling for me. The only thing that kept me going was the idea that I had this amazing creature that needed me. She became my reason for holding it together, for perservering, for moving forward. I put one foot in front of the other for her. And it is only now, 11 years later that I have begun to re-assess that strategy.
I am beginning to awaken to the idea that my Life is for me. To be shared, for sure. To help others, definitely. To care for and nurture my child, absolutely. But, I have to be in here too. The me that longs to express herself, to assert her vision and live her passions is still in here - short circuited maybe, but still around. I have to pay attention to me and that means breaking habits gained and reinforced during the past 12 years; thought patterns, especially.
So, in honor of my dreams I am creating a link to the introduction of my book, co-authored with a dear friend, and entitled Peace in Everyday Relationships. Check it out, give me feedback (positive and negative - any and all honest reactions are welcome) and buy the book. As I have never promoted a book before and the publisher is a small house with little staff and budget, anyone with any good, great or previously successful strategies, send them to me, please.
Take it light.
Addendum 10:00 pm
Okay, as I went about my day I began to realize that I didn't shut down completely. In fact, I co-authored this book - hard as it was, I did manage to complete the project. But it wasn't an everyday project. Sheila, the originator of the idea had completed the outline and written a large part of the book. In fact, we had regular conversations about her progress and the book's content. I remember being so incredibly and completely in awe of her; this friend who was living one of her dreams with power and possibility bending to her will.
During the year before I took on the project we would talk into the late hours about the origins of violence and the desire for peace. Did people really want peace, or just an end to their pain? We'd spend hours debating, building on one another's ideas, sharing our beliefs as friends who value one another's opinions and thoughts do.
So, in the spring of 2002 when Sheila called to tell me she had lung cancer I immediately went into overdrive. My brain did its gear shift and just like the scenery seems to whizzz by when your driving way too fast - everything is blurred even though you know what's there. My Dad had passed away just the November before after a 5 year battle with breast cancer (yes fellas, you can have breast cancer, so if you feel a lump, check it out - please!!!). Sheila and I talked alot about his fight and the real possibility of her survival.
A week later she got the news that her cancer was inoperable. Somewhere on the path she decided not to go the chemo route. By the early signs of fall, she was pure spirit and had moved on to wherever we exist when we are not existing here. About a month before, she called me and asked me to finish the book. Unable to focus on it after her diagnosis, the book was just laying around, in jeopardy of losing her publisher's commitment. "Think about it", she said, "because if you say yes, I want you to see it through to the end. Finish writing it, make the edit changes and get it published."
I did that, but it never really felt like I had finished it. Finishing it, in my mind, meant doing everything I could to get its message into the hands of everyday people. Even though Sheila never asked me to make that promise, that's the promise I felt in my heart when
I said yes to her. And my life was topsy-turvy again. The tech stock adjustment had cut the legs out from under several major companies with whom I had been consulting. My daughter became sick whenever I had to travel (the combination of 9/11 and my Dad's death were just too much for her - people die, and people you know die) and she'd start to cry herself to sleep at night. So, I left consulting and took a regular gig - one that kept me at home and close to her. Unfortunately, I ended up working for a lot less money and reporting to a woman who, well, I find it hard to describe the depth of her fear, calculated punishments and inauthenticity. I was required to ask myself daily, sometimes hourly, who am I, who do I choose to be in the face of this insanity and how long can I hold on?
It was the most sobering and destructive/instructive experience of my Life. I gave up a great deal of my 'fluff', lost huge chunks of my ego and discovered what it is like to be less than myself. I think some of what I lost needed to go, but the pain of oppression and abuse is such that you are indiscriminant. You give up many things without awareness, unconsciously - little bits of what was precious float away and you do not notice because you eyes are warily focused on your abuser. You turn your attention outward so that you can protect yourself from the onslaught that will eventually come your way. Because when you are being oppressed, the onslaught is guaranteed.
And I stayed, which amazes even me. In my mind, it was my job to keep my home running as smoothly as possible. I couldn't sell the house, uproot Mom and child, move off to greener pastures. I had moved them to this greener pasture and here they would stay for a little while longer, anyway. They each had age appropriate reasons for needing the stability of a familiar and safe home, their friends and daily routines. I felt as if they were counting on me to handle whatever needed to be handled. I did my best.
So, here I am; a small promotion this past December has allowed me to leave many of the horrors I suffered behind me. As the mental burns and bruises heal, I find I still have dreams to fulfill, that I have not sacrificed them all. And I will admit to being a little afraid, like I imagine I might feel if I was learning to walk at this age. When I look around it seems as if everyone else takes for granted the use of their legs to carry them to freedom. But mine wobble and my knees shake a bit...
So, let there be peace and dreams
and let them begin with me. |
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