tamarjacobson

Quote of the day:

… like any photograph, [it] interrupts experience to mark the moment. In this, it shares something with all the other ways we break up our day …

Technology doesn’t just do things for us. It does things to us, changing not just what we do but who we are … [photography] makes us accustomed to putting ourselves and those around us “on pause” in order to document our lives. It is an extension of how we have learned to put our conversations “on pause” when we send or receive a text, an image, an email, a call. When you get accustomed to a life of stops and starts, you get less accustomed to reflecting on where you are and what you are thinking. Sherry Turkle

After reading Turkle's article in mid December, I decided to begin the New Year with a new attitude toward self and Facebook. It coincided with the skill I have been acquiring these past five years or so: holding still with feelings. To be more specific, I have been learning to feel my feelings, acknowledge and validate them before I choose to react or act on them. It was always so much easier to diffuse the discomfort of my emotions by pushing the feeling out and away from me and onto anything outside of me, or through punishing me with self-hate for having them in the first place. Holding still is always the challenge. Sitting with discomfort, getting to know the where's, why's and what's of how I am feeling, slowly uncovering the source, thus enabling me to make peace with some of my most difficult emotions – especially those that were deemed evil by significant adults in my early childhood.

Turkle made me instantly aware that I was becoming addicted to sharing all kinds of moments in my life without actually allowing myself to experience them. For example, this morning I was walking on the beach. The sun was shining on a clear, chilly day in the Middle East, with the Mediterranean Sea calm as glass, shimmering with rich, deep blue, turquoise and teal colors. Suddenly I noticed about a dozen large, black cormorants ducking and diving into the water. About three of four of them stood out on the rocks staring out toward the sea. They spread their wings out as wide as they could so that the sun warmed them from behind. I gasped and whispered out loud to myself, "Morning angels." A deep, spiritual feeling overwhelmed me bringing me comfort with my words, as I had been experiencing some challenging emotions during the evening and early morning prior to my walk. It immediately became uncomfortable for me, and I searched anxiously in my pockets for my iPhone to take a photograph of the cormorants to share on Facebook.

Then I stopped in my tracks and smiled to myself. Thank goodness, I had left my phone camera behind in the guest-room where I was staying in my sister's little wooden house. I stood still with the moment in awe of the cormorants sunning their enormous wings by the sea. I held still with all the complex emotions I had been feeling since my arrival in Israel a few days before, and allowed myself the full experience of awareness, and acceptance.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Peeking out over the top

Quote of the day:

TWO RULES I WILL TRY TO FOLLOW FOR 2014:
1). Break all the rules!
2). Go as fast as you can in the direction of your dreams until apprehended.
Join me! Make a New Year's resolution! Bill Ayers.

For 2014, my resolution is to try not to make rules or resolutions. Acceptance of self is key for me. No more thoughts of self alteration or fixing me up. I just want to learn to like me. Get to know what I want and need, and how to set boundaries that will help me feel safe. Since I was a child I was brain washed to believe all kinds of myths about who I am. And lately, I get it! I don't possess hardly any of those characteristics that were so indelibly ascribed to me. Mostly, I was taught not to believe or validate my feelings.

Myths turn into truths. And oh, I have raged. Yes indeed. Within and without. Have tried to explain and prove to dispel those truths. To no avail. So, this year, I want to rummage around in my brain and discover the real me. I feel like I am half discovered to myself already. Perhaps even three quarters of the way to understanding and accepting a different version of me. 

I cannot go it alone. This in itself is a realization that brings me comfort. Have tried so desperately to go it alone for so long. Now, I plan to gather around me those who accept and support who I really am. Keep them close, spiritually, emotionally, virtually, and if possible, physically.

I hope to disengage from toxic systems, and shame – and breathe in more light. This might even become my mantra to accompany me through the days ahead. Am really not sure quite how to go about any of this, because it feels like such unchartered territory. But I already have around me a network of souls, who have borne me ever so gently thus far. Each day, I gather more and more strength from them, and lately I have noticed that fear is dissipating. 

So, as 2013 comes to an end, I look back and see that it has been extremely eventful for me at every level: professionally, emotionally, and especially psychologically. Indeed thinking forward, I am full of hope, even excitement, and quite prepared to experiment with my Self further on the journey ahead.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: A writer's blog

So what on earth does a Jewish-born-atheist-teetering-on-Zen-Buddhist find so attractive about Christmas? Indeed, I have asked myself that question many times over the years, and a few days ago I realized, as I was putting out our three nativity tableaus, from Mexico, Peru and Kenya, on the dining room hutch, that one of the reasons I love this holiday as much as I do, is directly related to its central story. In fact, I noticed that I was laying out each scene with extreme care and quite a loving feeling in my heart. I even placed a candle at each end to lighten the way for the displays of that sacred family.

Although the story was not new to me, it struck me at a different emotional level than before. I thought almost out loud: "It's the holiday that celebrates the birth of an infant. A child, who was born to save us all!"

Annie Lennox singing, As Joseph Was A Walking, reminds us that the birth of that holy infant happened in the humblest of circumstances. Together with her African children's choir, they warble "Hallelujah" at the joy in His coming. 

I think to myself, well, who wouldn't want to celebrate such a story? And especially me – an early childhood teacher educator. For my life's work is about advocating for quality, caring relationships with young children. I believe that each child is born with the potential to make enormous contributions to her family, society, and even to the whole, wide world. Children are born with hope for the future. As we receive each new-born infant into our homes, hearts, and societies, we have the power and responsibility to welcome her with open arms and enormous compassion. Children bring light to our lives and hope for a better tomorrow.

It is a beautiful story. Worthy of celebrating. And people do – with candles, twinkling lights, gifts, songs, prayers, and much good will in their hearts. I join in happily. In fact, along with our tradition of acquiring one new ornament for our tree each year, I also find myself searching for new nativity scenes. I stop myself from buying them because I become embarrassed for me – you know – being that Jewish-born-atheist-teetering-on-Zen-Buddhist person that I am!

This year, as I search for yet another tableau portraying that sacred little family surrounded by well wishers, and lowly, manger animals, I will reflect on all young children out there, but especially those who are relationship deprived. Those, who are excluded and humiliated, treated with disrespect, and especially those who crave for, and so desperately need, our attention and acknowledgement. I will see them in each holy infant of every nativity scene. And I will know that my work will never be done in advocating for all young children everywhere, who deserve our love and compassion.

 

When Oscar arrived in our home seven months ago, his first human mother brought a couple of his toys with him. She was sensitive and caring, and knew that Oscar would feel more comfortable in his new home with toys that they had played with together when he was a wee kitten. Indeed, Oscar has been true to both his toys, but especially to the ball at the end of a string with the gentle sound of a maraca when it is being shaken around. To be fair, his toy is a bit tattered these days. It arrived with Oscar in the summer attached to a pole so that humans could wave the ball in the air for him to jump up and catch. The soft fabric that enveloped the ball was hanging off by then – dangling to one side – a sign that the toy was already well used. One day, after watching Oscar fly around, jumping up in the air, and tumbling to the carpet with the speed of a circus acrobat, Mimi settled down quietly and chewed off the pole leaving just a long, thin piece of string attached. It did not spoil the fun for Oscar, because humans are capable of holding onto the string without the pole, and Oscar still, seven months later, adores to dance and shuffle, chuck and jive with his toy. 

One Sunday afternoon, my close friend and neighbor was visiting for our usual visit with a cup of tea and the special gluten free cookies that she loves to eat. As we sat on the sofa chatting about this and that, Oscar wandered into the living room, dragging the ball and string with the piece of fabric trailing along at the edge of it. He set it down at my feet. We both laughed – my friend and me. I explained about the history of the toy, and told her how he loves to play with it. "Ah!" she sighed. "It's his blankie," she said. No one understands small children better than this friend of mine. In fact, her work is with young toddlers – the most challenging and rewarding job of all! And, if there is one thing she understands, it's that a young toddler needs her blankie – for comfort, confidence, and an all round feeling of well-being. Just as Oscar's first human mother had understood. He would need his blankie to ease his transition when coming to his new home.

This morning, I slept in late – all the way to 5:30 a.m. As I lay there under the warm comforter, fast asleep, through my dreams came the sound of a maraca. I felt a soft tap on the tip of my shoulder, that was exposed outside of the covers. When I opened my eyes, Oscar was sitting up straight, looking directly at me. He was waiting. I looked down at his feet, and there lay the ball, soft fabric dangling to the side at the end of the string. I smiled at him. "You brought me your blankie," I whispered so as not to wake Life Partner. "Come on then," I continued, as I rose up, slipped on my shoes and cardigan to greet the cold morning.  I shoved the ball into my pocket, and wandered up to my study to start the coffee. As I walked up the stairs, the gentle sound of a maraca beckoned Oscar up with me. He, who usually runs and gambols about the house like an energetic young toddler, pitter-pattered up each stair next to me, quietly and seriously keeping a close watch on the pocket in my pants that contained his blankie.

I guess self reflection is never done. We don't just self reflect, have epiphanies, and then everything works itself out. Self work is all about a few steps forward and then some back. So many metaphors describe that process that it would be boring for me to write about them here or now. I think I am thankful when the regressions are fewer and farther between, and when I can hold still with the good feelings for longer periods of time. That way, there is always hope for progress. Perhaps that would make me a cup-half-full type of person? I remarked something about that to Life Partner yesterday as we walked in the charming snowy streets of Chestnut Hill on our way to purchase groceries to make a pot of beef stew. He had been craving a steaming hot, nourishing, thick stew for awhile, and so decided to pull out his old beloved crock pot and make one. As our shoes and boots crunched through the fresh snow on the ground I said, "There are two kinds of people in the world. Those who see the beautiful white snow all around, and those who warn of the slushy dirt that comes shortly after." "Yeah," he responded immediately. "There are those who complain when it's hot, and then again when it's cold." I suppose it is good to be warned of the future "slushiness" of life, right at the moment of enjoying pleasure in the wonder of nature and its snow, snow, snow. I mean, to be prepared, you know! I just prefer to hold still with the pleasure, feel the joy to the depth of my being, and then worry about the disasters of the world later, if and when they come upon me. On the other hand, surprises – good or bad – can be very disconcerting. Ho hum. Complexity! Neither good nor bad – black nor white – but grayish. That's more like it, really. So perhaps there are not just two kinds of people in this world – but a whole bunch of all kinds, with complex feelings, hopes, dreams, joys, desires, and, certainly, with all manner of ways of expressing it all.

Two years ago at Mining Nuggets: Becoming includable; & Becoming includable – Part II

My morning list about giving another option:

• Another way of thinking.
• A different perspective.
• An alternate reality.
• A different truth.
• Another belief.
• New ideas.
• Different ways to solve problems.
• Another way of understanding.
• Conflicting emotions.
• Survival meets reality.
• Looking back and thinking forward.
• Gathering up the pieces.
• Exploring what we know against what we have learned.
• Breaking down walls.
• Rolling aside boulders.
• Chipping away at old paradigms.
• Changing the emotional script.
• Developing a new self-image.
• Opening my eyes.
• Taking off the sunglasses.
• Clearing away the clutter.
• Independent thought
• New ways for self expression
• Cognitive dissonance
• Clearing the view
• My survival affects how I hear you

The hardest part of self alteration is when my survival meets reality. For, as a young child, I learned to survive by repressing feelings, needs, and being ashamed or felt undeserving for having them – even to doubt that I had them at all! Now, as an adult, I am faced with a different reality. That is, I am deserving, and my feelings and needs are valid. And yet, shame and doubt still flies up in the face of my fear for survival. 

More and more I am able to face my shame and doubt with less and less fear. For years I felt as if I was up against an impenetrable wall. Lately, I realize I have been chipping away at that metaphorical wall, and, somehow, have turned it into a mere boulder in the middle of the road. I have been able to climb over, or maneuver myself around the boulder, and still it stands there – like a large, heavy lump, in my path. 

These past couple of months, I have moments – almost like a revelation – when I feel as if the boulder has been rolled aside, and the way forward is clear and free. I sense feelings of peace, and freedom, almost as if I could fly away. 

For me, education (and therapy) is about giving or receiving another option – cognitive and/or emotional. This morning, I am grateful for both: education and therapy. 

Survival, being right where I am, busy and having meaningful work, flowers, walking.

These are some of what I have been writing about feeling grateful lately.

Two days remaining for the count down series I started at the beginning of this month, and I realize that feelings of gratitude have deepened for me more than in the past. It was not that I was glib about them before, rather it is that the feeling has become more profound. Indeed, I have always been thankful for kindness of strangers. For without them, I could not have felt deserving, or realized my self-worth. I believe, in my heart of hearts, that it was one of the aspects of my life that saved me from an emotionally abusive childhood. And so, I have known that gratitude is important for my sense of well-being, as well as for opening me up to trusting others. 

When I arrived in America a little over twenty five years ago, I was delighted to discover a holiday that celebrated being thankful. Indeed, the first Thanksgiving dinner I attended was filled with warmth, friendship and colorful foods. I marveled at, and cherished it all. But mostly I felt a surge of joy when we all sat around the table and spoke about something we were grateful for. 

Forgiveness has opened me up to gratitude. That is more complex than it sounds, because forgiveness becomes easier only when I allow myself to first acknowledge, feel, and, thus, validate my anger. This is really difficult for me to do, because I learned very early on to fear, or be ashamed about feeling angry. Shame was a driving force – a critical component of discipline in my earliest childhood. Forgiveness and gratitude opens me up to the humanity of others – indeed, to the human condition. For me, they are crucial in developing empathy and compassion. Understanding all this has taken years of therapy, reading, working with children, teachers and families, and from experiencing pain, as well as joy, in working through relationships with those closest and dearest to me.

If someone gives me the smallest gift, or remembers me without my reminding them, I am thankful. If I am acknowledged in the slightest way, or if someone makes a stand for me, I am thankful.

But mostly if someone just listens to me, and validates my feelings, I am overcome with gratitude.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Guilty pleasures

Early morning. Sun isn't up yet. I stretch and look around my study. A pile of books waiting to be read sits upright on a table next to my desk. Splayed out next to the computer is a chapter of a manuscript that I have offered to respond to, with a small piece of my own. Down on the floor lies a pile of papers to be graded as the semester draws to a close. There is much to be done. Sighing now I start to feel overwhelmed. That old familiar buzz of anxiety as I wonder how everything will get done. Students will receive their grades in time, deadline for my written work is coming up soon. Once again I realize I will have to push back reading the books that beckon me from their ever growing pile. A full day of meetings and teachings lies ahead, and I am not sure where to begin.

I stop thinking about it and take another sip of coffee, which has now become cold from the passing of time as I mull over my fate. 

Scratching the back of my head, I continue to type these thoughts as they pop into my head this early Monday morning. "After all," I think to myself, "This was supposed to be a post about being grateful … for my Countdown series!" I start to smile slowly. I almost say out loud, "Well, I suppose I could be thankful for being busy." And then that starts to feel good. My smile is broadening now. After all, I have much to live for – interactions with students and grading their work so as to help them think about what they are saying and doing about young children. That's worthwhile! Writing a piece for a book on social-emotional development – that's always worthwhile – I mean, getting my point of view out there could give someone a different option about how to think about things. That's one of the things I most enjoy about education – offering another option. And those books? Well, I will get to read them – winter break is coming up and there is much to look forward to.

Ah – this is becoming energizing now. I find myself tapping my toes as I write this post. Eyes are wider now and breathing is deeper. I remember a line from Out of Africa. Meryl Streep's character strides energetically and with purpose out to the large barn. She has become tired of sitting around waiting for her "man" to return from his adventures. She says forcefully, "Give me work."

This morning I am grateful for being busy, and having meaningful work!

Recently, I received a card from my mother-in-law. She wrote, among other things, that the important work I do "will have a lasting impact on children, teachers and parents in our schools and families." Her words arrived at exactly the right moment, and brought tears of gratitude to my eyes.

Today I am thankful for being who I am right here, right now. So often I find myself yearning for the Tamarika of yesteryear, ages 32, 45, or 52 perhaps. I discover nostalgia and regret when I look in the mirror, peruse old photographs, or when exhausted at the end of the day, I slowly, and sometimes painfully, climb the three flights of stairs up to my office. I long for some forgotten mythological character of Tamarika from way back when, as if by being youthful or spry I was somehow happier, more confident, or felt more belonging.

Indeed, right here and now is where I want to be. For, as young as I once was, I was not half as content or confident as I am now. Nor did I experience joy in the profound way that I do, receiving untold pleasure as I discover the bloom of a new cactus flower, or gaze for long minutes at the cats curled up, locked in a warm embrace as they sleep, cuddled and huddled together on the couch next to me while I read or grade papers. 

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Supporting an authentic voice

I dreamed there was debris everywhere. What a mess! I had the hugest clean-up I had ever had to do. What had happened? A party? A catastrophe? I could not make it out. Just that I had so much to clean up and put away. Amongst all the stuff lying around, and after I had pulled from the sink or sewer (I couldn't quite make out which) a large blanket and some clothes, a white shirt, pants, and other items I can't remember, I noticed a child, about the age of eight or ten years old. She lay asleep. Her head was shrouded with pale curls, and her eyes and nose were crusted with dry mucus from crying too much perhaps. I thought to myself, I will get to her after I have cleaned up. The cleaning seemed almost done when I decided to turn my attention to the sleeping child. I looked at her intently, and decided I would need the shower hose to wash away the crusted eyes and nose, and pale tangled curls on her head. "How will I wake her up?" I said to myself. "She has been through so much, I will have to be very gentle." 

And then I awoke. Suddenly. Upright in my bed. With the image of that young child in my mind, I slipped on my vibrams and wrapped my black shawl-like cardigan around my shoulders as I went down to make coffee and feed the cats. As I was in the middle of my early morning routine, almost sleep walking as I was still pondering my dream, uncontrollably I suddenly said out loud, "The child is me!" I repeated out loud what I had thought in my dream as I stared at the sorrowful, neglected child: "She has been through so much, I will have to be very gentle."

It made perfect sense, because the day before in my therapy session, we had talked about my childhood in more depth than I had ever allowed previously. In fact, I had started the discussion because feelings and experiences during some recent events in my life had become clear to me. Indeed, I had felt like I had touched the very core, the essence of my childhood pain. At one point in the session, my therapist and I fell silent. He looked at me intently and said, "You are a survivor." I wept for a few moments, feeling validated and pride at the same time.

As soon as I had completed my chores, I donned my sneakers and went out for a long morning walk. As I strode out into the crisp fall air, the sun shone in my face and through the tops of the almost bare trees. Leaves were swirling around my feet as I went. I could smell autumn in my nostrils – the pungent scent of soaked, fallen leaves. I began to imagine waking up that tormented, neglected child. Remembering how I had thought in the dream, "… She has been through so much," I slipped my arm under her head ever so gently and whispered kindly, "It's time to wake up." And then I stroked her curls and took a warm, damp cloth to wipe away the crust around her eyes and nose – all the time taking care to be as gentle as possible. I took her small hands in mine and looked into her eyes with compassion. I said, "Everything is going to be all right. You are safe now. We will take our time. I won't leave you." As I imagined the scenario, I wept as I walked. It felt like a weight was lifting, and deep healing was occurring. 

Turning the corner out of the woods and up the road leading toward home, the air seemed clearer and sun brighter. I smiled to myself and thought: "Count down. Today I am grateful for survival."