The week between Christmas and New Years is a classic opportunity for most of us to step back and experience the lull. Sadly, it’s a safe bet there will be exponentially more angst and uncertainty this coming week than normal.
Normal. What a quaint and impossible to define concept, especially this year. Which makes indulging the lull even more of a responsibility.
Comforting Routine
Karl and I managed to take a walk today. It was normal, for all intents and purposes. Uneventful. An attempt to re-engage with our routine.
I only took a few photos. None of them screamed, “This merits a post!” But I’ll include a couple anyway.
It felt comforting to take a walk after having missed the last three days (at least). This was quite a long stretch to go without our daily immersion in nature. I was feeling it, feeling the disconnection.
As much as walking is sacred to me, I’m curious at how easy it is to fall out of the habit. Even worse is how insidiously easy it is to then talk myself out of resuming that which keeps me grounded and balanced.
Why do I do that to myself? It’s the same with my writing. And reading for pleasure. It’s almost as if it’s a sin against nature to allow myself to stop thinking about all the things I ‘should’ be doing for a moment and just be. Just read. Just write in my journal.
Really? – Photo: L. Weikel
I Know Better
Intellectually, I know better. Of course I do! I know the value – the necessity – of taking care of our own needs and keeping ourselves nourished and nurtured. I also know how much better I feel when I walk, when I give myself an opportunity to listen to a flock of geese and feel the thrill of having a chat with a doe.
My habit of resisting what’s best for my heart and soul when I need it the most is tedious. I see it and recognize it, but I’m not going to indulge it. It’s based in an old set of beliefs that don’t work anymore, and frankly, never did.
I intend to indulge – and enjoy – the lull tomorrow. Perhaps you’ll join me and we can maybe even commit to extending the lull right up to the official conclusion of this cataclysmic year.
And there’s that gentleness showing up again, calling my name. Yours too, I bet.
I think this photo of Tigger speaks volumes. If you followed the news at all today, in any form – radio, television, FB, Twitter – and if you’re anything like me, you’re probably harboring this declaration as your silently mumbled Election Day (and beyond) strategy: “Take cover!”
And yet, as we all know, that is an essentially unsustainable tack to take. We can and possibly would be advised to run for cover initially, because, well, there’s a decent chance that people are going to get worked up over whatever happens next Tuesday, and they’re almost sure to act out in some way. But taking cover can only suffice so long.
Writing It Out
It’s probably time for us to start mapping out strategies within our own minds as to how we might want to proceed given various potential outcomes. This is where writing in a journal can really be a huge boon to our mental health.
Let’s face it: we’re being faced with what, for many of us, feels like an existential threat. Even as I type those words, I’m reminded how – as real as those words feel to me – how privileged I am to be writing them as a white middle aged woman. (Ew. But facts are facts.) If I’m feeling that the events we’re going to be encountering over the next several days and weeks, if not months and years, are posing an existential threat to me, what in the world must Black and brown people, indigenous people, LGBTQ people, immigrants, and all sorts of other people feel?
When I think about the risks we’re all facing right now, with the hammer of an ultra conservative Supreme Court majority held over our heads, my stomach lurches. I’m afraid for my friends who are married to their same-gendered loves. I’m terrified for all Black people – but especially young Black men (and those who love them) – and the risks they take just by walking down a street or driving in a car. I grieve over the horrific conditions immigrant children (and their parents) find themselves in – here, of all places – when all they sought was escape from untenable circumstances.
What world do we live in? What country are we creating? What really matters?
What Really Matters?
If we give ourselves a little breathing room to actually pin down the thoughts that are careening around in our minds like an old-fashioned pinball machine playing quadruple bonus balls, it helps.
Yes, perhaps we initially, at least furtively, think, “I’ll leave the country.” Well? Write it out. Where would you go (especially now)? How would you support yourself? What would you do with your current abode and all the stuff that’s inside it?
Thinking through your options, and writing them down, clarifies the mind. It also serves to stop the endless stream of thoughts that actually don’t serve you. Details matter. They bring the situation you’re contemplating down from the elusive, broad-brush stroke airy land of threats and idealistic thoughts, to earthy practicality.
If you really think you may want to leave, ask yourself, “What’s my plan?” And listen to the answer that pours out of your fingertips.
If writing out the details makes you realize leaving is too much of a hassle or – equally as possible – you feel a stirring of something else underneath that knee jerk “I’m leaving” reaction, you need to follow that thread.
Does it stick in your craw to imagine abdicating everything you’ve been taught to believe the United States stands for? If so, describe your feelings. What really, truly matters to you? What are you willing to do for those ideals? If nothing else, write it out to yourself.
Our Greatest Hours
Believe it or not, I truly believe our greatest hours may be approaching. I’ve not even the slightest clue what’s going to unfold over the next five days, much less the next five weeks, five months, or five years. But I do have a powerful sense that whatever happens may catalyze all of us into making choices we never dreamed we’d be asked – or forced – to make. We may be called to dig deeply into acting upon what our core values demand of us.
But first, we need to know what those core values are. Not high-and-mighty, lofty ideals. I’m talking nitty gritty, fundamental-to-my-identity, what matters to me most values. Only then can we each decide for ourselves the answer to: what am I willing to do to demand, protect, defend, and advocate for these values?
If we give ourselves the gift of reflecting on these questions over the next several days instead of doom watching or doom scrolling (such eerily and sadly apt phrases), we just might realize that we’re approaching the most important choice points of our lives. Our reasons for being born at this time, in this country, and being faced with these specific challenges may all be coalescing now.
We may be approaching our greatest hours. Let’s prepare.
Man, I hate it when I sit down to begin writing my post for the evening and I struggle to keep my eyes open and my head from slumping into my chest.
Clearly, this will be a short post.
Jaguar
I want to share with you the cool airplane I saw today when mine pulled into its gate. It felt particularly significant as a message, given that I’d not had a chance to pick my Medicine Cards* this morning.
Being confronted by such a direct and obvious image of one of these ‘Big Cats’ encouraged me to be mindful today of acting in a manner that promotes integrity and encourages impeccable behavior.
Walking and Eating
I felt Jaguar was looking me square in the eye and encouraging me to once again re-commit to my walking routine again. I thus resumed with a four mile constitutional late this afternoon. It felt refreshing and invigorating at the time – but I do believe it may be contributing to my falling asleep sitting up this evening.
Another aspect of my life in which I need to apply some integrity and impeccability is my eating habits. It’s time to get back to listening to my body.
Writing
It’s also time to sit quietly with my journal (and laptop) and figure out where all of this – or that – is going. It just feels like time.
Other Applications?
Perhaps this spontaneous pick of Jaguar greeted me this morning so I could examine the myriad ways in which integrity and impeccability can be reintroduced into my world.
Reflecting on where Jaguar wants me to embrace its attributes is a wonderful way for me to spend tomorrow’s end of Mercury retrograde (“Mercury going direct”). It just feels right.
For months, I’ve been receiving messages that it was time for me to make some changes to my “work” in the world.
Some of the pushes have centered on what and where I should be focusing most of my attention, at least in the ‘now.’ Many of the shoves have been to increase my hourly rate for the healing work I facilitate. And a fairly significant number of nudges have come for me to expand opportunities for others to work with me.
On the one hand, I’ve done my best to listen to at least most of these messages.
For instance, I’ve expanded my legal expertise by training to serve as a “Parenting Coordinator,” which is a new role established by local rules in Courts in Pennsylvania. I’ll explain about that another day.
I’ve also been spending more time than I was (which, admittedly, wasn’t any at all) on my next manuscript. The drumbeat on that score continues to grow louder, for I’m still barely devoting any significant time to this task. You might wonder, “What’s the big deal? Just sit down and write it.” And I would agree with you. What is the darn deal?
Immersion
The ‘deal,’ I suppose, is my need for immersion. The books I write are memoir. They require me not only to write about a time and set of circumstances I’ve lived, but also require me – if I’m going to capture those times and circumstances as accurately as possible – to immerse myself in the totality of that time of my life.
I’m not good at skimming the surface. I don’t ‘do’ superficiality well, no matter where it might try to intrude in my life. I’m not one for small talk. I’m not a good pretender. I’m either ‘all in’ or I’m not in. And that goes for my writing, and my writing process, as well.
So when I’m working on my manuscript and basically writing from a place of ‘where my head was’ and ‘how I felt’ back then, it is like riding an old fashioned tilt-a-whirl to go back and forth from ‘that’ life to ‘this’ one. I get jerked back and forth from one reality to another. Karl can probably attest to this best, as he can tell when I’ve been working on my manuscript. Out of the blue, sometimes, I’ll snap at him and dredge up something that’s long been over. He’ll look at me with astonishment and, having been in it and reliving it all day, writing about it and remembering our conversations, I’ll be like, “What? Don’t you remember? Did you really do that?”
Ha – great fun. Not.
It’s fresh for me, when I’m writing about it. It’s long gone down Karl’s memory hole, for him, though. So going back and forth is hard. And I resist it. Which leads to procrastination. For years. Hence, I need to give myself permission to just be in it, and with it, and give it the chunk of time I need.
I’m hearing that message. Really.
But on the other hand, there’s the elephant in the room: my hourly rate.
Photo: audubon.org
Elephant = Time + Intensity + Hourly Rate
I’ve been offering shamanic work to the public for 15 years. In that time, I’ve not raised my hourly rate even once (once I started charging at all). For the first two years, I offered my work for free. Then I started charging my current rate: $110/hour.
Because my sessions are unique, they often last an average of 4 to 6 hours – and because that’s an average, yes, some sessions go even longer.
By the same token, because my sessions are unique, when a person comes to me with an issue (or mainly, just a ‘knowing’ that something is awry and needs to be addressed) we stick with it until we get to the root of it. I listen – and help my client listen to their own self – until we get a sense of how their life has woven together the unique picture, circumstances, and – often – wounds that brought them to my door. And then we – but mostly Spirit and their own soul – work together to heal what we’ve discovered.
A Session Is Usually a One-Time Deal
It is rare that a client comes back with the same issue. This work is profound and very often life changing. Almost always, clients feel as though they’re starting an entirely new chapter in their life after a session.
After the session, I write a comprehensive follow-up email that describes what happened during the shamanic/energetic portion of the session. (That’s the part during which the client simply lays down, sets their intention, and let’s the good stuff happen.) It usually takes me 2.5 hours to write it all down, because – as I mentioned above – I don’t ‘do’ superficial. Yes, I’ve managed to take notes while doing the shamanic work. But often I have to get myself back into the ‘place’ I went in order to fully flesh out the notes I took. I need to once again immerse myself in the energy of the session.
Follow-Up Emails are Precious
I’ve found, especially lately (perhaps because I’ve seen and heard from some people recently who were my earlier clients), that those follow up emails hold more information in them than I could’ve realized at the time I wrote them. That’s because things that might not have made total sense (or even a little sense) at the time – to either me or my client – have come to have startling significance upon being re-read years later. So these emails are precious.
And I never charge for the hours I spend the next day, writing them.
My Rates are Going Up
And so it is that I am finally heeding the pokes and prods I’ve received for well over a year, with increasing frequency lately. I am increasing my hourly rate to $350/hour, effective June 30th, 2019.
I realize that this is significant. I realize it may feel daunting. But I also know the shifts I’ve seen in people’s lives; the transformations people have chosen to embrace. And I know the toll it takes on me to provide this work in the deep, precise, and loving manner I do.
Out of My Comfort Zone
Raising my rates drags me out of my comfort zone. So don’t be fooled – this is not a decision I’ve made lightly. In fact, there’s a whole story that goes with how I was doubting myself right up until this morning when Spirit literally plucked a card from my Medicine Card deck as I was shuffling (and asking for guidance one last time on whether I really should follow through with this rate increase) and plopped it into the birdbath I was standing beside.
I’ll write about that tomorrow, though.
(Oh – and remind me to tell you about the new opportunity to work with me one-on-one!)
I realize my past few posts have been pretty short, but apparently this one is going to be even shorter, even though I’m technically getting an earlier start than I have in several days. Sometimes it seems like it doesn’t matter how much time I have to write; if the words don’t come, there’s not a whole lot I can do about it.
I’ll admit it: I just finished watching last night’s penultimate episode of Game of Thrones and, well, “Sheesh,” is the best reaction I can muster. (H/t to SW.)
To be honest, it’s hard to think about much of anything after watching that. It’s not even the action that I’m referring to – it’s the fact that I can’t get the stupid theme song out of my head. And yeah, OK, I’ll admit it: I find myself thinking about death.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, since GoT is GoT (and what would I have expected anyway?) there’s a bigger, more personal reason than just GoT that’s causing me to mull that subject over, but that’s another discussion for another day.
So for now I’ll leave you with a photo of these brilliant carp at the Peace Pond at Amadell.
“Prairie Dog medicine teaches that strength and inspiration can be found by retreating into the stillness that quiets the mind. The strength of this medicine is also knowing when and how to replenish your life force. Prairie Dog medicine people tend to seek self-empowerment in silence and inactivity, where they can access dreams and visions without the intrusions of worldly chaos. When they reenter the world, they are profound and powerful anchors of calm resolve amid life’s storms.” (Medicine Cards, p. 225)
On the first day of January, I chose Prairie Dog not only on my day, but also as an indicator of the essential theme for my 2019.
But instead of having Raven underneath, as I did last year, Beaver showed up.
I have to admit, I was surprised. It was (and still is) feeling like this year is going to have a distinctly different flavor than 2018. So, given my assumptions about last year’s Prairie Dog and how they played out, I wasn’t expecting to pick it again this year.
In fact, it’s almost amusing. As I was walking along our dirt road two weeks ago, passing the entrance to the state park near our home, enjoying the unseasonably balmy weather of that first day of the year, I distinctly remember thinking to myself that I’ve let go of the idea of writing a sequel. At least for now, anyway.
There’d been at least three distinct moments last year when I’d set aside time and immersed myself in my old journals, taking a deep dive into the thoughts and feelings surrounding that time in our lives that feels so important for me to share as the next step in our grand adventure. Each of those entry points into manifesting my intention, however, seemed to be derailed by something momentous occurring within our family that demanded my absolute attention.
My Assumption Wasn’t in the Cards
What I’d assumed that Prairie Dog was bringing me just wasn’t in the cards. That doesn’t mean, however, that PD had been a pick that made no sense. Quite the contrary. I was forced to withdraw from a lot of engagement with the outside world in order to address the stuff that needed attention here at home. And I needed to take care of myself, so I didn’t blow out.
I believe the Raven underneath reflected some major magic and healing that Karl experienced, which translated into coloring my entire world simply because our lives are that inextricably linked. I think I can safely say that neither of us saw it coming. I know I can say the ripple effects will certainly extend well into the future.
And so, here I am. I’m not assuming the Prairie Dog that showed up for this year has anything to do with my writing. And let’s face it: taking on this 1111 Devotion has changed my relationship to my writing profoundly, even if my posts, on average, are pretty short. Writing every day for public consumption is weird. And I’m not sure if or how it’s going to influence whether I tell the next chapter of my story in the form of a book. We’ll see.
Prairie Dog’s Literal Message
“Prairie Dog…calls me
when it’s time to rest,
When it’s time to honor
the internal quest.
I go into retreat
so I may see,
A way to replenish
The potential in me.”
As I mentioned yesterday, it’s pretty obvious that Prairie Dog could be giving me a very clear and literal message that I am to lead more retreats this year. (Speaking of which, I need to tell you about a really cool one I’ll be co-leading in May. But I’ll give that its own post.)
Beaver’s Contribution to the Message
Truthfully, given the presence of Beaver underneath this year’s pick, it looks like that could very well be where these critters are leading me. That’s because, beyond the above quote about going ‘into retreat,’ Beaver is all about teamwork and building something with others.
Indeed, a salient paragraph of Beaver is as follows:
“To understand Beaver medicine, you might take a look at the power of working and attaining a sense of achievement. In building a dream, teamwork is necessary. To accomplish a goal with others involves working with the group mind. Group mind constitutes harmony of the highest order, without individual egos getting in the way. Each partner in the project honors the talents and abilities of the others, and knows how to complete the piece of the puzzle that belongs to them. In working well with others, a sense of community is achieved and unity ensues.”
The fascinating thing about this is that this will be the first year I’ve run a retreat with a partner, a co-presenter. And it will be held in a completely different setting than any retreat I’ve run prior to this, with lots of other people involved, and even a different core audience. So there will most definitely be ‘group mind’ at work on a lot of different levels.
Back to Waiting
Now, whether this is how Prairie Dog/Beaver works out in the long run, we’ll just have to wait and see.
Which brings me back to my theme yesterday: waiting.
Is this the year of an active or passive Prairie Dog? Guess I’ll find out.
Either way, it seems obvious I will need to take extra care of myself, since “…Just as Native American warriors knew when to charge forward and when to become invisible, the Marmot tribe knows how and when to retreat. The Prairie Dog runs for the tunnels when a predator is on its trail; in the winter (ahem), it conserves energy by hibernating during the scare time of the cold moons.”
It’s hard not to get ahead of myself sometimes. When I’m pleased or feel excited, I tend to extrapolate and imagine how cool things will be “when _______ happens.” (And no, I’m not encouraging you to play Cards Against Humanity in this post. Although…that could be amusing. And you know which among you would eagerly offer a shockingly off-color suggestion for that blank.)
What I mean is, there’s a part of me that was, as my Irish sisters say, “chuffed” when I got to my 50thpost. And instead of just ‘being’ with that good feeling, I started extrapolating. “When I get to this day next year, I’ll be into the 400s! I’ll be writing my 415thpost!”
Aaarggh. I do not want to do that to myself! And yet I know it’s human nature and therefore futile to hope I won’t succumb to this temptation – and often. But it sure is tedious, always ‘moving the bar,’ so to speak, and assuming the elusive next goal will be way better and more impressive to achieve than this one. And what does it get me?
N-O-T-H-I-N-G.
Nothing at all. Except it does manage to snatch my present sense of accomplishment from the jaws of a healthy, yet un-inflated, self-esteem. Always keeping myself guessing, I suppose.
But I mention this not because I remained in that mind-space. I saw where my habitual thinking wanted to take me and I snagged it, brought it back, and stomped it into unconsciousness. (Just kidding! Seeing if you were paying attention.)
No, I saw where my habitual thinking wanted to take me and I did indeed snag it. But I just rolled my eyes, laughed at myself, and hoped I’d make it to #51, while enjoying the simple pleasure of having reached the 50th. And I’m mentioning all of this because I firmly believe we all need to remember that we’re not here to be perfect!
No matter how hard we try, we’re not perfect. And we’ll never be perfect. Why? Because perfection is not only unattainable. It’s boring. And we wouldn’t learn anywhere near as much as we do living in our imperfection.
Perfection is Unattainable (and Boring)
We’re not going to find much, if any, profound and meaningful satisfaction with either ourselves or how we’re meeting our commitments by reaching some arbitrary, magical number of posts published, journal pages written, photos taken, or books read per month. The sooner we realize that, the better.
And trust me, I remember when I used to think every one else could strive for – or be satisfied by – mediocrity, but I was different. I would persist. I would do ‘it’ (whatever exacting standard I set for myself) through sheer force of will. And man, while I would not trade the level of success I generally enjoyed for my efforts, I would lighten up just a little on the jumping into the future gig. Because as cliché as it sounds, it is sheer insanity to pin all your happiness on the successful attainmentof a goal, on breaking the tape, or on writing that 1111th post.
The test of our humanity is to figure out the trick of living our lives in fullness and balance as we strive toward accomplishing that goal.
And by that I mean setting a goal (i.e., committing to writing 1111 consecutive blog posts), and finding a sense of satisfaction and healthy pride in oneself every day a post gets published. Extra credit for those days when a post has the effect of speaking to the hearts of those who read it, for those are precious.
There is something to be said for showing up. For being willing to not always be some shining example of awesomeness that you wish others would perceive you as being. But if we’re honest? The ones we’re actually trying hardest to impress are the exacting bastards that live inside of us.
They’re tamable. At least I’m determined to give you a glimpse of how I make the effort to live with them. In balance. Here’s to 2019. May we LIVE this together! In perfect imperfection!
Regrettably, tonight is a Theraflu night. I’m staving off something; not sure if it’s a cold or a sinus infection or just a culmination of Christmas being yesterday and today being the 360thday of the year and the realization that there are only five days left in 2018. No matter what it is, Theraflu will probably fix it. That and perhaps getting to bed before 1:30 or 2:00 a.m.
I’ve always tended toward being a night person. I think it’s been true since I was little, actually, but it’s definitely been the story of my adult life.
During law school, night was when I would get most of my reading, studying, and writing accomplished. And since I gave birth to son Karl while I was in law school, that pattern pretty much set itself in stone, since he (and the next two, as well) were always great sleepers. Therefore, once all my guys were asleep (and yeah, Karl’s a morning person – big surprise), I was surrounded by my coveted silence. Yep. My evening silence.
Nevertheless, I have to admit that over the past decade or so I’ve only been staying up past midnight sporadically. Midnight literally became my witching hour.
But now I’m dedicated to my 1111 Devotion. My practice. My commitment. And in spite of my best intentions, in spite of my earnest desire to not always be pushing my nose up against a deadline, ‘crushing it at the last minute’ is apparently my default setting. And so, I hit ‘publish’ every night, right around 11:59 or thereabouts. It doesn’t matter when I start writing for the evening, either.
Decisions and the Adrenalin Rush
Because the drive to submit each post by midnight is so intense in those last forty five minutes or so, every single night I’m left with both a sense of accomplishment and a boatload of adrenalin pumping through my veins at 12:01 a.m. or so. And that means I’ve not been getting to bed until 1:30 – 2:00 a.m., consistently, since engaging in this devotional practice. Some days I’ve been able to snag a little extra time snooze time in the morning, but not always. Certainly not enough to make up for this new regime.
So it appears as though I have a decision to make, and the week between Christmas and New Year’s seems to be as appropriate a time as any to ponder my options. How do I make this new relationship sustainable? How do I keep from wearing myself out and sabotaging my practice?
I’ll keep you posted. (Ha. That pun was not intended.)
In the meantime, I’m taking a Theraflu tonight, and as soon as I hit ‘publish,’ I’m going to bed.
In yesterday’s post I wrote that I was chagrined to discover that my practice of journal writing has clearly suffered as I have worked to fulfill my daily commitment in the form of the 1111 Devotion. I’d recently realized that I’d allowed an entire 14 days to go by without writing in my journal, which is a serious breach, in my book. And it isn’t that I’m blindly demanding daily journaling in addition to my commitment here; but I am saying that this act of neglect is one of several bad habits I indulge in – and not something I want to encourage within myself.
My reasoning, as I said yesterday, is two-fold, with the first being the simple fact that maintaining a journal has been a huge and essential part of my life for the vast majority of it. Journaling keeps my head on straight. It helps me see things differently than when thoughts and feelings are simply chasing each other around in my head, and it clarifies my emotions. This is true in spite of the fact that my discipline was nearly derailed when I realized I might not always be able to assume my privacy was assured. That’s how important journaling is to me.
My second reason for not condoning the sacrifice of my journaling is because it would defeat the purpose of my 1111 Devotion. It would strip it of its essence as an Act of Power. How is it rightfully a devotional practice to simply substitute one form of writing for another? What about that would be meaningful?
Not much.
Games My Mind Plays
It’s fascinating to see the little games my mind plays. The compromises I engage in – and to what end? Depriving myself of doing that which I love the most? Atta girl, Lisa. You’ll show them! (Who? Myself?)
It’s just dumb. And akin to that whole indulgence stream of thought I wrote about a few days ago.
I guess I’m realizing just how much this happens. How often I procrastinate on or outright refuse to engage in behavior that will only serve to make me happy or improve my life experience.
As I sit here contemplating just how much this behavior permeates my life, I’m disturbed by such a propensity. Not only do I seem to go on a guilt trip when I ‘indulge’ in turning off the tv and reveling in silence, but I also apparently sabotage my efforts to do what I love and live my life in beauty and ease and comfort.
I have to admit it; I’m a teensy bit stoked that I’ve made it a full lunar month of consistently writing Ruffled Feathers entries.
There has been some fallout in other areas, however, which I’m going to need to rectify, such as my regular journal-keeping. Yeah, my spiral notebook is feeling neglected. I noticed about a week ago that I’d permitted a terrible lapse in entries. A full fourteen days, if I’m not mistaken, which for me is nearly unforgivable.
Do I Have to Choose?
The only reason I didn’t lapse into a round of merciless self-flagellation was because I knew that, on some level, I’d made a choice. And for now at least, if I honestly felt I needed to make a choice, then opting for my 1111 Devotion was the way to go.
Yet as soon as I realized that I was sacrificing one form of writing for another, I knew that could not stand. Keeping a journal has been my way of snatching sanity from the undertow of overwhelm and sadness all my life. Keeping a journal has been integral to maintaining my marriage. Keeping a journal has led me to personal insights that I’m confident I never would have made otherwise, and therefore keeping a journal has been integral to creating the person I am today.
So no, sacrificing my journal writing to fulfill my commitment – my devotion – to honoring Karl’s life is not a practice I will permit. I’m not saying that I must write in my journal every day. But I am saying that a two week lapse is not part of the plan.
My reasoning is two-fold. First, I have kept some form of a journal in earnest since I was in 7thor 8thgrade. I cannot say that I’ve seen those earliest confessionals since becoming an adult, but I do recall writing out my feelings back when I was in 8thgrade, and perhaps even younger.
A Breach of Trust
And sadly, round about the age of 16 or so, I also recall discovering that my mother had done the unthinkable and read something I’d written without asking. (I’m thinking this may be why I haven’t discovered those early attempts at keeping a ‘diary.’ Although I do not remember reacting in an incendiary manner to her breach – by literally lighting them on fire or even being tempted to chuck them – I do find it odd that I can’t put my hands on them. And my visceral reaction to even the thought of burning or otherwise disposing of a journal leads me to believe I would never have taken such a drastic step.)
That’s not to say that I wasn’t incensed with my mother’s breach. Oh my. I was. But I also know we hashed it out. Honestly, tearfully, and not just a little angrily. Which is why I feel slightly bad about dredging this up now, because I know I forgave her. But forgiving doesn’t mean forgetting. And I’m not dredging this up to make her feel bad (since she’s been gone from this realm since 1991), but rather to explain that the deepest source of my outrage at her betrayal was because she’d had my trust. I told her almost everything (much to her chagrin many times). And I didn’t lie. But that’s not to say I told her every single lustful little thought that entered my mind as an adolescent (ew). And those thoughts were precisely the types of things she discovered when she read my ‘diary’ that I took absolute umbrage over her violating my privacy.
I’ve spent much longer on that fracas with my mother than I intended. And yet I’m not quite finished.
It feels important to express why I continued keeping journals even after my mother’s breach. Indeed, they became more and more of a lifeline for me when I turned 17 and became an exchange student in Sweden.
And that’s because I forgave her. And I forgave her because we listened to each other.
Forgiveness – Healing for Both the Forgiver and the Forgiven
I remember having it out together in my parents’ bedroom, when I confronted her after she asked me a question that I immediately saw she already knew the answer to. I was, as I’ve said, incensed. She’d been worried. Or something. I can’t even remember, other than to recall that she admitted that she was wrong to have read it. She admitted that she knew she was wrong because we did have such a close bond, and I did tell her so much about my life. I could see it written all over her face that she sincerely regretted it. And on some level, I understood that she’d almost been offered too tempting a target. “Did she really know me?” “Could she really trust me?” All she needed to do was read what I wrote…
Things were way different culturally when I was 16 than when my sisters and brother were 16, my closest sister in age being 9 years older and the eldest being 19 years older than me. So, yeah. I understood that she wasn’t sure if she knew me. And she understood my outrage.
After our (heated) discussion, I trusted she’d never do that to me again. And I know that trust was well-placed.
