A friend of mine and I were talking yesterday about jealous boyfriends and husbands. Or, more specifically, whether or not our significant others get jealous if we mention other men via Hollywood crushes, old boyfriends, admirers of the opposite sex--that kind of thing.
And this got me thinking. About the jealousy factor in my own marriage.
I will be the first to admit that I am the most jealous bitch on the face of the planet. I learned this about myself several years ago while Greg and I were strolling around the mall. We were window shopping, and while both of us should have been looking in the same direction, one of us was covertly checking out a female standing about 20 feet away. She was young, tall, boyishly thin but in that sexy way, wore low waisted jeans and some tight black t-shirt accesorized by silver hooped earrings and perfect red lipstick. Her funky short hair (black) was the perfect.
She was gorgeous. Absolutley agonizingly sickeningly gorgeous.
Yet it wasn't me gazing at her instead of the shop window. I only learned of her appearance after I caught my husband looking at her from underneath downcast eyeballs. When I turned my head to figure out what had caught his attention, it was then that I saw this perfect vampy creature had my husband's full attention.
I just stood there and let him look, mostly to see how long it would take before he started drooling or panting. At first I forced myself to feign (to myself) amusement, and recite little one-liners in my head like, "no matter how much he looks at her, he's still going to bed with me" or "she might be pretty, but that's probably because she hasn't pushed out two 9 pound babies of her womb" or "I read in Cosmo magazine that men don't really like thin women; in reality they like them with a little more meat on their bones."
and my personal favorite,
"He's only looking at her because he realizes how good he has it with me."
Yeah. Right.
Just as quickly as I filtered through these bullshit coping skill excuses, I became irate. Punching Greg in the shoulder and telling him to knock it off, he snapped back into reality and looked at me as if I had just lost my mind. He wholeheartedly denied looking at her and claimed he had no idea what I was talking about. He even used that tone of voice---you know---the one that tries to intimate that you are just imagining things.
Finally just one hair shy of me making a public scene by raising my voice, he admits that, yes, he was indeed looking at this girl. This creature of perfection.
"I was just looking at her shoes", he says with resignation.
Almost believing him (almost), I turned around for another peek at her. Sure as shit, she was wearing an awful bright green shade of pointed-toe boots. Funny that I, Seer Of All, had not noticed them before.
"You see?", he says. "She's wearing ugly shoes....that's all I was looking at."
He's goooood.
But I know the truth. He was scoping a hot chick; and while I am sure it wasn't his first gazing episode, it was the first time I had ever witnessed my man doing it. And it hurt.
For days afterward, I evaluated my own appearance with a fine tooth comb. Everything right down to the little hairs on my big toe, seemed disgusting and ugly and just so very wrong. I forgot how many times a day Greg told me I was beautiful and sexy, and how many compliments he gave me on a number of things. All I could think about was those 30 seconds that he was looking at her. Thirty seconds that she stole from me.
Just by standing there looking perfect, she took away something precious from my very naive and inexperienced soul: the wholehearted belief that my husband would never desire another but me.
I had become jealous!
Mind you, I was very young then and a mother of two babies just 16 months apart. I was insecure and immature and nowhere close to understanding the workings of a male mind. I figured that if I changed my appearance, maybe my husband would stop looking at other females altogether. Forever.
I started with my hair color. As I was leaving for the store to choose a box, I asked Greg what color hair does he prefer on women? Blondes? Brunettes? Redheads? Fully expecting an answer (I was expecting redheads), his answer was the biggest Freudian slip I have ever heard:
*waving his hand casually* "Oh, I like all women.", he says.
Let's just say that 12 years later, I still blow him shit about that one.
Over the years, Greg has gazed upon many women. And each time he does it, I admit I would like the claw their eyes out and cut off his penis. It dosen't hurt any less today than it did back then, but my understanding of male mind and animal instinct has helped lessen the blow. I am still jealous, just less threatened, I guess.
Greg's fantasy girls are mainly Hollywood now. Natalie Portman, Winona Ryder, Pink, Milla Jovovich are some of his favorites. He's got that video "SheWolf" by Shakira on his computer; and he and Korbin like to spend "man time" watching it and drooling like idiots.
Does it bother me? Sure it does. I would have to go in and tinker with my DNA to look like those babes. I am short and petite---and even when the scale says I don't weigh much---I am never look thin. When the scale says I weight a lot, I just look squarish and soft. My hair is turning gray and thinning a bit; I have spider veins and cellulite; and I have a spare tire around my middle scattered with stretch marks. While I may have what some call a "pretty face", I have dark circles and bags and red splotches if unaided by some miracle foundation. I hate fashion. I hate to shop long enough to even try to look put together.
But despite my less than hottie appearance, I also am more in tune with reality than I used to be. Winona isn't raising his kids. Milla and Natalie are busy making movies; I'm fairly certain they won't be dropping by to listen to him bitch about work and rub his feet after a long day. Shakira sure as hell isn't washing the skid marks out of his underwear.
And so I let him look. Let him fantasize or dream or whatever the hell it is he does. I guess that's what happens after years of being with the same person. I guess I just accept it. We are all attracted to the ideal. I believe it is human nature to be transfixed by what we know we cannot have; and overlook what is right in front of us.
Because let's face it, when I'm not busy being a jealous bitch or keeping tabs on whatever hottie Greg is googling over, I'm drooling too. It's funny, but when I was first married, I was so transfixed by my husband that I could not fathom the idea of looking at another man. I didn't want to. Didn't need to. In my eyes, I had the sexiest and hottest guy alive. He was mine. And I dared not look the other way; otherwise I might lose the perfect picture I was already gazing upon.
But that was because it was all new. A brand new toy. A vacation without a return trip home.
Of course, that newness wore off. He has stinky breath in the morning. A couple of back hairs. Holes in his socks. Dandruff. The way he holds his fork started to irritate the shit out of me. He takes longer in the bathroom than any of his Hollywood babes spend in their dressing rooms. Sometimes in the middle of the night, he'll pass gas so foul that I have to remind myself I'm sleeping next to a human. He watches T.V. while I'm talking to him. He drives like a crazed asshole.
I could go on, but you get my drift. Reality set in. And with that, so did my own desire to gaze upon perfection once more. Like him, I began to find myself attracted to male figures that represented what I cannot have, because it is thrilling!
I am a Hollywood Horny. Rarely do men in the "real world" appeal to me, because I still find my husband the most attractive man in my life. But on the movie screen, it's a different story. I do not want Robert Pattinson the actor---I want Edward the vampire. I want Jacob the werewolf---not Taylor Lautner the 17 year old boy (I dunno, even that image has it's perks though). I want Achilles and Hector from "Troy".
Okay, maybe I want Orlando Bloom. He's delicious.
And I recant on my saying that there are no "real world" men that I am attracted to. There was, once upon a time, a pharmacist that I would sooooo look forward to seeing whenever I needed a med refill. He had a French accent and the most glorious turquoise eyes I have ever seen. Black shiny hair and a little mustache.
But I didn't want to be involved with the guy. I just wanted him to wear his lab coat and do me in the back of the medicine shelves.
A fantasy. My ideal. The daydreams that remind me of how much of a woman I am.
Should Greg be jealous? No. I love him and desire him still, however reality based that desire may be. He knows of my crush on the French pharmacist; hell, he'd even stand there and chuckle while I stammered over my words talking to the guy. Greg rolls his eyes lovingly as I continue to yammer on about Edward and Jacob and my desire to be fought over by two mythical creatures that don't exist.
It's what makes us human---being excited by what we cannot have and coming back to what we do have rejeuvanated and inspired.
So I guess it is safe to say that my jealous years have come to an end; partly due to maturity, but mainly due to the fact that I get it now. We have fantasies; and just because we're looking, dosen't mean we're intending. That perfect skinny girl with the green boots....she is a thing of the past, and in ways I suppose I am thankful for her for opening up that part of my being that needed to learn what it means to have desires and fantasies. Whatever it was about her that caught my husband's eyes (I'm sure it wasn't her goddamn boots. Idiot.), helped me to focus my own gaze when I, too, am needing an escape from the mundane.
So my gift to you today, is the encouragement to revel in your fantasies and your ideals. To cling to your image of perfection. To daydream about whomever it is that you cannot have. For it is what we cannot have, and what does not truly exist, that reminds us to look at what is already right in front of us with fresh eyes and a more vibrant perspective....
And much hotter sex!
Friday, December 18, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009
50 Book Challenge
One day while surfing around on Crochetville, I noticed several of the members have a "Book Challenge" notation in their signature. Apparently there is a thingy going on around the web where you read 50 books in a year and then post (somewhere) what you've read and your critique. I thought it a pretty cool idea to see what other people are reading in addition to motivating myself to read more. Though I'm an avid reader, I haven't been reading as much this year as I normally do, or would like to. I had planned to start my running tally this spring/summer; but well, the only thing I wound up reading was administrative forms in the hospital during my little "vacation".
And after that, I spent a great deal of time----too much time, in retrospect----delving into recommended theraputic reading and research, trying to diagnose myself and all that went wrong in my head as well as finding the cure for a broken heart.
Like those answers are even in a text anyway!
I picked up my novel reading in October, and have read quite a few books since. So for me, my challenge will start as of October 1, 2009-October 1, 2010. Typically I am into historical romance and legal thrillers, latley I have been drawn to the horror/suspense/psychological genre of books. You will see many of those in my list today.
Here is what I've read thus far: (Each book will be rated anywhere from * (being absolute shit) to *****(being I'd crawl through a desert without water to read it again).
1. "His Father's Son" (Bentley Little)
I've read a few of this author's books and have never been all that impressed. This book was no exception. It wasn't suspenseful, and the ending was predictable. The book aims at getting the reader to understand what goes through the mind of someone who is trying to live up to their parent's expectations post mortem, with deadly consequences.
Rating: **
2. "The Terror" (Dan Simmons)
This book was on the bestseller list, and for the life of me I don't know why. It is about an arctic expedition gone horribly wrong, survival against the elements and against an evil force, yada yada yada. It was long, difficult to keep the pace, and at times confusing as the plot switches from past to present all too often.
Rating: *
3. "Urge To Kill" (John Lutz)
Supposedly right up there with Stephen King in matters of horror, I found this book to be so unmemorable I cannot really summarize anything noteworthy.
Rating: *
4. "Sweetheart" (Chelsea Cain)
A surprisingly good read....smooth and easy. The "bad guy" in this book happens to be a gorgeous woman who kills her lovers in grotesque fashions that you have to read yourself to grasp. The detective responsible for catching and imprisoning her is also in love with her, in a sick and twisted fashion that only the author does a good job at describing. The sex is fantastic!
Rating: ****
5. "Reality" (Peter Kingsley)
A new-age philosophical analysis of the "I think, therefore, I am" theory. The author tries to convince us that if what we think is reality, than EVERYTHING we think is reality. If everything we think is reality, than there is really no purpose in thinking at all; hence, true reality lies in the nothingness that lies within each of us. Using ancient shamanic practices as "proof" that the Phoenicians did practice meditation to gain knowledge of the Underworld, the author tries to further convince us that 'reality' lies with the dead. The only way to hear the dead is to not think.
Yeah. I got a headache too.
Rating: ** (I give the extra star for the author's effort to convince us of his theory's in Plain English. At least he tried.)
6. "Afraid" (Jack Kilborn)
His debut novel, and probably one of the best horror novels I have ever read. I won't summarize because I urge anyone who likes horror/suspense to pick this one up. Gore fans won't be disappointed....my stomach turned a few times and that's pretty hard to do!
Rating: ****
7. "Enter Evil" (Linda Ladd)
Sucked!
Rating: *
8. "Wideacre" (Phillipa Gregory) I picked this up on a whim because I enjoyed the "Other Boelyn Girl" so much I hoped the sex and trash would be just as good in this book. It was! The Wideacre story is independant of the Tudor stories by this author; and the heroine in this book is so honest in her dysfunction that I couldn't help but be awestruck at how she is a piece of what we, as women, think and feel at some point in our lives in order to gain what we desire in a world that often seems to favor men. This book is my recommendation for the entire year....it is an excellent read! Sex, betrayal, murder, incest, romance, and the ultimate bad boy.....what could be better? (Lisa if you are reading this blog, I will send you my copy if you want it. I think you'd love it!)
Rating: *****
9. "Toxic Parents" (Dr. Susan Forward) An oldie but goodie in the theraputic self-help genre. A review of the habits and self defeating behaviors we learn from a variety of dysfunctional "types" of parents ranging from substance abuse, overprotectiveness, abuse and incest. An eye-opening read for me. Obviously not for everyone.
Rating: ***
10. "Turning Angel" (Greg Iles)
Why haven't I ever read this author before??? A legal thriller resulting from an affair between a teacher and a high school student who turns up dead in a small town where politics and racial divide dictate (and impede) the justice system. I will definitley be reading more of this author, and this is my second recommendation.
Rating: ****
Currently Reading:
"Paths Of Glory" (Jeffrey Archer)
I am only into the first few chapters. This is a fictional tale based on a true story of George Mallory's climb up Mt. Everest, and the discovery of his body just 600 feet from the summit in 1999---no one really knows if he ever made it to the top. So far, the storytelling is beautiful and humerous. I don't think I'll be disappointed.
And after that, I spent a great deal of time----too much time, in retrospect----delving into recommended theraputic reading and research, trying to diagnose myself and all that went wrong in my head as well as finding the cure for a broken heart.
Like those answers are even in a text anyway!
I picked up my novel reading in October, and have read quite a few books since. So for me, my challenge will start as of October 1, 2009-October 1, 2010. Typically I am into historical romance and legal thrillers, latley I have been drawn to the horror/suspense/psychological genre of books. You will see many of those in my list today.
Here is what I've read thus far: (Each book will be rated anywhere from * (being absolute shit) to *****(being I'd crawl through a desert without water to read it again).
1. "His Father's Son" (Bentley Little)
I've read a few of this author's books and have never been all that impressed. This book was no exception. It wasn't suspenseful, and the ending was predictable. The book aims at getting the reader to understand what goes through the mind of someone who is trying to live up to their parent's expectations post mortem, with deadly consequences.
Rating: **
2. "The Terror" (Dan Simmons)
This book was on the bestseller list, and for the life of me I don't know why. It is about an arctic expedition gone horribly wrong, survival against the elements and against an evil force, yada yada yada. It was long, difficult to keep the pace, and at times confusing as the plot switches from past to present all too often.
Rating: *
3. "Urge To Kill" (John Lutz)
Supposedly right up there with Stephen King in matters of horror, I found this book to be so unmemorable I cannot really summarize anything noteworthy.
Rating: *
4. "Sweetheart" (Chelsea Cain)
A surprisingly good read....smooth and easy. The "bad guy" in this book happens to be a gorgeous woman who kills her lovers in grotesque fashions that you have to read yourself to grasp. The detective responsible for catching and imprisoning her is also in love with her, in a sick and twisted fashion that only the author does a good job at describing. The sex is fantastic!
Rating: ****
5. "Reality" (Peter Kingsley)
A new-age philosophical analysis of the "I think, therefore, I am" theory. The author tries to convince us that if what we think is reality, than EVERYTHING we think is reality. If everything we think is reality, than there is really no purpose in thinking at all; hence, true reality lies in the nothingness that lies within each of us. Using ancient shamanic practices as "proof" that the Phoenicians did practice meditation to gain knowledge of the Underworld, the author tries to further convince us that 'reality' lies with the dead. The only way to hear the dead is to not think.
Yeah. I got a headache too.
Rating: ** (I give the extra star for the author's effort to convince us of his theory's in Plain English. At least he tried.)
6. "Afraid" (Jack Kilborn)
His debut novel, and probably one of the best horror novels I have ever read. I won't summarize because I urge anyone who likes horror/suspense to pick this one up. Gore fans won't be disappointed....my stomach turned a few times and that's pretty hard to do!
Rating: ****
7. "Enter Evil" (Linda Ladd)
Sucked!
Rating: *
8. "Wideacre" (Phillipa Gregory) I picked this up on a whim because I enjoyed the "Other Boelyn Girl" so much I hoped the sex and trash would be just as good in this book. It was! The Wideacre story is independant of the Tudor stories by this author; and the heroine in this book is so honest in her dysfunction that I couldn't help but be awestruck at how she is a piece of what we, as women, think and feel at some point in our lives in order to gain what we desire in a world that often seems to favor men. This book is my recommendation for the entire year....it is an excellent read! Sex, betrayal, murder, incest, romance, and the ultimate bad boy.....what could be better? (Lisa if you are reading this blog, I will send you my copy if you want it. I think you'd love it!)
Rating: *****
9. "Toxic Parents" (Dr. Susan Forward) An oldie but goodie in the theraputic self-help genre. A review of the habits and self defeating behaviors we learn from a variety of dysfunctional "types" of parents ranging from substance abuse, overprotectiveness, abuse and incest. An eye-opening read for me. Obviously not for everyone.
Rating: ***
10. "Turning Angel" (Greg Iles)
Why haven't I ever read this author before??? A legal thriller resulting from an affair between a teacher and a high school student who turns up dead in a small town where politics and racial divide dictate (and impede) the justice system. I will definitley be reading more of this author, and this is my second recommendation.
Rating: ****
Currently Reading:
"Paths Of Glory" (Jeffrey Archer)
I am only into the first few chapters. This is a fictional tale based on a true story of George Mallory's climb up Mt. Everest, and the discovery of his body just 600 feet from the summit in 1999---no one really knows if he ever made it to the top. So far, the storytelling is beautiful and humerous. I don't think I'll be disappointed.
Tap Dancing
My grandmother has had a rough life, to say the least. For all her 77 years on this Earth, I do not recall a time where I have ever seen her do anything for herself; nor have I personally ever witnessed her stop, take a breath, and release whatever it is that compels her to keep doing for someone else, be it caretaking, working, providing, listening or financially funding. She often jokes that if there is such a thing as reincarnation, she is coming back as a nun, for she does not know the meaning of giving to one's self.
And I understand where she gets it. Her mother came to the States from Hungry, married a Polish immigrant; and together my great-grandparents tried to make a life together in industrial northwest Indiana. They bore nine children, the first eight being boys; and the last, my grandmother---the youngest and only girl---was immediately cursed simply by being born female, based on old eastern European culture. When my grandmother was just six years old, her father had a terrible accident as he fell a great distance in the steel mill, crushing the side of his skull. Back then, they did not have the medical advancements capable of offering a recovery. Instead, they "patched him up" and sent him home. When he began to see and hear things, behave aggressively and speak senselessly, it was assumed that he had gone 'crazy' rather than assuming these symptoms were a result of severe brain injury. Common for those times, he was institutionalized and my great grandmother was forced to work and raise her nine childen on nothing more than a meager income and a few farm animals.
As the only girl, my grandmother was not educated past the sixth grade. Instead, she was forced to help her mother care for the house, the cooking, the animals, and the welfare of her eight older brothers, who all received educations as well as worked to contribute to the household income. Grandma tells me that as a girl growing up, she could get away with nothing, because she always had her brothers chasing after her telling her to get home! Work needed to be done! A poor, chubby girl with little opportunity for friends or the thrill of boyfriends, was literally forced to be a caretaker from the beginning of her life.
Sometimes Gram tells me that her mother was very stern, and did not show much love or affection--and definitely not much appreciation. The boys were the most important because they were providers, especially during the Great Depression and the years that followed. It felt to her as if the boys were more important, and often she was left feeling resentful and unloved.
But then Gram tells me about her mother, and how diligently this woman worked herself to provide for the family. As I am learning myself, this portion of the country suffers brutal winters, and my great grandmother would walk several miles back and forth every day, for an income of change doing laundry for a small business.
I can hardly stand walking through the parking lot at the mall when it is this cold, much less miles. Every single day.
And then coming home to cook whatever parts of the animals were available.....parts I cannot fathom eating even if I were starving. Cleaning. Paying the bills. And still maintaing what my Grandmother says is an "incredible sense of safety and family".
"I always knew my mother loved me", Grandma says, "because she worked like a dog and was treated like a dog just so she could keep food on the table for us".
Grandma grew up and fell in love with my grandfather, a young and insanely handsome airman in the Air Force...also the child of Polish immigrants. Together they married and began their life stationed in Germany, followed shortly by the birth of their first child, Tommy. Since money was short (isn't it always in the military?) they prided themselves on buying a trailer. A home on wheels they could take wherever the air force demanded they would be. I have several pictures of both my grandparents....young and gorgeous and happy....standing in front of their little tiny metal trailer as if they had just bought a million dollar home.
Just weeks later, Tommy died of "complications". Several miscarriages were soon to follow.
When my mother was born, she was the apple of Grandpa's eye. His Little Princess. His Perfect Baby Girl. And when my Uncle Mike was born a couple of years later, something wasn't right with his health. After taking him to the doctor, they were informed that Mike had Cerebral Palsy.
Grandma has told me this story a thousand times; but I never tire of hearing it. She tells me that she was devastated upon learning of Mike's condition, and was terrified as to how in the world she would care for someone who would need so very much more than a "normal child". As a devout Catholic, she wandered through the park one day, sat on a bench, and sobbed...angry with God for doing this to her. She was overwhelmed, terrified, and tired.....her whole life had been so hard! Like so many of us at one point or another, she had reached her limit of hardship.
It just so happened that the priest from her church strolled by in the very same park. He had no idea why Gram was crying, or even where she had been for several weeks. Gram was so angry with God she had not been attending Sunday mass. The priest sat down and listened to Gram's turmoil, and heard her pleas for help. He expressed understanding and concern for her plight; but gently laid down some otherwise gruff counsel:
"Agnes, I cannot tell you how to feel. And I cannot tell you why you are in this situation. I certainly cannot tell you why you have been given this child who has so many needs. But I can tell you that God only gives special hurdles to those He knows can handle them. He gave Mike to you because He knew you, and only you, were fit for the job."
Grandma, as she has always done, lifted her chin and went on to love her children just as much as any woman loves her children.
She went on with life and did the best she could.
I presume years later when her mother---the woman who instilled this sense of hard work and sacrafice---broke her hip and was forced into a nursing home---that my grandmother must have felt a tremendous sense of guilt because she, herself, was not capable of caring for her mother. Great Grandma was a heavy woman and had special needs moving around and such; therefore, a nursing home suited those needs best.
My grandmother has been a caretaker ever since I have known her all my 35 years. She gives and gives and gives and receives nothing in return---hardly a thanks! Rarely an acknowledgement. And no matter how much I try to express my opinion that she should think about herself for a change, this woman assures me that she is not made up of the stuff that is self-serving. God expects us to be there for another human being, for that is our way to heaven.
Of course, Gram and my religious opinions are different (and undiscussed!); but often I wonder if my own sense of self has been developed by spending so much time with her over the years. She is my best girlfriend, the mother figure I did not have with my own mother, my mentor, my confidant and the keeper of all of my secrets. As much as I differ from her in opinion, I do think on many levels I define my worth by how much work I can do caretaking, providing, servicing, etc.
According to Gram: "A good woman" does many things
She cooks, cleans, budgets, plans retirements, raises the children, asks for nothing, dosen't get angry, forgives the same sin a thousand times, repents when she cannot forgive, gives charitably, expects nothing, physically works to stay in shape so her man will always come home and desire her, mends by hand, attends church every Sunday, and walks away instead of exchanging ill words.
Basically, I translate this into a "Good Woman takes it in the ass".
But I never tell her this, of course. She'd kill me.
It is only recently that I have discovered the need to define myself outside of my grandmother. Though she is so important to me, I have realized that I do not need to be her in order to be that "Good Woman". I am not only worth what I can give, as my friend Lisa told me today. While some women may read this and call me crazy for even speculating on this, it is difficult for me to find that sense of self when I have only been praised by how hard I work or how much I give or how well I keep my temper to myself.
Today, for example, is one of those days I am wondering if I am really worth anything at all. It is nearly 2 in the afternoon, and I am still in my pajamas, because I have spent the entire day sitting in this recliner chatting with my girlfriend and writing this blog. My house, currently, is a disaster; and truthfully I don't see that improving anytime soon because I don't phsycially feel all that well. Plus, there are craft projects and movies that are screaming at me to participate in creating and watching. I also have a book I would like to finish tonight.
I don't even know what I am making for dinner. I may even order something in for the second night in a row. My Christmas shopping isn't finished. My hair is a mess. There is a mountain of laundry at the top of the stairs that I'm stepping over and totally ignoring.
Because I just don't feel like doing it.
If I told Gram that, she would go to church and light a candle for my soul's salvation.
Because I am not a "Good Woman".
What Gram dosen't realize is that I remember a part of her life's story that she dosen't think is very important. However, it is my favorite part----the part I keep in my back pocket for self esteem back-up.
My great grandmother spent several years in a nursing home. She was so angry for being put there, that, according to Gram, she didn't speak to a soul for years. She quit talking! The woman was that stubborn, and that pissed off, that she quit talking to her own children. She even quit talking to my own mother, her own grandaughter!
And then I was born on Christmas Day of 1974. When I was old enough to be taken out, Gram thought it would be good for Great Gram's to see me....a new baby.
And when they placed me in her arms, for the first time in the five years, this old, angry, bitter woman who worked herself to near death all of her life, did something no one thought she would ever do.
I was the only thing to make her smile.
Though she never did speak to anyone, I was continuously brought back to the nursing home for visits for several years. I have vague memory of visiting her.....going up and giving her a hug in the group room. I would wear my red tapdancing shoes, and would dance around in circles like some little Shirley Temple. I remember all of those old folks laughing and smiling at me.
Most of all, I remember Great Gramma Benko laughing too.
And I was the only one who could do that....make her smile.
By just being me.
A "Good Woman" isn't defined by her work, her giving, her caretaking, her abilities, whatever. What IS a "Good Woman" exactly? Can one even be defined? Do we have to walk 5 miles in subzero temps to be a person worthy of love and attention? Do we have to repent every sinful thought in order to be loved in God's(s), Goddess's, eyes? Do we have to perform some noteworthy task---become someone memorable in books or history---become selfless martyrs---for someone to deem us special?
Would my grandmothers still be loved by me even if they were not hardworking individuals?
Of course I would. I love them because they simply are.
And so today I choose to seperate myself, lovingly, from my grandmother. She is who she is, and I love her. But I am who I am---whomever that is---and I too, deserve to be loved and cherished simply because I am.
And I thank my Great Grandmother for the gift of her smile---the purest and most precious evidence that nothing more than my birth was reason to feel joy.
I am worthy and lovable because I was born.
My Christmas gift to you today cannot be smelled through cinnamon or viewed by candlelight. It must be felt. I wish for you to look at your true nature---not what you do or provide or give---but who are you in the deepest reaches of you---separate of what you were taught or how you were molded and influenced.
and know that I am smiling as you dance for whatever reasons you wish to dance for.
And I understand where she gets it. Her mother came to the States from Hungry, married a Polish immigrant; and together my great-grandparents tried to make a life together in industrial northwest Indiana. They bore nine children, the first eight being boys; and the last, my grandmother---the youngest and only girl---was immediately cursed simply by being born female, based on old eastern European culture. When my grandmother was just six years old, her father had a terrible accident as he fell a great distance in the steel mill, crushing the side of his skull. Back then, they did not have the medical advancements capable of offering a recovery. Instead, they "patched him up" and sent him home. When he began to see and hear things, behave aggressively and speak senselessly, it was assumed that he had gone 'crazy' rather than assuming these symptoms were a result of severe brain injury. Common for those times, he was institutionalized and my great grandmother was forced to work and raise her nine childen on nothing more than a meager income and a few farm animals.
As the only girl, my grandmother was not educated past the sixth grade. Instead, she was forced to help her mother care for the house, the cooking, the animals, and the welfare of her eight older brothers, who all received educations as well as worked to contribute to the household income. Grandma tells me that as a girl growing up, she could get away with nothing, because she always had her brothers chasing after her telling her to get home! Work needed to be done! A poor, chubby girl with little opportunity for friends or the thrill of boyfriends, was literally forced to be a caretaker from the beginning of her life.
Sometimes Gram tells me that her mother was very stern, and did not show much love or affection--and definitely not much appreciation. The boys were the most important because they were providers, especially during the Great Depression and the years that followed. It felt to her as if the boys were more important, and often she was left feeling resentful and unloved.
But then Gram tells me about her mother, and how diligently this woman worked herself to provide for the family. As I am learning myself, this portion of the country suffers brutal winters, and my great grandmother would walk several miles back and forth every day, for an income of change doing laundry for a small business.
I can hardly stand walking through the parking lot at the mall when it is this cold, much less miles. Every single day.
And then coming home to cook whatever parts of the animals were available.....parts I cannot fathom eating even if I were starving. Cleaning. Paying the bills. And still maintaing what my Grandmother says is an "incredible sense of safety and family".
"I always knew my mother loved me", Grandma says, "because she worked like a dog and was treated like a dog just so she could keep food on the table for us".
Grandma grew up and fell in love with my grandfather, a young and insanely handsome airman in the Air Force...also the child of Polish immigrants. Together they married and began their life stationed in Germany, followed shortly by the birth of their first child, Tommy. Since money was short (isn't it always in the military?) they prided themselves on buying a trailer. A home on wheels they could take wherever the air force demanded they would be. I have several pictures of both my grandparents....young and gorgeous and happy....standing in front of their little tiny metal trailer as if they had just bought a million dollar home.
Just weeks later, Tommy died of "complications". Several miscarriages were soon to follow.
When my mother was born, she was the apple of Grandpa's eye. His Little Princess. His Perfect Baby Girl. And when my Uncle Mike was born a couple of years later, something wasn't right with his health. After taking him to the doctor, they were informed that Mike had Cerebral Palsy.
Grandma has told me this story a thousand times; but I never tire of hearing it. She tells me that she was devastated upon learning of Mike's condition, and was terrified as to how in the world she would care for someone who would need so very much more than a "normal child". As a devout Catholic, she wandered through the park one day, sat on a bench, and sobbed...angry with God for doing this to her. She was overwhelmed, terrified, and tired.....her whole life had been so hard! Like so many of us at one point or another, she had reached her limit of hardship.
It just so happened that the priest from her church strolled by in the very same park. He had no idea why Gram was crying, or even where she had been for several weeks. Gram was so angry with God she had not been attending Sunday mass. The priest sat down and listened to Gram's turmoil, and heard her pleas for help. He expressed understanding and concern for her plight; but gently laid down some otherwise gruff counsel:
"Agnes, I cannot tell you how to feel. And I cannot tell you why you are in this situation. I certainly cannot tell you why you have been given this child who has so many needs. But I can tell you that God only gives special hurdles to those He knows can handle them. He gave Mike to you because He knew you, and only you, were fit for the job."
Grandma, as she has always done, lifted her chin and went on to love her children just as much as any woman loves her children.
She went on with life and did the best she could.
I presume years later when her mother---the woman who instilled this sense of hard work and sacrafice---broke her hip and was forced into a nursing home---that my grandmother must have felt a tremendous sense of guilt because she, herself, was not capable of caring for her mother. Great Grandma was a heavy woman and had special needs moving around and such; therefore, a nursing home suited those needs best.
My grandmother has been a caretaker ever since I have known her all my 35 years. She gives and gives and gives and receives nothing in return---hardly a thanks! Rarely an acknowledgement. And no matter how much I try to express my opinion that she should think about herself for a change, this woman assures me that she is not made up of the stuff that is self-serving. God expects us to be there for another human being, for that is our way to heaven.
Of course, Gram and my religious opinions are different (and undiscussed!); but often I wonder if my own sense of self has been developed by spending so much time with her over the years. She is my best girlfriend, the mother figure I did not have with my own mother, my mentor, my confidant and the keeper of all of my secrets. As much as I differ from her in opinion, I do think on many levels I define my worth by how much work I can do caretaking, providing, servicing, etc.
According to Gram: "A good woman" does many things
She cooks, cleans, budgets, plans retirements, raises the children, asks for nothing, dosen't get angry, forgives the same sin a thousand times, repents when she cannot forgive, gives charitably, expects nothing, physically works to stay in shape so her man will always come home and desire her, mends by hand, attends church every Sunday, and walks away instead of exchanging ill words.
Basically, I translate this into a "Good Woman takes it in the ass".
But I never tell her this, of course. She'd kill me.
It is only recently that I have discovered the need to define myself outside of my grandmother. Though she is so important to me, I have realized that I do not need to be her in order to be that "Good Woman". I am not only worth what I can give, as my friend Lisa told me today. While some women may read this and call me crazy for even speculating on this, it is difficult for me to find that sense of self when I have only been praised by how hard I work or how much I give or how well I keep my temper to myself.
Today, for example, is one of those days I am wondering if I am really worth anything at all. It is nearly 2 in the afternoon, and I am still in my pajamas, because I have spent the entire day sitting in this recliner chatting with my girlfriend and writing this blog. My house, currently, is a disaster; and truthfully I don't see that improving anytime soon because I don't phsycially feel all that well. Plus, there are craft projects and movies that are screaming at me to participate in creating and watching. I also have a book I would like to finish tonight.
I don't even know what I am making for dinner. I may even order something in for the second night in a row. My Christmas shopping isn't finished. My hair is a mess. There is a mountain of laundry at the top of the stairs that I'm stepping over and totally ignoring.
Because I just don't feel like doing it.
If I told Gram that, she would go to church and light a candle for my soul's salvation.
Because I am not a "Good Woman".
What Gram dosen't realize is that I remember a part of her life's story that she dosen't think is very important. However, it is my favorite part----the part I keep in my back pocket for self esteem back-up.
My great grandmother spent several years in a nursing home. She was so angry for being put there, that, according to Gram, she didn't speak to a soul for years. She quit talking! The woman was that stubborn, and that pissed off, that she quit talking to her own children. She even quit talking to my own mother, her own grandaughter!
And then I was born on Christmas Day of 1974. When I was old enough to be taken out, Gram thought it would be good for Great Gram's to see me....a new baby.
And when they placed me in her arms, for the first time in the five years, this old, angry, bitter woman who worked herself to near death all of her life, did something no one thought she would ever do.
I was the only thing to make her smile.
Though she never did speak to anyone, I was continuously brought back to the nursing home for visits for several years. I have vague memory of visiting her.....going up and giving her a hug in the group room. I would wear my red tapdancing shoes, and would dance around in circles like some little Shirley Temple. I remember all of those old folks laughing and smiling at me.
Most of all, I remember Great Gramma Benko laughing too.
And I was the only one who could do that....make her smile.
By just being me.
A "Good Woman" isn't defined by her work, her giving, her caretaking, her abilities, whatever. What IS a "Good Woman" exactly? Can one even be defined? Do we have to walk 5 miles in subzero temps to be a person worthy of love and attention? Do we have to repent every sinful thought in order to be loved in God's(s), Goddess's, eyes? Do we have to perform some noteworthy task---become someone memorable in books or history---become selfless martyrs---for someone to deem us special?
Would my grandmothers still be loved by me even if they were not hardworking individuals?
Of course I would. I love them because they simply are.
And so today I choose to seperate myself, lovingly, from my grandmother. She is who she is, and I love her. But I am who I am---whomever that is---and I too, deserve to be loved and cherished simply because I am.
And I thank my Great Grandmother for the gift of her smile---the purest and most precious evidence that nothing more than my birth was reason to feel joy.
I am worthy and lovable because I was born.
My Christmas gift to you today cannot be smelled through cinnamon or viewed by candlelight. It must be felt. I wish for you to look at your true nature---not what you do or provide or give---but who are you in the deepest reaches of you---separate of what you were taught or how you were molded and influenced.
and know that I am smiling as you dance for whatever reasons you wish to dance for.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
On Sunday night, I stepped out of the shower to hear my daughter wailing in agony. She was in her bed, hunched up in a ball, crying out about pain in her stomach. She was short of breath and she could not move without worsening the pain. She was red, hot to the touch, and her pulse was like the Grand Prix! She said the pain was under her ribcage mainly on the right side, and without hesitation, I called an ambulance because the first thing I thought was "Holy shit it's her appendix". Of course, I don't know crapola about appendixes, but when you see someone in that much pain you assume the worst and hope for the best.
While waiting for the ambulance, I called Greg, so everyone arrived at the same time. Bailey claimed the pain was beginning to ease up, but she was still miserable. The EMT examined her and said she was not showing the signs of appendicitis, but that she had unusual sounds in her abdomen that indicated something, indeed was wrong. Plus, she had a fever. I remembered that, earlier in the day, Bailey had joked to me about a bad case of diahreah she'd had overnight, presumably from the entire bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos she'd eaten that day.
Greg rode in the ambulance, Korbin stayed with the neighbors, and I followed behind. Mind you, my kids have been sick before, injured themselves and made several trips to the ER for various issues in the past. But I've never been so scared as I was that night. I had never seen either of my children in that much pain and misery before, and the only thing I could think was someone at the hospital better make my child more comfortable; otherwise, I would personally make everyone there VERY uncomfortable.
Fortunately, they were very good to her. The excitement of her ambulance ride, the hospital gown with teddy bears all over it, and her personal TV with remote were a good distraction from her pain. The nurse allowed Bailey to hold the tubes as they drew blood for tests, and the doctor was good natured and told her she did a "good job" peeing in a cup---that it was the "best urine sample we've gotten in a long time!"
It turns out that Bailey had a high white blood cell count, which indicated she had something going on her stomach/intestines. The doctor said she had overly active bowel sounds, which told him that her stomach was very "pissed off". LMAO. After the x-ray showed that her digestive tract was full of nothing but gas and bloat, the doctor diagnosed her with gastroenteritis and informed us that Bailey would need to stay through the night for observation and IV hydration until things calmed down.
Let's just say the IV part did not go well with Bailey.
After a few bags of hydration and rest, the doctor said she could go home and remain on a liquid diet for 24 hours. This, of course, was at 6:30 in the morning when they discharged her. We brought her home, exhausted, and put her to bed. Greg's chief told Greg he needed to be in to work, so Greg went without an ounce of sleep.
This to me, is inhumane on the Navy's part. How can they expect these instructors to train recruits if they are so tired they can't think straight? The recruits are guaranteed at 8 hours of sleep per day....why aren't the instructors?
I slept for a couple of hours, then it was off to the dentist at 9:00 for an evaluation for my tooth. A few days ago, I bit down on a piece of chewing gum, I and I fucking swear the entire right side of my face exploded with pain. After the initial pain subsided, I had this horrible dull throbbing pain in my jaw which would worsen everytime I sucked in a breath of air or drank something of any extreme temprature. Assuming it was a cavity, I expected the dentist to do a filling during this appointment. Of course, sleep deprived and experiencing dental anxiety, I was told there was nothing visibly wrong with my tooth. So then the asshole dentist takes this metal stick looking thing and starts banging around my tooth. He obviously found the area of concern when I jumped eight feet out of the chair.
"You have a fractured tooth!", he says, like he just struck goddamn gold or something.
He then declares to me that he no longer does root canals, and he also cannot see this fracture. He then tells me I need to see a specialist who will find the fracture and either do the root canal or extract the tooth, depending on the severity.
I'm so tired at this point I don't give a shit if he pulls all of my teeth so long as I can lie down somewhere and close my eyes. He then starts talking to me about my insurance, and how they won't cover the whole thing; so a root canal may cost me between 300-500 bucks.
Well, that woke me up. Are you shitting me? 500 bucks to pull the nerve out of my fucking tooth?
Needless to say, I was upset, tired, nervous and panicked about the financial situation. I have been steadily putting extra money into our savings account because things have been really hard for us; and I planned to use that money for other things. Not a little fuckin' tooth.
When I got home, I called this specialist's office to schedule the appointment. The guy's first name is Kermit.
Kermit
I know.
So I am headed to visit Kermit the Tooth Guy today at 11:30; and keeping my fingers crossed that he dosen't find anything worthy of drilling into immediately. Either that, or I might run out of there screaming before he does anything at all. Hell, I might run screaming as soon as I see him.
I haven't decided yet.
The only way to cope with this deep anxiety of Kermit is to focus on my crafts. I finished an adorable little lapghan last night that will get sent to Gram for Christmas. She's getting a crocheted bed doll, a doily (the one that was saved from the brink of death by coffee stain), and this little 'ghan as a matching set for her bedroom. It's not a large ghan' but just enough to cover her lap or throw over a chair for decoration.
While waiting for the ambulance, I called Greg, so everyone arrived at the same time. Bailey claimed the pain was beginning to ease up, but she was still miserable. The EMT examined her and said she was not showing the signs of appendicitis, but that she had unusual sounds in her abdomen that indicated something, indeed was wrong. Plus, she had a fever. I remembered that, earlier in the day, Bailey had joked to me about a bad case of diahreah she'd had overnight, presumably from the entire bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos she'd eaten that day.
Greg rode in the ambulance, Korbin stayed with the neighbors, and I followed behind. Mind you, my kids have been sick before, injured themselves and made several trips to the ER for various issues in the past. But I've never been so scared as I was that night. I had never seen either of my children in that much pain and misery before, and the only thing I could think was someone at the hospital better make my child more comfortable; otherwise, I would personally make everyone there VERY uncomfortable.
Fortunately, they were very good to her. The excitement of her ambulance ride, the hospital gown with teddy bears all over it, and her personal TV with remote were a good distraction from her pain. The nurse allowed Bailey to hold the tubes as they drew blood for tests, and the doctor was good natured and told her she did a "good job" peeing in a cup---that it was the "best urine sample we've gotten in a long time!"
It turns out that Bailey had a high white blood cell count, which indicated she had something going on her stomach/intestines. The doctor said she had overly active bowel sounds, which told him that her stomach was very "pissed off". LMAO. After the x-ray showed that her digestive tract was full of nothing but gas and bloat, the doctor diagnosed her with gastroenteritis and informed us that Bailey would need to stay through the night for observation and IV hydration until things calmed down.
Let's just say the IV part did not go well with Bailey.
After a few bags of hydration and rest, the doctor said she could go home and remain on a liquid diet for 24 hours. This, of course, was at 6:30 in the morning when they discharged her. We brought her home, exhausted, and put her to bed. Greg's chief told Greg he needed to be in to work, so Greg went without an ounce of sleep.
This to me, is inhumane on the Navy's part. How can they expect these instructors to train recruits if they are so tired they can't think straight? The recruits are guaranteed at 8 hours of sleep per day....why aren't the instructors?
I slept for a couple of hours, then it was off to the dentist at 9:00 for an evaluation for my tooth. A few days ago, I bit down on a piece of chewing gum, I and I fucking swear the entire right side of my face exploded with pain. After the initial pain subsided, I had this horrible dull throbbing pain in my jaw which would worsen everytime I sucked in a breath of air or drank something of any extreme temprature. Assuming it was a cavity, I expected the dentist to do a filling during this appointment. Of course, sleep deprived and experiencing dental anxiety, I was told there was nothing visibly wrong with my tooth. So then the asshole dentist takes this metal stick looking thing and starts banging around my tooth. He obviously found the area of concern when I jumped eight feet out of the chair.
"You have a fractured tooth!", he says, like he just struck goddamn gold or something.
He then declares to me that he no longer does root canals, and he also cannot see this fracture. He then tells me I need to see a specialist who will find the fracture and either do the root canal or extract the tooth, depending on the severity.
I'm so tired at this point I don't give a shit if he pulls all of my teeth so long as I can lie down somewhere and close my eyes. He then starts talking to me about my insurance, and how they won't cover the whole thing; so a root canal may cost me between 300-500 bucks.
Well, that woke me up. Are you shitting me? 500 bucks to pull the nerve out of my fucking tooth?
Needless to say, I was upset, tired, nervous and panicked about the financial situation. I have been steadily putting extra money into our savings account because things have been really hard for us; and I planned to use that money for other things. Not a little fuckin' tooth.
When I got home, I called this specialist's office to schedule the appointment. The guy's first name is Kermit.
Kermit
I know.
So I am headed to visit Kermit the Tooth Guy today at 11:30; and keeping my fingers crossed that he dosen't find anything worthy of drilling into immediately. Either that, or I might run out of there screaming before he does anything at all. Hell, I might run screaming as soon as I see him.
I haven't decided yet.
The only way to cope with this deep anxiety of Kermit is to focus on my crafts. I finished an adorable little lapghan last night that will get sent to Gram for Christmas. She's getting a crocheted bed doll, a doily (the one that was saved from the brink of death by coffee stain), and this little 'ghan as a matching set for her bedroom. It's not a large ghan' but just enough to cover her lap or throw over a chair for decoration.
And then I finally put the border around my Babette blanket, which has been sitting here for weeks, because it turned out ickish, and I don't care for it much. The actual process of making it was fun, and I loved the adventure in color; but sewing up the squares--since they each are different---left the sewing seams visible and I don't like that. It looks cheap. I looked at other's projects on Ravelry, and they have the same issue, so I know I did it correctly; however I didn't see the point in going any further on a project I just don't care for. So I eliminated sections 9 and 10 (which were large), and used a dc border to call it finished. It's still quite large, very heavy and very warm.
It was used with my scrap yarn....19 colors I think. Since I enjoyed the process of creating it so much, I may do it again in a different colorway, maybe monochromatic or pastels. But either way, it's finished!
I have one more strip to do on Greg's Mile A Minute afghan, and I have to say, in my opinion, it has come out beautifully and I hope he likes it when he opens it up on Christmas morning. He has no idea I am making it for him, which is neat because he loves homemade gifts! He always sees me working on other things, he probably feels like I don't remember to make him anything. I'm so excited to give it to him, and I will post a pic as soon as it's finished.
In the next couple of days I plan on starting a very ambitious project, and working on it exclusively. Otherwise, I'll be working on it forever.
Instead of the pictured colors, I am going to use baby pink for the roses, sage for the leaves, and white for the backround. And I'm making it for ME, as a bedspread. There are 70 blocks to this bad boy, and it's huge. I'll be using Hobby Lobby's "I Love This Yarn" because it is so so so soft! I can't wait.
The dogs are whining to go outside, so I must close! I'll update as the story of my poor little tooth unfolds.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Smell Of Cinnamon
As I look out the window, I see the clouds are a unique shade of gray that only the promise of snow knows how to paint. The resulting darkness is fooling my family into staying asleep later than usual; for it is impossible to tell that it is, in fact, morning. As for myself, I cannot sleep late through a morning. I love them--the idea of being awake when the rest of the world is quiet and not yet expectant of anything.
And so I am sitting with my coffee, wearing the warmest pajamas I own, and gazing at the only lights on in the entire house: my Christmas tree. Situated near a large window, I love the contrast of the colored lights against the dismal backdrop of gray skies and a white ground. Upstairs in my bedroom, a single white candle is lit along with the scent of cinnamon incense in thanks and honor for this special time of day. The flame of the candle is believed to bring wishes and desires to fruition, and the smoke of the incense will be carried away to the Gods so they, too, may assist in helping my desires become reality.
This morning, however, I do not desire anything other than to define exactly what this time of year means for me, and to reacquaint myself with my beliefs beyond what tradition and religion dictates should mean.
Though I left Christianity several years ago and converted to neopaganism incorporating several branches of it's belief system, I cannot look up in a textbook of religious studies and point out a list of criteria that specifically describes me. Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ--the Son of God--and his representation of hope and redemption. They exchange gifts, as the Three Kings bestowed upon the baby, with the message of peace, love, and thanks. I, myself, am still in love with the story of the Holy Birth--not because I actually believe Christ was God's son---but because the the very idea that a child so holy and so loved could bring so much hope to the world is an image that often brings me to great emotional joy.
Pagans believe, in a vague summation on my part, that Christmas (Yule) marks the "birth" of the Sun. A group of nature based religions, Pagans celebrate the winter solstice---the shortest day of the year---followed by the promise of longer days to come as the Sun's light grows stronger and longer each day until spring. They light fires and candles to represent the Sun's birth, as well as to symbolically provide light and promise on the darkest calendar day of the year. Yule is a season of quiet, reflection, self evaluation, and love.
What I find amusing is that contrary to all of the fighting and disagreeing amongst religious groups, the message of both of these belief systems is the same: Christmas, Yule, Winter Solstice (and maybe even other religions) all promise the same thing: the birth of something/someone so full of promise and hope that we cannot help but feel the urge to spend time with those we love the most in celebration and anticipation of greater things to come. We exchange gifts, share feasts, decorate, gather for games and parties, etc---all in essence, for the same fundamental reason.
We are celebrating hope, thanks, family, friends, and love.
As for myself, personally, I am a mixed bag concerning my personal beliefs. I do not pay much attention to the technicalities of anything like attending church on the Christian front, or lighting a Yule log to light the dark path until the Sun is old enough to shine on His own. I do not cast spells or go outside and chant at the moon (it's too cold here!) on the Pagan side of things either. I do not find the idea of gift giving to be all that exciting either, to tell you the truth. What I mean by this, is that I do not find it at all 'celebratory' to rush around worrying about getting the gift that someone wants so bad that I must compromise my own finances and sanity to find it! To me, that is the contraindication of the season. My gifts are usually handmade, if I comfortably have the time to make them. If not, then a note or a phone call or some other form of emotional expression is how I give to my loved ones. Because, seriously, what tangible thing could I give someone to express how much I love and appreciate them? A hand made gift, though not nearly as extravagant or expensive as a purchased one, can help the recipient understand that I thought about them for many hours and many days as I created it. Unfortunately, not many people understand or appreciate this; and I am certain that most of my handmade gifts are stowed away in a closet and never to be looked at again.
So, my belief system over the years has evolved. No longer do I scramble around like a nutcase hoping someone will like what I am giving them. No more shopping in crowded malls and stores unless it is for something extra special. No more giving a "little something" to EVERYONE I know in hopes they'll appreciate it, or because somewhere society says we are supposed to be giving. I believe in giving to those who I know will appreciate them as much as I loved making the gift for them. For it is those relationships worthy of celebrating and praising. It is those relationships that deserve to cherished during a time of year designed for cherishing all that we love!
Since I have such a small but meaningful gift giving process, I believe this time of year, for me, is a time of quiet. Not depression and isolation quiet----but simplicity's quiet. Christmas/Yule marks both the end and beginning of things albeit via Bible or Calendar, and this is my time of weighing and deciding and reflecting on what I wish to begin or end in my own life, be it habits, ideas, hopes, dreams, baggage, resentments, old anger, and even suppressed love for someone. And while this seems very emotionally tiring, I spend this time of year surrounding myself with beautiful things: my tree, warm blankets, candles, my favorite music, yummy things in the oven, board games with my children, movies that represent hope......and I use these "tools" to sort out these beginnings and endings. I balance comfort with necessity.
And I do it quietly. I think this is my fundamental Christmas belief: This is a time for ourselves. To give what we want to give versus what we think we should or have to. To relax and rest versus scrambling around trying to do what we think is best for someone else. To stay home and watch a movie versus attending a party full of people we would not normally associate with outside of work or business. Or to attend that party versus staying home and catering to the fear or hesitation of being social. To give a card with a thoughtful note instead of buying. To listen to our instincts about family rather than spend time in a situation that will just bring about old resentments and bickering. Or to attend that family gathering rather than sitting fearful of what "might" happen. To eat whatever goodies we want because it feels good to do so...versus stressing over how much weight we might gain or who might think we have no self control.
For if we cannot do what feels best for ourselves....how can we do or be anything that is best for another? If we do not know our own limits, how can we ever hope to accomplish the goal of setting boundaries? If we cannot give what feels right, how can we ever know the true definition of giving, and feel joy from it? If we cannot express ourselves truly to another, how can we ever learn who appreciates us and who does not?
If we cannot begin aspects of our lives anew, or end parts of it that are not working for us, how can we ever really know what it is like to evolve in a healthy way, not only for ourselves, but for those we love? If we cannot sit and be quiet...and enjoy the simplicity or what I like to call the "nothingness".....how can we ever learn to block out the noise and listen to ourselves?
So as my candle burns today with my desires, my wish is for you (whoever is reading!) to enjoy this season on your own terms, and celebrating in ways that are best for yourself. And through this, that you gain the peace, hope, and sense of fullfillment that each one of us deserves---which will inevitably spill out onto those who you love, as they too will see that you are more wholesome and capable of being whatever it is they need or want you to be.
Because I truly believe that regardless of faith, religion, church congreation, or lack of religion altogether, it is our human right to celebrate exactly what makes us human: the hope and desire to be whole.
So as you gaze at your tree, or sit with your family, or wrap your gifts, parade the mall...whatever it is you do....stop and smell some cinnamon today. It is my gift to you today, and all of the days of this season.
And so I am sitting with my coffee, wearing the warmest pajamas I own, and gazing at the only lights on in the entire house: my Christmas tree. Situated near a large window, I love the contrast of the colored lights against the dismal backdrop of gray skies and a white ground. Upstairs in my bedroom, a single white candle is lit along with the scent of cinnamon incense in thanks and honor for this special time of day. The flame of the candle is believed to bring wishes and desires to fruition, and the smoke of the incense will be carried away to the Gods so they, too, may assist in helping my desires become reality.
This morning, however, I do not desire anything other than to define exactly what this time of year means for me, and to reacquaint myself with my beliefs beyond what tradition and religion dictates should mean.
Though I left Christianity several years ago and converted to neopaganism incorporating several branches of it's belief system, I cannot look up in a textbook of religious studies and point out a list of criteria that specifically describes me. Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ--the Son of God--and his representation of hope and redemption. They exchange gifts, as the Three Kings bestowed upon the baby, with the message of peace, love, and thanks. I, myself, am still in love with the story of the Holy Birth--not because I actually believe Christ was God's son---but because the the very idea that a child so holy and so loved could bring so much hope to the world is an image that often brings me to great emotional joy.
Pagans believe, in a vague summation on my part, that Christmas (Yule) marks the "birth" of the Sun. A group of nature based religions, Pagans celebrate the winter solstice---the shortest day of the year---followed by the promise of longer days to come as the Sun's light grows stronger and longer each day until spring. They light fires and candles to represent the Sun's birth, as well as to symbolically provide light and promise on the darkest calendar day of the year. Yule is a season of quiet, reflection, self evaluation, and love.
What I find amusing is that contrary to all of the fighting and disagreeing amongst religious groups, the message of both of these belief systems is the same: Christmas, Yule, Winter Solstice (and maybe even other religions) all promise the same thing: the birth of something/someone so full of promise and hope that we cannot help but feel the urge to spend time with those we love the most in celebration and anticipation of greater things to come. We exchange gifts, share feasts, decorate, gather for games and parties, etc---all in essence, for the same fundamental reason.
We are celebrating hope, thanks, family, friends, and love.
As for myself, personally, I am a mixed bag concerning my personal beliefs. I do not pay much attention to the technicalities of anything like attending church on the Christian front, or lighting a Yule log to light the dark path until the Sun is old enough to shine on His own. I do not cast spells or go outside and chant at the moon (it's too cold here!) on the Pagan side of things either. I do not find the idea of gift giving to be all that exciting either, to tell you the truth. What I mean by this, is that I do not find it at all 'celebratory' to rush around worrying about getting the gift that someone wants so bad that I must compromise my own finances and sanity to find it! To me, that is the contraindication of the season. My gifts are usually handmade, if I comfortably have the time to make them. If not, then a note or a phone call or some other form of emotional expression is how I give to my loved ones. Because, seriously, what tangible thing could I give someone to express how much I love and appreciate them? A hand made gift, though not nearly as extravagant or expensive as a purchased one, can help the recipient understand that I thought about them for many hours and many days as I created it. Unfortunately, not many people understand or appreciate this; and I am certain that most of my handmade gifts are stowed away in a closet and never to be looked at again.
So, my belief system over the years has evolved. No longer do I scramble around like a nutcase hoping someone will like what I am giving them. No more shopping in crowded malls and stores unless it is for something extra special. No more giving a "little something" to EVERYONE I know in hopes they'll appreciate it, or because somewhere society says we are supposed to be giving. I believe in giving to those who I know will appreciate them as much as I loved making the gift for them. For it is those relationships worthy of celebrating and praising. It is those relationships that deserve to cherished during a time of year designed for cherishing all that we love!
Since I have such a small but meaningful gift giving process, I believe this time of year, for me, is a time of quiet. Not depression and isolation quiet----but simplicity's quiet. Christmas/Yule marks both the end and beginning of things albeit via Bible or Calendar, and this is my time of weighing and deciding and reflecting on what I wish to begin or end in my own life, be it habits, ideas, hopes, dreams, baggage, resentments, old anger, and even suppressed love for someone. And while this seems very emotionally tiring, I spend this time of year surrounding myself with beautiful things: my tree, warm blankets, candles, my favorite music, yummy things in the oven, board games with my children, movies that represent hope......and I use these "tools" to sort out these beginnings and endings. I balance comfort with necessity.
And I do it quietly. I think this is my fundamental Christmas belief: This is a time for ourselves. To give what we want to give versus what we think we should or have to. To relax and rest versus scrambling around trying to do what we think is best for someone else. To stay home and watch a movie versus attending a party full of people we would not normally associate with outside of work or business. Or to attend that party versus staying home and catering to the fear or hesitation of being social. To give a card with a thoughtful note instead of buying. To listen to our instincts about family rather than spend time in a situation that will just bring about old resentments and bickering. Or to attend that family gathering rather than sitting fearful of what "might" happen. To eat whatever goodies we want because it feels good to do so...versus stressing over how much weight we might gain or who might think we have no self control.
For if we cannot do what feels best for ourselves....how can we do or be anything that is best for another? If we do not know our own limits, how can we ever hope to accomplish the goal of setting boundaries? If we cannot give what feels right, how can we ever know the true definition of giving, and feel joy from it? If we cannot express ourselves truly to another, how can we ever learn who appreciates us and who does not?
If we cannot begin aspects of our lives anew, or end parts of it that are not working for us, how can we ever really know what it is like to evolve in a healthy way, not only for ourselves, but for those we love? If we cannot sit and be quiet...and enjoy the simplicity or what I like to call the "nothingness".....how can we ever learn to block out the noise and listen to ourselves?
So as my candle burns today with my desires, my wish is for you (whoever is reading!) to enjoy this season on your own terms, and celebrating in ways that are best for yourself. And through this, that you gain the peace, hope, and sense of fullfillment that each one of us deserves---which will inevitably spill out onto those who you love, as they too will see that you are more wholesome and capable of being whatever it is they need or want you to be.
Because I truly believe that regardless of faith, religion, church congreation, or lack of religion altogether, it is our human right to celebrate exactly what makes us human: the hope and desire to be whole.
So as you gaze at your tree, or sit with your family, or wrap your gifts, parade the mall...whatever it is you do....stop and smell some cinnamon today. It is my gift to you today, and all of the days of this season.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
