tamarjacobson

Quote of the day – a meditation:

"In one ancient language the word memory derives from a word meaning mindful,

In another, from a word to describe a witness,

In yet another it means, at root, to grieve.

To witness mindfully is to grieve for what has been lost" (and to be present for all that is) 

Freeman House, Totem Salmon. Shared in group meditation, and a personal postcard to me by Wendy Johnson at Villa Lina, October 2012.

Memories hang heavy at times, rising up from nowhere it seems like long, dark shadows that nip and bite at my soul. At other times they bring back feelings of elation, and I wonder if that is the trick of nostalgia to wipe clean all complexity, doubt and anxiety from the past leaving me with fresh, flagrant joyousness, and a yearning to retrieve all the perfection that once was. Memories are accompanied by regret and mourning, wishing that things could have been different and blame for not having made it so. And then again, they bring understanding and awareness that clear away darkness shining a bright light to clear a way forward. Memories are heavy like a large boulder on my shoulders, a stone in my heart, dragging me unwittingly toward a deep abyss. Memories are light and fluffy like snow flurries and feathers that buoy me upward floating in air. The past lies in old photographs, and freshly taken pictures that become old a minute after the camera clicks. I love to look at them and wonder at how I was feeling, what was happening, and how the pictures portray that brief hanging moment in time gone by. 

What a challenge to "stay present for all that is," with all that memories bring to bear! I thank Wendy again and again for sharing that meditation almost two years ago. For waking from the constant flow of memory dreams I find me sitting still and silent, legs crossed, and sun streaming warmly on my face. I breathe in and out slowly and deeply, and cast my eyes around my room to discover:

• Oscar stretched out on the carpet in the sun next to me,
• Plants green and freshly watered, some flowering hopefully even when they shouldn't quite yet,
• Pictures on the wall or ornaments on a shelf representing dear friends and generous love-filled moments …

… And I feel completely grateful for my life.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Dedicated to my therapist

Lately I have been thinking about my dear friend, Charlie. A few days before he died, I was visiting him in hospital when the nurse brought him a cup of coffee. He tried to take a sip and then laid back on his pillow exhausted. "And now … coffee," he said softly with resignation. I sensed a sob caught in the back of my throat. I knew what he meant. I could not imagine what it must have felt like not to be able to drink or enjoy coffee any more. One more thing that he would never do again.

That image has remained with me for the past thirteen years. It comes up at different moments in my life. Always as a reminder to enjoy whatever it is I am doing, because one day I will never do it again. Loss is like that. One moment later it is over and will never happen again. On and off over the past thirteen years since Charlie's death, I have experienced regret about things I could, would, should have done in my relationship with him. Moments that slipped through our fingers – our time together as close, dear friends. For example, I have never gotten over leaving him alone that last Friday night after we had moved him to Hospice. I felt intuitively that I should stay with him. There was no rhyme or reason. In fact, he had seemed quite well, sitting up in his bed watching base ball on the television with a number of close, old friends and family members in the room. He wore his glasses and even seemed content. There was one moment when I looked up and he seemed to be staring at me. I held his gaze, as voices of friends talking and laughing about this, that and baseball buzzed about my head. I wondered what he was thinking or feeling, and I thought to myself that I should not leave him alone that night. In the end I kissed him on his forehead, whispered goodbye, and glanced a farewell at the flowers I had brought him to brighten up and welcome him to his new Hospice bed. At three or four in the morning, his daughter called to tell me he had died. All I could think about was that I had not followed my heart and stayed with him during those final hours.

Regret is just too painful for words, and honestly, as I edge my way towards age 65 in the next three months or so, I know that I have no more time for feeling sorry about past transgressions. When I take that final sip of coffee, as Charles did – I want to feel satisfied, and complete – at peace.

These past couple of weeks I have had to shovel enormous amounts of snow. Some, light and fluffy, some wet, icy and heavy as lead. Often the temperatures are so cold that the tips of my fingers squeal in pain until I vehemently shake out my hands to get the blood circulating again warming them back to work. A few days ago, after shoveling my long driveway for an hour or so, I joined the neighbors next door to help them shovel theirs, so that one of them could get out to work on time. My back and arms were starting to ache and I felt a stiffness in my neck that begged me to stop. I rested for a moment with my arms on the top of the shovel, and looked out at the piles of snow that still had to be moved away from the pavement. I was exhausted. And then suddenly, the memory of Charlie bidding farewell to his beloved coffee for the last time rose up to greet me. I thought to myself, "This could be the last time I ever shovel snow again!" I realized that it was fun lugging and schlepping, laughing and chatting with my neighbors, and resumed the work, with the snow somehow now feeling lighter. Not only that, I felt a surge of energy that swept me off my feet. I continued shoveling for another half hour at least without feeling even a twinge of an ache.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Retaining the joy

Well, well. This time last year I created my new blog.

Always going to be more to explore.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: New adventures, new territory

Quote of the day:

We are driven for some bizarre reason by guilt. Joe Scarborough on Morning Joe, responding about "The highs and lows of modern parenthood" with the author of: All Joy and No Fun

A couple of mornings ago I remembered that it has been one year since I started writing this blog, and realized I have written only nine posts since I began last February. With snow falling and school canceled, I had time to greet the day slowly by preparing myself breakfast and turning on the television to see the last fifteen minutes of Morning Joe.  Jennifer Senior happened to be talking about her book: "All Joy and No Fun: The Paradox of Modern Parenthood." What a coincidence, I thought to myself. What are the odds of my remembering a blogaversary about the guilt of being a good parent, just as school is canceled, I have time to catch the last section of the morning news show exactly at the moment they are all discussing guilt and parenthood? Even on a morning show, the host describes how, as a parent, he is driven by guilt. I was amused by how he called it bizarre.

"Why would it be bizarre?" I thought to myself. After all, there are so many guilt inducing sources! As a parent, I constantly judge myself based on my son's accomplishments or happiness. I have been working with parents and guardians of children for over forty years, and have observed them doing the same. It seems we take credit for our children's successes, and feel like failures when they fail. Of course, we have influenced our children's emotional development. I have no doubt about that. But, when they become adults, are our children never to become their own person? At which point do they own their accomplishments and happiness, joys and sorrows? When can I say, "This has nothing to do with me – it belongs to him?" Am I to blame forever?

I think of my poor mother. At age ninety seven, bed-ridden and fragile. Recently, when my older brother tragically died, she lay in her bed sleeping away the days and nights, waking only now and then telling a tale about a small boy lost in a crowd, needing ointment for a rash. I sat by her bedside for hours as she described her anxiety about that small boy, and I promised to take care of him for her. As we pinned up a photograph of my late brother on the wall by her bed, close to her pillow, she looked up at it and stroked it lovingly. And then she said, "I should have gone there, rented a flat and helped him through those last months." Even as I gently tried to convince her that it was impossible for her to do that, and only natural she would feel that way about her ailing son, I could tell my words were of little comfort.

There is no rational or logical thought about parenting. We always feel responsible for our children's well-being – even if we are 97 with a 70-year-old son. Sometimes I rage at those self-help parenting guides with authors so completely sure about what is the exact right way to parent. For, all they do is reinforce the belief that no one knows how to parent correctly. They feed into our insecurities about our most important relationships. I constantly wonder how I can help teachers understand that they have enormous power to empower parents instead of judge and criticize them. Parents would benefit greatly if only we tried to understand how guilty they feel – how unsure they are about what is the right thing to do for their children. Parents really do need our support for them to love their children subjectively, unconditionally, and emotionally. 

A year ago at The Good Mother: Dedicated to Carrie

Quote of the day:

We are driven for some bizarre reason by guilt. Joe Scarborough on Morning Joe, responding about "The highs and lows of modern parenthood" with the author of: All Joy and No Fun

A couple of mornings ago I remembered that it has been one year since I started writing this blog, and realized I have written only nine posts since I began last February. With snow falling and school canceled, I had time to greet the day slowly by preparing myself breakfast and turning on the television to see the last fifteen minutes of Morning Joe.  Jennifer Senior happened to be talking about her book: "All Joy and No Fun: The Paradox of Modern Parenthood." What a coincidence, I thought to myself. What are the odds of my remembering a blogaversary about the guilt of being a good parent, just as school is canceled, I have time to catch the last section of the morning news show exactly at the moment they are all discussing guilt and parenthood? Even on a morning show, the host describes how, as a parent, he is driven by guilt. I was amused by how he called it bizarre.

"Why would it be bizarre?" I thought to myself. After all, there are so many guilt inducing sources! As a parent, I constantly judge myself based on my son's accomplishments or happiness. I have been working with parents and guardians of children for over forty years, and have observed them doing the same. It seems we take credit for our children's successes, and feel like failures when they fail. Of course, we have influenced our children's emotional development. I have no doubt about that. But, when they become adults, are our children never to become their own person? At which point do they own their accomplishments and happiness, joys and sorrows? When can I say, "This has nothing to do with me – it belongs to him?" Am I to blame forever?

I think of my poor mother. At age ninety seven, bed-ridden and fragile. Recently, when my older brother tragically died, she lay in her bed sleeping away the days and nights, waking only now and then telling a tale about a small boy lost in a crowd, needing ointment for a rash. I sat by her bedside for hours as she described her anxiety about that small boy, and I promised to take care of him for her. As we pinned up a photograph of my late brother on the wall by her bed, close to her pillow, she looked up at it and stroked it lovingly. And then she said, "I should have gone there, rented a flat and helped him through those last months." Even as I gently tried to convince her that it was impossible for her to do that, and only natural she would feel that way about her ailing son, I could tell my words were of little comfort.

There is no rational or logical thought about parenting. We always feel responsible for our children's well-being – even if we are 97 with a 70-year-old son. Sometimes I rage at those self-help parenting guides with authors so completely sure about what is the exact right way to parent. For, all they do is reinforce the belief that no one knows how to parent correctly. They feed into our insecurities about our most important relationships. I constantly wonder how I can help teachers understand that they have enormous power to empower parents instead of judge and criticize them. Parents would benefit greatly if only we tried to understand how guilty they feel – how unsure they are about what is the right thing to do for their children. Parents really do need our support for them to love their children subjectively, unconditionally, and emotionally. 

A year ago at The Good Mother: Dedicated to Carrie

Not to sound too despondent or pessimistic, but as I was squeezing juice out of my grapefruit this morning, I had the feeling that I have been doing this every morning for years. Granted, when I lived in Israel, over twenty five year ago, I squeezed juice out of oranges every morning, so in a sense there has been some change. In those days I squeezed many oranges for their juice because I was preparing a healthy drink for my son and husband at the time. These days I only squeeze one grapefruit, and it's just for me because Life Partner would probably find it too acidic. 

Back to squeezing my grapefruit this morning, because as I did so it occurred to me that when I die, I will not remember the endless squeezing of grapefruits. Nor will I remember all the tiny routine chores I do robotically each day. The rhythm of routine and chores suddenly seemed pointless to me, and I looked up from squeezing and thought (almost out loud), "So, what's it all about?"

Of course, that is a question for the ages. Many famous philosophers, theologians, and psychologists, not to mention all kinds of regular folk, have thought about this question from various points and dimensions. Some actually believe they have found an answer. I must admit that this morning I have no response to my question. Indeed, I have no clue what "it's" all about. I just know that some days I have enormous amounts of energy to continue with my tiny, routine chores, and at other times I look up to the sky, or ceiling as it was today, and think, "What's it all about?"

I wonder what I will think about before I die. Of course, I cannot know if I will lie languishing and pondering the end of my days, or if I will be snapped out of life in an instant. But, still, I can't help but wonder what might be my last and final thought. I suspect it could well be something as mundane as squeezing my grapefruit on a cold and wintry morning, for who knows how the mind works and what associations I will have with what is occurring at that time. Plus, I may not know that in the next moment my life will be over.

I read through what I have written and sigh. Ho hum – Much ado about nothing. Life goes on. Some days this, other times that. And yet, I can't help it. This morning, I am still left wondering, "So … What's it all about?"

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Back in time …

I look across the classroom at the faces of undergraduate students. I think to myself, “I wonder if they realize that I was a child once.” For, now I must seem old to them. My short gray hair, cheeks sagging a little, and there is a slow limp to my step. I stand before them talking about syllabi and schedules, expectations, and attendance grades. They take notes and gaze in my direction. Some seem alert and even pleased to be here. Others look weary and lonely; probably wishing they were anywhere else but here. I think about ways I might connect with them so that they will believe me when I try and teach them about compassion and kindness for all young children in their future classrooms …

Revelation.

I have been going to therapy for years for self-alteration. To become a better person. Not to become happier. Indeed, therapy was a perfect avenue for me because I could say to myself over and over again – there is something wrong with me and I need to fix me. Now my therapist explains in a way that I can hear. He says he is always telling me (at times he thinks it must seem as if he is trying to bash me over the head) that I am more than okay. He goes onto tell me that this information should make me feel better, and yet I argue with him. Over and over again he has been explaining to me that it is other people who have hurt me over and over again. Instead of me realizing that and allowing them to own their behaviors and insults to me, I take on the problem as if it is my fault. I tell him that I came to therapy to fix me, and now he is telling me there is nothing to fix, nothing to alter.

I posted this one year ago, and I can't get over how it is completely relevant to me this morning. The only thing for me to add is that I totally understanding why I have been so angry and full of regret this past year. Because of wasted time. Of course, over wasted time and energy! So, now – no more regrets. New Year's resolution: onward and upward!

Time to like me, and enjoy life to the fullest!

On one of the snowy afternoons last week, I rummaged through photo albums and piles of old photographs to gather pieces of my family for a collage frame I had just purchased from the small camera shop up in Chestnut Hill. I spread out all the pictures around me while seated on the carpet in my study, and felt as if my life of 64 years and before were visiting me in my home. I laughed at this one and cried at another, snipped and tucked each carefully chosen photograph into place, and then raised it up for me to see.

It all started recently while I was visiting the family in Israel. For, one day I discovered on my sister's wall a picture that had long ago hung in my mother's little sitting room, where she used to keep her books and records, and where I would often sleep when visiting her from Jerusalem, first as a student, and then from Ramat Hasharon, where I lived before emigrating to America. I loved that room. It faced a small front porch and a view of wisteria growing wild over the roof of the garage. It was small and snug and felt full of literature and music. When I was in my early twenties living in Manchester, I sent my mother a photograph of me pregnant with my son. She said it reminded her of a Van Eyck painting, The Arnolfini Wedding. And so, as soon as I could find one I sent her a postcard of the print. On my return from England with my new, young infant, I found she had combined the two pictures together in a silver frame. From then on, whenever I slept in that little room, I would look up and see me and Van Eyck together on the wall. It gave me such a good feeling, because I wasn't used to her acknowledging me very often. As I stared at the picture on my sister's wall in her little room she calls her "Rogues Gallery," many memories, which I had long forgotten, came flooding back.  

I was amazed at how easily I had forgotten so many things. As soon as I returned from Israel, I decided to recreate that picture. I found an original photograph of me so young and hardly recognizable to me now, from back then pregnant with my son. I printed out a copy of the Van Eyck portrait, and placed the two pictures in a frame. After it was hung on my wall, I stood and stared at it for a long, long time allowing memories to wash over me.

And then, there I was, as if in a dream suddenly creating a gathering of pictures of my family. As I raised the completed, framed collage for me to see, I realized that I am a part of a rich history of family members, each complex, interesting, and unique. Indeed, I am tied to each and every one in important ways that combine to make me who I am today. 

It had been a sad week for me visiting my 97-year-old mother, who lay sleeping most of the days I was there. It felt as if she was fading away, and there was nothing I could do to hold onto her. During the process of pulling together the collage, and allowing memories that I had tucked away these past twenty five years to return, I keenly felt her strength and presence in my life through the images and eyes of all those different and amazing people in the photographs. 

Now, having created my own little "Rogues Gallery," I pass the pictures many times a day as I go up and down, to and from my study. Sometimes I stop and stare at them, and when I do, I find that I feel full and whole – tied to my family in ways I have not experienced in a long, long while.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Blinded by the sun

Sometimes, when emotions become too intense or uncomfortable, I feel the need to run away, rather than hold still and confront them within me. I am probably not the only human being on earth who feels this way. Some people call that "fear of confrontation." With me, it is also a fear of confronting my own feelings – especially anger. And so, if I sense a twinge of anger rising in me, my first and most immediate reaction is, "Get out of here!" I do that in numerous ways: taking myself to the kitchen to wash dishes, cleaning the house, running to the bathroom, going for a walk, calling up a friend to help relieve the discomfort, jumping in my car and driving around for awhile, taking myself to my room – like a sort of self-punishing time-out – and crying alone. More often than not, I solve the whole thing by sinking into self-hatred, and turn the anger inward toward my self. 

That is why therapy can be excruciating for me at times. When feelings of anger rise up during the course of the session, I have nowhere to run. I am forced to face them, hold still, and experience them head on. When I try to flee toward self-hatred, my therapist points that out immediately, and I have no recourse but to express outwardly to him what I am feeling within. If I am able to get that far (which is not often), the result is followed by enormous relief accompanied by a surge of energy that invariably produces feelings of love and forgiveness. It is quite magical!  Because, in those moments, no action has to be taken. I am able to experience the anger, understand it is just that – a feeling – and it does not translate into my being a bad human for having the emotion. Once I accept that, I find the space to take control of my actions. I can decide: Should I react? Will it help to "Get out of here?" Is it better to talk it through? And so on.

Growing up I was rejected or abandoned for expressing my anger, so it is understandable that those emotional memories haunt me as an adult, and make me want to run for my life from even experiencing the feeling. But, I'm thinking that at age 64, with all I have accomplished, it is time to shed that fear. Rejection at my age is disappointing, but not a catastrophe. It is sad if someone cuts-off from me – even for years – and a loss for all of us – but not the end of the world. Besides, saying I want to leave is different from actually doing it! Lots of us at many different times feel like we want to cut-off or run away – and might even express that wish. That includes me – a style I learned as a young child imitating significant adults in my life. But, I realized recently – almost like a revelation – that very few actually act on it. As I age, I understand that those who act it out are probably afraid of confronting emotional discomfort, and their action has very little to do with the person they are cutting off from.

So, I am heading into a new era – and it couldn't happen at a better time. After all, at my age, there is no more time to lose. Yes indeed. I am practicing shedding my fear of rejection, and who knows? Maybe one day, hopefully before I die, I will actually not fear it for real.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Exercising my writes

Today is my ninth anniversary of blogging.

During 2013, I enjoyed spending time reading past blog posts and observing my psychological progress. Indeed it is almost a decade since I have been exploring how I feel and understanding what has made me who I am now. At times I have been very open with my psychological process. It felt good to share my ramblings and reflections. 

Sometimes I think, "What a waste! I could have written three memoirs instead of eight years of blog posts!" But my blog importantly feels like a safe haven – a home to experiment and explore – more public than a private journal, and yet still within my control enough for me to delete or expose as I want. 

It is almost 11 years since the publication of my first book. While I was visiting my family in Israel last week, to my surprise I came across a copy of that book, which I had sent as a gift to my mother back in 2003. It was sitting on a shelf in my sister's house. I had inscribed a loving message to her in the front of the book. When I opened it, a card that I had written to my mother at the time fell out onto the floor. It read:

"August 27, 2003

Dear Mom,

I could not have written this book without the care and education I received from you! You have taught me so much about so many things and your strength and courage throughout everything has been a phenomenal model for me.

This book is about my perceptions of my life – not about your realities. You have contributed to my honesty and professional strength in enormous ways.

I am forever grateful.

And I love you,

Tamar"

I wondered sadly how my gift to my mother had landed up on a shelf in my sister's house, and took it with me back to America, as a memento of my relationship with my mother. This morning, I realize that writing that book started me on a journey of authentic self identification and acknowledgement about who I am. My second book was written about a different subject, but still was in a similar context, written as an extension of what I began in 2003. Both serve as a type of personal memoir, even though they were written professionally for teachers of young children. My card to my mother, written with love and sincerity did not help! And, even though I was shamed, shunned and punished by family members for writing down my story as a model of internal ethnography for teachers, I did not give up self- exploration through this blog during the past nine years. 

I am particularly grateful to all those who have stopped by, with good will, to read my stories, and especially to those who have been supportive and encouraging over the years. For it has been quite a painful journey at times. Writing for others to read, helped me believe how I feel, and gave me a voice, which was denied me growing up. More than that, it reinforces the importance of the work that I do with teachers to develop supportive and caring relationships with children, and helps me in my continued advocacy for children who are emotionally abused.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: At the top of the 8th