Role Play

Posted on by stilllearning2b

This. Is. Life. Changing.

My mom clued me in recently to the Karpman Drama Triangle. It’s a simple and elegant tool that can help you understand and change dysfunctional relationships (not just romantic relationships – familial, friend and work too). This particular description really resonates with me because I think it is possible for everyone to recognize their own inherent behavioral trends and tendencies even if they fall short of the dysfunctional category.

And once you name it, you own it.

And what you own, you can change.

 

It’s a long read. But so worth it.

So, pour yourself a of beverage of your choice, find a comfortable seat and be ready to have your world rocked.

 

 

Mother’s Maiden Name

Posted on by stilllearning2b

I knew his mother’s maiden name.

His parent’s middle names. His social security number. I could list his schools and their associated mascots. I knew the name and breed of every dog his family every owned. I’d sifted through all of his baby pictures, watching the chubby toddler grow into the awkward, skinny boy who finally transformed into the teenager I loved. I knew the family recipes and the family secrets.

But I keep coming back to his mother’s maiden name.

I used to find security in that knowledge, as though it was some talisman against future tragedy. I thought I knew everything about him. That I was so deep within the fold that secrets couldn’t exist between us.

It was an illusion, of course. You never completely know another person; you only know what they choose to show you.

It’s funny sometimes how life works out. The day after the text that ended it all, his mother’s maiden name gained me access into our joint accounts after he changed the password.

The talisman against tragedy became the key to unlocking the scope of the tragedy.

And in the end, that’s really all his mother’s maiden name was good for.

 

Guest Post: Aho Matakuye O’yasin

Posted on by stilllearning2b

While I am away for a few days, I will be sharing posts from a series of guest bloggers. Today’s post is from Lesley Pearl, who is a

…writer, massage therapist, and body-image/weight-loss coach living in Chicago. Her blog, “A Wandering Jewess,” chronicles life after marriage in a series of weekly solo dates and spiritual journeys. She is currently working on her first book titled “Left. Write.”
She can also be found at the following:
Let Lesley’s imagery sweep you up and carry you into her journey.

Aho Matakuye O’yasin

 

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Bent and tied river willows form the structure of the lodge. Photo: Paul Tootalian

 

The waxy brown cotton of my lapa feels soft between my fingers.  Like my body.  Like my heart.

I thought the African skirt would become this way over time, as I danced in it – but it remained rigid and stiff.  Until today, when, in the dark and heat of the sweat lodge it softened, pinning itself to my body.

I roll the fabric between my fingers like rosary or prayer beads.  I feel the moisture accumulate between my breasts – grateful for their small size.  Grateful for the darkness to peel off my sports bra, unnoticed, and let my t-shirt from the Knoxville Farmers’ Market cover me.  Given my druthers I would wear nothing.  But I respect the modesty requested at this ceremonial gathering of men and women.

I close my eyes, breathe in the sweet sage, and fix my ears on the beating drum and the sound of my friend Paul’s voice.

It has been a journey just getting here.

********************

I arrive despite a blinding thunderstorm, the need for on-the-road car repairs, and a bit of information which shakes my sense of perception and causes me to question if this is right for me, right now.  And with the aid and calm of friends who ferry me to and from.

I walk about a quarter of a mile through wet, freshly mown grass to where the lodge is set up – my orange, peep-toe wedges gathering silky, green slivers.

I remember wearing these shoes through Rwanda two summers ago – collecting the red earth of the land of 10,000 hills between my toes – and recalling Patsy and Edina schlepping their Louis Vuitton bags through sand in the Morocco episode of the BBC’s Absolutely Fabulous.  Dragging my rolling suitcase filled with towels, sweat and apres-sweat clothes, I feel like a bit actor in the Sweat Lodge episode.

********************

Paul is draping blankets over the hut he constructed out of river willows – collected from his sister and brother-in-law’s property a few miles away.  Rocks are heating in a pit outside of the lodge, and he has built an altar from the dirt inside of it.

Paul is the third in a line of spiritual teachers with the same name.  The first being my university religious-studies professor, the second, the one who taught me to meditate – leading me through initiation with an offering of fruit, flowers (star gazers, my favorite) and the bestowing of a mantra.

Our paths have been crisscrossing for most of our lives.  We agree the universe has been conspiring for us to meet.

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The Altar. Covered Lodge. And our guide, Paul. (I call him “The Reluctant Shaman.”

There are eight of us, the last arriving in a John Deere Gator Utility Vehicle.  She looks like an African Queen, regal in her loose batik dress with dragonflies on it, her grey hair braided at the temples and wrapped around her head like a crown.   Her face is at once both sad and serene.

She reminds Paul they have been in ceremony together – with her former partner.  The break-up is obviously fresh.

Words tumble out of my mouth about divorce, change and the painful nature of endings – no matter how right or how kind.  How people will say all sorts of stupid things.  And that she is, no doubt, on the precipice of some sort of adventure.  She smiles in a way that tells me she has lived a thousand lifetimes and knows that this kind of pain is just part of it.  That she has chosen this and is not fighting it.

I mention that I wasn’t sure I would make it here today.  That I wasn’t sure it was right for me, right now.  “Until now.  You are why I am here.”

********************

Paul smudges each of us with sage and we enter the lodge on our hands and knees, proclaiming “Aho Matakuye O’yasin – Greetings, All My Relations.”

I remember Patsy smudging my ex and I when she officiated our marriage.  And me doing the same for my friend Chase when her divorce was final, smudging the entire house – making it “her own” again.

********************

It is hot and humid inside.  I feel a wave of nausea wash over me as Paul explains what will happen in ceremony.

Rocks.  Herbs.  Water.

Chanting.  Praying.  Smoking.

Complete darkness.

Connectedness to the earth.  To one another.  To ourselves.

I am afraid.  Afraid of the total darkness.  Afraid of what I might feel, what might “come up.”  Afraid I cannot physically or psychologically endure this – even though Paul has assured us that this will be a “gentle sweat.”

But the heat is like a balm – different from the still Midwestern humidity that settled heavy around me just moments before.  The drumming and chanting force all thoughts from my mind.  I only hear my friend’s voice – strong, confident, prayerful – and the African Queen’s.  It is sweet and slippery and hard to hold on to.  But very much there.  Just as I feel her, very much there, next to me.

Everything softens.  My body.  My brain.  My lapa.  I feel the sweat sliding down my body and I am deliriously in love with it.  This body I have fought for so much of my life.  That has brought me here and is sustaining me today.  It is strong and small and very, very feminine.  I feel my hands pressing into the earth beneath me.  My legs.  My feet.  My ass.  The soft dampness of moist earth is flesh, the spiky grass is hair and we are one.

apres-sweat

Apres sweat — eyes wide open. Photo: Paul Tootalian

 

I pray for my stepfather and my two girlfriends who are battling mightily.  And I ask for prayers for myself.  For compassion and acceptance for myself, for where I am, not where I think I should be.  My voice cracks and I add, “May we all have compassion and acceptance for ourselves and for one another.”

I pray for the man who hurt my heart not so long ago.  I call out his name when I am certain no one can hear me.

********************

I smoke from the Chanupa – the sacred, ceremonial pipe.  Sober nearly seven years, my addict is awakened.

I am back in college, sitting in a circle.  My friend Brian stirs the bowl and lights it while I suck in all that I can, holding it in my lungs.  I converse easily while I do this – like one of the big boys.

But I am not talking.  And this is not weed.  It is tobacco, although it tastes like juniper and pine.  It is ceremony.  It is holy.  It is community.  It is what I longed for, sitting in a circle like this, so many years ago.

********************

I weep in the darkness.  I am certain no one can hear my dying animal letting go. And it is over.

We crawl out on our hands and knees, just as we had entered, saying “Aho Matakuye O’yasin – Greetings, All My Relations,” once again.

Paul greets each of us with an embrace, and we greet one another in the same way.  The African Queen’s eyes are wordlessly different.  Lighter.  As if the color has changed.  She presses me tightly to her.

The group walks towards the house for a celebratory feast, but I stay behind and wait for Paul.

While I am waiting, I do cartwheels around the lodge.  One after the other after the other, until I feel dizzy.  I feel the pull of my pelvis – the source of chronic pain – and I welcome it.  I feel the lightness of my body, of my mind and I welcome it, give thanks for and to it.

I had believed I was here to meet the African Queen.  That was only half of the truth.  In the stillness of the after-lodge, I know its other half, its twin – I was here to meet myself.  “Aho Matakuye O’yasin — Greetings, All My Relations.”

 

 

 

Guest Post: Then and Now

Posted on by stilllearning2b
While I am away for a few days, I am sharing a series of guest posts from some awesome bloggers. This one is from Joy, who blogs at Tellin ‘ it like it is… Joy describes herself as:
a human being constantly learning, mom of a 4-year old, partner, teacher, writer, daughter, sister, friend. I love music, travel (armchair and actual), books (to stack on my nightstand or to read),and food (to eat…and ogle.) I blog to keep sane, to entertain myself, and to record my stories. 
I never cease to be amazed at the gifts hidden within even the most painful of experiences. Joy has found such a gift after her own divorce.

Then and Now

Ending a marriage has a million different ramifications, not least of which is the effect it has on the kids (or in my case, the kid.)  I won’t know the exact toll it has taken on my little monkey for years (and let’s face it, I might never know…) but one thing I can attest to is the impact it has made on my parenting.  Err…co-parenting.

When I was part of an official pair and also a parent, for the majority of that time, I was a stay-at-home Mom.  I considered myself lucky and was happy with that arrangement. My mother stayed home with me and my little sister until I was in middle school; moreover, my ex and I had agreed that one parent being at home was the best for our family at the time.  However, when my daughter was a little more than 18 months old, it became financially unfeasible, and as a result, I started back to work part-time as a teacher. Looking back now, that was the beginning of the end.  As a stay-at-home parent, I held a lot (if not all) of the decision-making responsibility when it came to my daughter, not to mention the majority of the execution of said decisions — it was part of the package. I understood it and my daughter flourished.

But the agreement changed…and my responsibilities for my child did not. In many respects, I was happy for the adult interaction, but a seed of resentment was planted in my heart the day I went back to work. I was still doing the same portion of the parenting, but now had the additional work outside the home to manage too.  It was not what I wanted, but it was how it had to be and as the resentment grew bigger, my temper grew shorter, and my parenting …suffered.  That’s putting it mildly. I was short with the monkey. Very short sometimes. And I hated it.  I was unhappy, she was paying for it and I knew it. I also knew certain things had to change, not least of all the state of the marriage and how I wanted to live the rest of my life.

Once I made the decision to end it, I had to go back to work full-time to support myself and my daughter. Although one might think it would be worse than the part-time situation, it’s actually been better when it comes to co-parenting – if I can manage to look at it through a lens not clouded with guilt. (By the way, if anyone has one of those chamois glass-cleaning thingamajigs that gets that off my coke-bottles, please share.)

I now have time of my own. Not that it’s a lot of time because it isn’t. Not that I don’t think of her multiple times throughout the day when she’s not with me because I do…but the days and nights I don’t have her are spent doing things that help me grow and reflect (like, take classes, exercise,  read and …write blog posts like this.) When mommies have time to breathe, grow and reflect, they are better parents.

I am now forced to better communicate both her and my own needs to her Dad, to really spell them out, as we no longer live under the same roof.  It’s all too easy to make assumptions when you’re married, that your spouse will know what you need, should know what you need.  When you’re divorced and co-parenting, you have to be crystal clear. When mommies and daddies communicate better, they are better parents.

I now know that I can survive on my own and take care of my child with the help of my village, which now includes my ex.  When mommies are more confident, they can trust others and are better parents.

I now trust my instincts more.  When mommies trust their instincts, they are better parents.

I now am more grateful for everything I am and have… and it has made me a better parent.

 

Joy can also be found on the following:

 

Guest Post: Are you there, Divine? It’s me, Keri.

Posted on by stilllearning2b

While I am away for a few days, I am sharing a series of guest posts from some awesome bloggers. This one is from Keri Rumley, a single mom and expressive art therapist. She explains why she writes on her About page:

I began this blog as an attempt to utilize my own creative process as a tool for healing. I also knew I needed to write to connect to others in a time of extreme isolation, to be seen and witnessed in my experience of loss and hopefully to inspire and help others.

So, read on and be inspired. Just be forewarned, you may need to have some tissues nearby; this one brought tears to my eyes.

Are you there Divine? It’s me, Keri.

Today I received an eviction notice from my landlord. No reasons were stated, just that the kids and I needed to move out within 45 days or legal action would be taken against us. When we signed a lease for the property, the lease was “at will,” meaning that either party could terminate with 45 days notice. There was also a handshake agreement that we (my husband at the time and I) would eventually, be purchasing this property and the understanding that all of our monthly rent would be going towards the purchase price of the home. While I wasn’t really comfortable with the solvency of this unwritten agreement, my husband and his family members assured me that their families went back generations and would never “screw” one another over. A big part of my willingness to move from my hometown of Montpelier, Vermont and my childhood home was this sweet little house in Maine with it’s sunny deck, wooden play structure, chicken coop, barns, awesome kid’s bike riding flat paved driveway, pastures and forest bordering the property.

Since then my circumstances have changed. I am no longer part of this family with it’s wide reaches and I wonder if I am suddenly exempt from the “no screwing” clause. Because I have experienced so many traumas over the last six months around my divorce and because so much of it felt like it happened TO me unexpectedly, it’s hard not to take this latest slight personally. I would’ve rather received a phone call, or had an in person conversation about any problems with our tenancy and if not, the reasons for the eviction (possibly selling the home)? The same way I would’ve liked to have a conversation with my husband about our problems in the marriage, rather than discovering it for myself through the phone bill. I feel the drama building around me and I feel people getting sick of the endless stories of adversity. In my worst moments I imagine they think what a hard luck case I am and that perhaps “I did something to deserve all of this” and pat themselves on the backs for the neat and tidy packages of their own lives. Other tapes that run through my brain are, “why is all of this happening to me? I’m a good person, nice to elders and children. I volunteer in my child’s pre-school. I support public radio. I pay my taxes. I don’t do drugs; I don’t even drink alcohol anymore. I have always crossed my T’s and dotted my I’s. I have my Masters degree and my work is helping others, for crying out loud! Where are my blind spots and what am I supposed to be learning from all of this?”

My supportive spiritual companion reminds me that God (whatever version you believe in) steps in and offers guidance when you become completely helpless. A few weeks ago we joked that I’m nearly there. Tonight, I believe I have finally arrived. I don’t know what else can be stripped away? I have lost my marriage, half of what I considered my family, my kids half the time, my old community, financial stability and now the place we have called home. What is left? And yet, this is what divorce does. No area of your life can be considered safe from the spreading plague of a divorce.

Two weeks ago one of my cats died. It was actually the day after my last post, which was a perky and self-congratulatory ditty about how well I was FINALLY doing and how great I felt! Hooray for me! Finding my dead cat in the basement that night, his long gray and black striped body stretched out head to tail with rigor mortis, pressed up to the wall, eyes half open and mouth agape, was shattering. I calmly put my 3 and 4 year old sons to bed knowing his body lay there two floors below and then did what I do in all crisis situations: I got to work. I googled “what to do with your dead cat?” (I’m really not joking). After researching the town ordinances, I texted the landlord asking permission to bury my cat on the property, which was granted. I was so thankful my spiritual companion (family aunt) was staying with us to talk to me, support me and make a plan about what we should do. I stroked his dead body, feeling his plush fur for the last time. She was patient and gentle with my emotional process and did the tough and impossible (for me) job of lifting his body, wrapping him in the soft blanket he used to sleep on and then sealing the plastic around him. We tried many different boxes but his body was too long due to his robust physicality and the elongated and stiffened tail. She stayed inside listening for my boys, who often awake at night, while I went out into a fern grove in the forest behind our backyard, clad in boots and my head lamp to dig his grave in the peeper filled moonlight.

I experienced a full litany of emotions throughout this long intense process. In some moments I sobbed, releasing feelings of sadness that had been stored up over the last few months, realizing that that which is not fully felt and experienced the first time, will continue to keep coming back. In other moments I raged into the night like a crazy person, yelling about how fucking unfair this life is. I went through a lot of “what if’s” and self-blame and guilt around failing to take him in to the vet when he was making atypical meowing sounds the previous day. And in some other moments, I felt calm, resolved and at peace with the memory of my handsome adventurous cat’s life and being in the moment of what “is”. Digging in the dirt striking roots, and sharp edges of slate was ultimately calming and cathartic with each shovelful of dirt flung to the side. I remembered back to the day that we brought Clyde and Bonnie (his sister) home from the Montpelier Famers’ Market, and how the artist giving them away told us about their mother, a lovable barn cat. From the tangle of kittens, my husband chose Clyde and I chose Bonnie and we later joked how we secretly liked Clyde better because he was less tempestuous than his sister. I visualized the photos of my son who was two at the time, holding these mewling, squirming balls of fluff and the pure delight and joy on his face. I remembered the rhymes we would make up about the kitties (Clyde who would glide and slide) and how both of my kids could easily hoist up either cat as they grew to full size, the long expanse of their bodies draping over my kids’ arms like heavy snakes, limp and unfazed, ever tolerant. He and Bonnie slept with our family whenever they stayed inside, Clyde usually nesting down with my eldest. At our Vermont house the cats were very much indoor/outdoor cats with free reign, and would hunt at night. One morning Clyde returned with a slash out of one ear from a wilderness scuffle, only reinforcing his tough-sensitive guy persona and forever marking him for those who struggled to tell the two tiger striped kitties apart. They easily adjusted to our Maine home last fall and loved exploring the barn and trekking off into the expansive woods, climbing trees, and returning home to rub up against the dog, circling her legs as she nuzzled noses with them.

At some point in the digging, all of my feelings about my cat became entangled with my feelings about my marriage, and subsequent divorce. I had texted my (ex) husband letting him know our cat had died and asking if he wanted to come help me lay him to rest. His response was that he was “not available.” This moment for me finally crystallized what I already knew. How many times do you walk down that same street falling into the same hole? Listen to what people tell you. I finally got that he is NOT AVAILABLE to me now, or ever. Whatever I need to do, whether it is bury our dead cat, or find a new place to live, I have to do on my own, completely and fully. That is what divorce is, right? I had some fantasy movie montage playing in my head of him driving over, “knight in shining armor” fashion, our sweat pooling into the earth as we dug side by side, reminiscing and connecting about our cat and somehow, despite the divorce and ugliness that has ensued, making peace with his death and facilitating a healing process between us. A letting go and honoring of what once was; our shared history and continued evolution as a family.

Well, it didn’t happen. What did happen was that I realized I had it in me to bury my dead cat. It turns out I have a lot in me that I never knew I had.

These days I’m filled with clichés. “The lord never gives you more than you can handle.” “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” “Something better awaits you.” “The universe gives you what you need to grow.” While I believe all of these things, I realize my desperation to make sense of everything that is happening allows for the tender vulnerability of my own spirituality to emerge. We tell ourselves these things so we can feel better, and yet, we do believe.

Clyde was my (ex) husband’s cat and now they are both gone. I cried for two days after Clyde died until my 4 year-old son said exasperatedly, “It’s life, Mom. This is what happens. Why don’t you go draw a picture about it or something?” (*Child of an expressive art therapist)  I was so worried about my kids and how they would handle yet another loss. I went on and on about how Clyde was “returning to Mother Earth and his spirit would possibly go into another animal, etc. When I asked them if hey had any questions or wanted to talk more about him, my younger said, “I have an idea. We’ll get another cat and name him Clyde!” My older son, said, “If you are done Mom, can I go watch a show?” They are so in the moment and they don’t yet attach all of the suffering to loss that we do as adults.

Ultimately, I couldn’t save the cat, just like I couldn’t save my marriage. This house that we are being evicted from, is still very energetically linked to my (ex) husband and his family and the promise of our fresh start here in Maine, last October. I see all of my ties and memories connected to him drifting away like a log floating down a lazy river, or the lump shrouded in plastic covered with shovel after shovel of damp earth. Soon, nothing recognizable will remain but the same river, winding and flowing, carving a new path. The past is buried and becomes a fertile ground for new growth, new life. I’m not sure where I am headed, but I have to trust that it will be the right place for me, and my kids. I recognize my helplessness to control any of it. I’m ready for you, Divine. It’s time to do your work, because I need a miracle.