tamarjacobson

… if you know what I mean …

A year ago at Tamarika: Cycling over and over again

Strength is irrelevant, resistance is futile … Your culture will adapt to service ours. The Borg

Raining into the dawn this morning. I sit up listening to the large drops falling on the awning outside our bedroom. I think about a lively chat with a family member on the phone last night. "You were so lucky they accentuated your difference all those years," said the person, "That way you escaped. You are different." "Ah," I ruminated out loud, "I escaped the Borg by being different!" The person at the other end of the phone laughed heartily. "Wow! What a metaphor!" they exclaimed.

Early morning now. Dreams expired. T. brings my coffee to bed. I start purring like Ada. I love having coffee in bed. It does not happen all that often. That goes back to my earliest childhood days in Southern Rhodesia. Only, then it was piping hot cups of strong, British tea, served up early in the morning to get me up for school. I wrote about that in my book and wept as I wrote, remembering:

My own Nanny Margaret had to leave her children in a rural area far away in order to live on our property. Each day she would rise up at four or five in the morning so that she could bring us tea to our bedside to start the day. I always wondered how she felt doing that, and I do not think I can even imagine how she must have missed waking up her own children to start their day with them. That memory haunts me even today as I write about it forty years later. It causes me pain to think about it (page 10).

This morning, I tell T. about the phone conversation and continue, "Yeah I escaped the Borg. I think for myself." T. says quietly, "It’s not about thinking differently, Tam. The Borg is about everyone being part of the same brain." His words hang in the air. Powerful metaphor. We are silent for a moment, sipping our coffee, listening to the rain. He goes on, "Yeah! You escaped!"

Out of the dawn into the morning.

New day

old, gray snow

washed away

with rain

Cornish hens in the oven, broccoli steaming on the stove, glass of Gerolsteiner to sip on, and Ada out on the sun porch waiting for the neighbor’s cat. He always comes out early evening to sit under the bird feeder. He looks like a leaner, meaner version of our old Molly Mable and has sharp, suspicious eyes glinting as the sun sets. Ada sits out on the blanket covered table and watches and waits. Now and then she comes into my study purring and clicking to greet me, checking to see if I am still here, before she goes out again.

Twilight. My second favorite time of the day after dawn. It settles the day that has passed, summarizing all the challenges and delights. It has been a good day. Great work-out, day starting with strength and momentum, a delicious fruit shake blended in my new machine, an easy commute accompanied by Eric Clapton back and forth from work, lunch with colleagues filled with laughter and sharing of tales – personal and professional, meeting with students, chatting on the phone to an old friend from Buffalo as I drove back, arriving home feeling full and happy with humanity. There is something solid, constant and present about today.

Marion, from Buffalo, said on the phone this afternoon, "Tam, you sound happier and stronger than I think I have ever heard you."

March. Women’s History Month.

My history month.

Two years ago I made a stand against a person who terrorized and bullied me for many, many years.

Two years ago I said, "I am not going to take it. I don’t deserve it."

I made my history two years ago in March.

It has been a struggle since then. I have had to fight off inner demons and ancient pains, wild nights of fear, shame and guilt.

This year, starting with My History Month, I am going to wrap myself around me and give me compassionate, unconditional love wherever and whenever I can.

I have always said to parents: "No one will fight for your child but you."

And so, from today, I pledge to myself that I will fight for me. I will make a stand for me. I will parent me.

Here Comes the Sun:

Quote of the day:

One is not born a woman, one becomes one. Simone de Beauvoir

Update:

Oh, and by the way, over at Frank’s Listics Gandhi says some smart stuff.