A friend was talking about the events that had occured over the course of her life. "Each situation took away a piece of me, and left me feeling less sure of myself, less whole."
I pondered her statement for a long time and then I asked her, "Is it possible that the parts of you that were taken away were parts that you no longer needed?" We often view events or crises as diminishing our sense of self, our ability to feel strong and whole, but perhaps it is just the opposite. Perhaps when our ego is bruised or our self-esteem is diminished, we are actually making room for a whole new understanding of who we are to shine through.
Rumi says, "Keep looking at the bandaged place. That's where the light enters you.
I look over my life and I can see plenty of bandaged places. I used to feel like there was a hole where my heart should be. A big gaping wound that no amount of bandages could cover. I had to put an imagined steel belt around my heart to keep it from feeling too much pain, from coming to terms with the gaping hole. But that hole was precisely the spot where the light seeped through. When I eventually let go of the steel band and let the pain pour out, even more light poured in. I felt more whole, more centered in my self, more full of light.
Our scars are also our greatest potential for growth and enlightenment. Without them we would become complacent and spiritually lazy. Every trauma we go through is a potential bandaged place and a potential place for the light to shine through. Instead of looking at an event with sadness or pain, try looking at it as a window through which the light of your own spirit can shine and help you to heal. Take off the bandage slowly. There will be pain, but there will also be light.
As parents we worry that a truamtic event may scar our children for life. Death of a loved one. Divorce. Moving to a new city. Being the victim of a bully. We see their wounds and scars as our fault. If we were better parents, our children wouldn't have to go through this pain and suffering.
We ARE responsible for a lot of what our children must experience. We make the major decisions that affect their lives for good or ill. I am not absolving you of your responsibility as a parent. Rather I am challeging you to look at a difficult event as a potential for your growth as well as the growth of your children. Help them to express their feelings and also help them to feel the light shining through their discomfort. If children can learn that growth and light come from every difficult event in their lives, they will welcome the events as they come and open up to the light, rather than avoiding any conflict or wallowing in sadness, self-pity or resentment. And the bandaged places will heal without a scar at all.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
More Thoughts on Turning 60
I turned 60 on March 24th. My older sister insisted that we mark the occasion with a mini family reunion. She flew in to Seattle from Detroit and my niece (her daughter) hosted a birthday party for me, complete with a decades theme. There were party favors and foods from the 1950's, 1960's, 1970's, 1980's, 1990's and 2000's. We had Necco Wafers and Pez, we had ratatouie and carrot cake, and we had poems. My niece asked everyone who came to write a poem for me - and they did! Seeing myself through the eyes of my sister, my husband, my two sons, my great-nieces and daughters-in-law was truly memorable and very moving.
My sister also gave me a wonderful gift: letters written to my cousin Harry when he was in basic training in 1952. These letters were mostly from my mother and father, and were simply telling Harry about their activities day to day, my father's work and volunteer work, me and my sister. Unremarkable, right? Except that my mother died 6 months after writing these letters. She was already sick. She referred to her "rheumatism" saying her hands were making it hard to write. Only she didn't have rheumatism. She had Scleroderma, but didn't know it yet. The diagnosis would not be given until 3 months after these letters were written.
I have very few actual memories of my mother. She died when I was three and a half. These letters give her back to me. She was a loving mother to me and my sister, a loving wife to my father and a loving aunt to my cousin. She told cousin Harry about the funny things I did, when I was sick, when my sister needed new clothes for school, an opera she attended with my father. She became a real person through these letters, not just a tragic figure who died so young and left me alone.
I am so grateful for these letters. I have read them again and again. I was loved and cared for by my mother, and even though she left so long ago, I carry her in my heart always.
My sister also gave me a wonderful gift: letters written to my cousin Harry when he was in basic training in 1952. These letters were mostly from my mother and father, and were simply telling Harry about their activities day to day, my father's work and volunteer work, me and my sister. Unremarkable, right? Except that my mother died 6 months after writing these letters. She was already sick. She referred to her "rheumatism" saying her hands were making it hard to write. Only she didn't have rheumatism. She had Scleroderma, but didn't know it yet. The diagnosis would not be given until 3 months after these letters were written.
I have very few actual memories of my mother. She died when I was three and a half. These letters give her back to me. She was a loving mother to me and my sister, a loving wife to my father and a loving aunt to my cousin. She told cousin Harry about the funny things I did, when I was sick, when my sister needed new clothes for school, an opera she attended with my father. She became a real person through these letters, not just a tragic figure who died so young and left me alone.
I am so grateful for these letters. I have read them again and again. I was loved and cared for by my mother, and even though she left so long ago, I carry her in my heart always.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Some Thoughts on Turning 60 by Saralee Sky
In exactly two weeks - on March 24th - I will turn 60. This is a milestone, a testament to the fact that I have lived on this planet in this incarnation for 60 years. What can be said of my life, my time on Earth?
I am aware of feeling deeply, of always feeling everything intensely, every hurt, every praise, every event in my life. I am also aware of not having a very good memory. Minutes, days, weeks, years have been lived and forgotten. Where are those events? Those heartbeats? Those experiences?
When I say I do not have a good memory it is true only in part. I DO have a very good memory for unique moments in my life - special teaching moments when someone or something intervenes and shakes me to my core. One such moment: I am 3 and sitting in my high chair at my Aunt Goldie's house. The phone rings and she answers it. She listens, then throws her head back and screams. No one tells me anything but I KNOW my mother is dead.
I am 6 or 7 and I am sitting on my father's lap. "I'm hungry," I say. "I'm Jewish," he replies.
I am away at summer camp for the first time. I am 8. I am told to come to the camp office and then told my father is on the phone. We are not allowed to receive calls except in emergencies so I am scared. I pick up the phone and my father's voice explodes over the wire, "What did you do to you (step)mother?!?"
I am 8 or 9 and I am sitting at the kitchen table across from my father. My stepmother sits between us. We are having lunch. "Give me a match," my father says to me. I reach behind me to a cubby in the wall where the matches are kept. I drop the book of matches on the floor. I reach down to pick them up when I feel/hear my father's hand slam down on the table. "When I say give me a match, I mean give me a match!" he explodes with anger.
I am sitting on my Aunt Goldie's porch waiting for dinner. I am with my Aunt Betty. I am 9 or 10. "I'm starving," I say. "You'll never know what it is to be truly hungry," my Aunt Betty replies.
I am 17. I just got home from a basketball game (or similar event). I hang up my coat in the closet in the family room. My Uncle Joe is there and he says, "GoodNIGHT, Saralee." "Goodnight," I reply as if by rote. "Do you realize that for the last three years I have always said goodnight to you first?" he asks.
These are moments etched in the stone of my memory. While some of them may seem inconsequential in the sum total of a life, they are actually extremely important. Let's take them one by one. In the first case, no one told me that my mother had died, but I knew the moment my aunt screamed what had happened. My mother was in the hospital. She had a fatal disease and she had just died. I felt the connection sever as I sat in my high chair, and I had no words to describe what I felt. I learned from that moment on to listen to the voice inside me.
Next one: I am sitting on my father's lap. I know he's making a joke by retorting "I'm Jewish" to my "I'm hungry", but I also know that he is making an important statement about his identity, the way he sees himself in the world. I begin to think about my own identity from that moment on.
Next one - summer camp. My father goes on to say that I have to apologize to my stepmother for "hurting her feelings". From this event I learn that to remain close to my father and win his approval, I have to please my stepmother. I stop listening to my inner voice and start listening to her. It will be many years before I can get my stepmother out of my head and start tuning in to my own inner voice again. From this I also learn that adults sometimes expect children to be more mature than they are.
Next one - the give me a match one. This was very scary and is etched in my memory because of the huge amount of rage my father displayed at a seemingly minor event - my dropping his matches. While I kept the table between us and my stepmother pleaded with him to calm down, I realized with great clarity that he was not mad about the matches per se. He had a very slow fuse and this was simply the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back. He must have felt disregarded and disrespected by me for a long time. From this event I learned not to take my father and his building anger lightly.
Next - me and my Aunt Betty. I am an American child of the 1950's. I do not know want or hunger. But my mother's family, along with her sisters, Goldie and Betty, experienced something that they call The Hunger in Russia in the early 1900's. They were forced out of their Jewish shtettle and into Kiev when The Hunger occured. They all nearly starved. This same Aunt Betty would steal raw grain by the handful from the wealthier Jewish family she worked for. She would put it in her skirt pockets and bring the grain home to her family. She told me all this while we sat on the porch waiting for dinner. I cannot say the words 'I'm starving' anymore. I do not have the right.
Last one, my Uncle Joe saying good night to me first. He waited and waited for me to say it to him first. I of course got used to him saying it first and simply didn't realize I was taking him - and his goodnights - for granted. I was a self-centered teenager. I learned to peek out from underneath all the self-centeredness and see others as they see me. I learned to pay attention to the people in my energy field.
As I continued to live and grow and learn, there were more AHA moments such as the ones I have described. They have each taught me something valuable and precious. I am on the descent of my life. I have passed the half-way point long ago, perhaps even the three-quarter point. I do not know how many more teaching moments I have left. Whatever is in store for me, I am grateful for all that I have been given, and all that I have learned.
I am aware of feeling deeply, of always feeling everything intensely, every hurt, every praise, every event in my life. I am also aware of not having a very good memory. Minutes, days, weeks, years have been lived and forgotten. Where are those events? Those heartbeats? Those experiences?
When I say I do not have a good memory it is true only in part. I DO have a very good memory for unique moments in my life - special teaching moments when someone or something intervenes and shakes me to my core. One such moment: I am 3 and sitting in my high chair at my Aunt Goldie's house. The phone rings and she answers it. She listens, then throws her head back and screams. No one tells me anything but I KNOW my mother is dead.
I am 6 or 7 and I am sitting on my father's lap. "I'm hungry," I say. "I'm Jewish," he replies.
I am away at summer camp for the first time. I am 8. I am told to come to the camp office and then told my father is on the phone. We are not allowed to receive calls except in emergencies so I am scared. I pick up the phone and my father's voice explodes over the wire, "What did you do to you (step)mother?!?"
I am 8 or 9 and I am sitting at the kitchen table across from my father. My stepmother sits between us. We are having lunch. "Give me a match," my father says to me. I reach behind me to a cubby in the wall where the matches are kept. I drop the book of matches on the floor. I reach down to pick them up when I feel/hear my father's hand slam down on the table. "When I say give me a match, I mean give me a match!" he explodes with anger.
I am sitting on my Aunt Goldie's porch waiting for dinner. I am with my Aunt Betty. I am 9 or 10. "I'm starving," I say. "You'll never know what it is to be truly hungry," my Aunt Betty replies.
I am 17. I just got home from a basketball game (or similar event). I hang up my coat in the closet in the family room. My Uncle Joe is there and he says, "GoodNIGHT, Saralee." "Goodnight," I reply as if by rote. "Do you realize that for the last three years I have always said goodnight to you first?" he asks.
These are moments etched in the stone of my memory. While some of them may seem inconsequential in the sum total of a life, they are actually extremely important. Let's take them one by one. In the first case, no one told me that my mother had died, but I knew the moment my aunt screamed what had happened. My mother was in the hospital. She had a fatal disease and she had just died. I felt the connection sever as I sat in my high chair, and I had no words to describe what I felt. I learned from that moment on to listen to the voice inside me.
Next one: I am sitting on my father's lap. I know he's making a joke by retorting "I'm Jewish" to my "I'm hungry", but I also know that he is making an important statement about his identity, the way he sees himself in the world. I begin to think about my own identity from that moment on.
Next one - summer camp. My father goes on to say that I have to apologize to my stepmother for "hurting her feelings". From this event I learn that to remain close to my father and win his approval, I have to please my stepmother. I stop listening to my inner voice and start listening to her. It will be many years before I can get my stepmother out of my head and start tuning in to my own inner voice again. From this I also learn that adults sometimes expect children to be more mature than they are.
Next one - the give me a match one. This was very scary and is etched in my memory because of the huge amount of rage my father displayed at a seemingly minor event - my dropping his matches. While I kept the table between us and my stepmother pleaded with him to calm down, I realized with great clarity that he was not mad about the matches per se. He had a very slow fuse and this was simply the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back. He must have felt disregarded and disrespected by me for a long time. From this event I learned not to take my father and his building anger lightly.
Next - me and my Aunt Betty. I am an American child of the 1950's. I do not know want or hunger. But my mother's family, along with her sisters, Goldie and Betty, experienced something that they call The Hunger in Russia in the early 1900's. They were forced out of their Jewish shtettle and into Kiev when The Hunger occured. They all nearly starved. This same Aunt Betty would steal raw grain by the handful from the wealthier Jewish family she worked for. She would put it in her skirt pockets and bring the grain home to her family. She told me all this while we sat on the porch waiting for dinner. I cannot say the words 'I'm starving' anymore. I do not have the right.
Last one, my Uncle Joe saying good night to me first. He waited and waited for me to say it to him first. I of course got used to him saying it first and simply didn't realize I was taking him - and his goodnights - for granted. I was a self-centered teenager. I learned to peek out from underneath all the self-centeredness and see others as they see me. I learned to pay attention to the people in my energy field.
As I continued to live and grow and learn, there were more AHA moments such as the ones I have described. They have each taught me something valuable and precious. I am on the descent of my life. I have passed the half-way point long ago, perhaps even the three-quarter point. I do not know how many more teaching moments I have left. Whatever is in store for me, I am grateful for all that I have been given, and all that I have learned.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Swearing In Ceremonies Take Two by Saralee Sky
Recently Barack Hussein Obama was sworn in as the 44th President of these United States of America. In fact, he was sworn in twice, because the Chief Justice mixed up the words during the inauguration ceremony. It got me to thinking about promises we all make and oaths we take in our lives. How can we make them more than mere words?
We all make promises, to ourselves and to others. And perhaps the most formal “oath” we take is part of our marriage ceremony. We vow to love, honor, respect, etc. I am sure we all mean the words as we say them on that special day, but do we keep the vows alive over time? Not all promises are able to be kept. Not all vows hold over time. But surely it is good to try and live up to the lofty ideals contained in oaths. They have worthy goals: “Do no harm.” “Until death do us part.” “Defend the Constitution of the United States.”
I swear I will not dishonor my soul with hatred, but offer myself humbly as a guardian of nature, as a healer of misery, as a messenger of wonder, as an architect of peace. (Diane Ackerman)
The above quote from Diane Ackerman came to me from www.gratefullness.org as part of their email program, Word for the Day. Many of their quotes give me pause, but none more so than this one. I am struck by the power of the words, and the intention of the oath. I do not know why Ms Ackerman created this oath, what ceremony she was participating in if any. But what if – each and every morning – we all had to swear to live our lives a certain way? If we did, then what better oath than the one Ms Ackerman has created?
I have decided to take this oath every day, each morning as I start my day. I offer it to you and to President Obama. It is not as formal or specific as the President’s oath, but it says so very much more to me. It uses words like: guardian, messenger, healer, architect. When I see myself as a guardian, as a messenger, as a healer, or as an architect, I feel powerful, able to make a change for better in the world. More important it uses the word humbly. This word reminds me not to take myself too seriously, even though I may be a guardian, messenger, etc.
I am touched by this oath, this attempt to align oneself with nature, wonder and peace, and to move away from hatred. I read Ms Ackerman’s words and I want to live up to them, be worthy of them, have them engraved upon my soul. What better eulogy could I have than to have it said of me: “she hated no one or no thing, she loved and protected the sea, the earth, and all who dwell therein, she healed the sick and the sick-at-heart, she filled herself and those around her with wonder, and she worked tirelessly for peace”?
We all make promises, to ourselves and to others. And perhaps the most formal “oath” we take is part of our marriage ceremony. We vow to love, honor, respect, etc. I am sure we all mean the words as we say them on that special day, but do we keep the vows alive over time? Not all promises are able to be kept. Not all vows hold over time. But surely it is good to try and live up to the lofty ideals contained in oaths. They have worthy goals: “Do no harm.” “Until death do us part.” “Defend the Constitution of the United States.”
I swear I will not dishonor my soul with hatred, but offer myself humbly as a guardian of nature, as a healer of misery, as a messenger of wonder, as an architect of peace. (Diane Ackerman)
The above quote from Diane Ackerman came to me from www.gratefullness.org as part of their email program, Word for the Day. Many of their quotes give me pause, but none more so than this one. I am struck by the power of the words, and the intention of the oath. I do not know why Ms Ackerman created this oath, what ceremony she was participating in if any. But what if – each and every morning – we all had to swear to live our lives a certain way? If we did, then what better oath than the one Ms Ackerman has created?
I have decided to take this oath every day, each morning as I start my day. I offer it to you and to President Obama. It is not as formal or specific as the President’s oath, but it says so very much more to me. It uses words like: guardian, messenger, healer, architect. When I see myself as a guardian, as a messenger, as a healer, or as an architect, I feel powerful, able to make a change for better in the world. More important it uses the word humbly. This word reminds me not to take myself too seriously, even though I may be a guardian, messenger, etc.
I am touched by this oath, this attempt to align oneself with nature, wonder and peace, and to move away from hatred. I read Ms Ackerman’s words and I want to live up to them, be worthy of them, have them engraved upon my soul. What better eulogy could I have than to have it said of me: “she hated no one or no thing, she loved and protected the sea, the earth, and all who dwell therein, she healed the sick and the sick-at-heart, she filled herself and those around her with wonder, and she worked tirelessly for peace”?
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