tamarjacobson

10 Minutes about spirituality … go:

Incense and candles, japa mala and water tinkling in a nearby fountain. Breathing slowly and deeply sitting cross legged and thinking of the mantra allowing my mind to wander and coaxing it back ever so gently to the word. Om sri ram ramayanama and then thoughts come and go … om tare tutare ture svaha … and back to jumbled, rambling thoughts again. But spirituality really comes in realizing the human condition and feeling at one with it. Or wandering through an arboretum sensing and smelling the flora and fauna in a different town. Sharing friendship or even just a glass of wine together learning to speak each other's language. Spirituality is at the end of a presentation where participants are sharing, laughing or tearing up together, and one steps up to me and asks if she can give me a hug. And she hugs me with strength and warmth – showing me how she has felt throughout my talk. Spirituality is connecting with animals, old and young. Spirituality is pouring out my heart in a blog post, and receiving a comment or two, or email from a gentle reader, who noticed my words, and connected to some part of them in their own way. Spirituality is teachers sharing with me all the ways they were disciplined as young children – telling us out loud about the pain and humiliation they felt – even the anger – and people in the room silent as they listen, but their listening is accepting and comforting even as it is silent.

Spirituality is about feeling connected and unafraid.

I
always thought of myself as a dog person, until about fourteen years ago when I acquired a
cat because I thought Life Partner
would want one. We had just married, and as we were too old to have children of
our own it seemed to me like our home still needed some kind of vulnerable
soul for both of us to take care of – other than ourselves, that is. And so, at that time, Molly the kitten joined our humble abode. Within a few months I was
completely in love with her. I bought numerous books that told me how to care
for cats, including ways of understanding the way they learn to communicate
with their humans. But, through living with and observing them, I rather think that I
learned how to communicate with them instead! And from then on I became an avid cat lady.

Lately,
I have been reading through the archives of the blogs that I have been writing
for the past eight years, to find where my cats Molly, Ada, Mimi or Oscar are
mentioned. I am amazed to discover how many of the posts include those little,
furry, feline creatures. It seems they accompany me throughout my life, in the blog whether as
asides, thoughts, mentions, or with lengthy descriptions of their behaviors and
interactions. Indeed, they are never far from my mind. If they were able to
enter my brain and listen to my thoughts, I would say that they know me very
well. More than that – my cats are a part of me inside and out. In fact, I am
beginning to think they represent me, or that I identify with them. We are, at
least in my mind, inseparable. When I prepare to leave on vacation or even for
work in the morning I experience pain and longing for them just at the thought
of leaving them alone in the house. I imagine they will feel abandoned and
despairing, and that they will remain sitting with their noses pressed up to
the windowpane searching for me until I return. People tell me that they go to
sleep when I leave. But how do they know that for sure?

Surely
I am transferring my own childhood fears and feelings onto them?

Not
long ago, when little Oscar was very ill, the vet assured me of his resilience,
describing the amazing strength feral cats had to survive the most challenging
of conditions. She smiled and chuckled when I described the aggressive way I
saw Mimi playing with him. I was mortified and fearful worried about how poor
little Oscar was being hurt by his sister. The vet gently explained to me that
was how cats play together! Was I putting myself in Oscar’s shoes? – Me – a human
in the paws of a cat! After he died, I watched Mimi searching for him from room
to room. At times she mewed as if calling to him. My heart broke for her as if
she was a human mourning the loss of a sibling – as if I was mourning all of my
own past losses. 

Yes indeed, I realize that there is much more to explore about these symbiotic relationships between me and my cats. I have only scratched at the surface, if you will excuse the pun, gentle reader. In the meantime, I will try to head out on my many travels this month across the Unted States and over the oceans to England and Israel without too much angst and agony at having to leave sweet little Mimi behind with an adoring cat sitter named Lindsey. 

Yesterday morning I woke out of a dream that sent me to my box of old, faded memory papers: cards from loved ones; marriage or divorce documents; pieces of journals that I kept as a reminder of history and personal progress that grew out of those old stories; especially memorable photographs or poems; old report cards from my earliest childhood years; and a tassel from my doctoral graduation. I found the answer to my dream in that old box. It lay there in a folder of cards and photographs from over a decade ago. Not that long ago. But as I rummaged through, I discovered that period of my life is still such a part of me. Locking it away in a box does not drive it out of my memory. For, there it was in my dream the night before, disguised as something else, of course, as dreams can sometimes do. But there it was nevertheless. I am always intrigued by what triggers my brain to bring back feelings from times gone by. Such a mystery! I knelt on the carpet up on the third floor in my study, holding the card in my hand, papers, and photographs strewn around me as I searched for answers to my dream. As I worked my way through the folder, I came upon these words in one of the cards written to me:

What a loving friend you have been over the years, especially when I needed you to be there for me, you were. I could count on you – always (Even my neglected plants could). I don't know how I would have gotten through this past year without your friendship.

While it made me nostalgic and longing, even a bit regretful about the decisions I had made (or not made) at the time, it also gave me peace, realizing now – which I was unable to understand then – that I was loved and gave love in return.

Quote of the day:

Wherever you think you’re heading right now might turn out to take a completely different path. What looks like an ending might actually be the start of a brand-new beginning. Annie Lennox

A little while ago, my son called me up out of the blue, sounding excited, and told me to find the nearest computer at once. I was just arriving home from a long, energetic walk in the sun, and as tired as I felt, I managed to race upstairs to find my iPad at his bidding. He directed me to the YouTube video of Annie Lennox's keynote address at Berklee College of Music earlier this month. While I realized that she was speaking to undergraduate students, forty years younger than me, I must say that it felt as if she was talking directly to me.

For, June 26 this year marks the twenty fifth anniversary of my immigration to America, and the beginning of an academic journey. With my recent promotion to full professor, it feels as if I have arrived at a destination of sorts. Is the journey over? (I ask myself) Of course it is by no means the end of my career. Indeed, it only enhances all that I have been working towards these past two and a half decades. But, still, it feels like a conclusion of sorts. Perhaps it will be more peaceful emotionally for me, because there will be less need, professionally, to face down my demons of insecurity and lack of confidence. 

I think about writing, and am not sure which direction I will take me. One of the things I have learned over the years is not to try and change the whole world all at once, but rather reach one teacher at a time. Each teacher affects the emotional lives of hundreds of children, and that continues to give me hope for the future – bit by bit. Self reflection will always accompany my travels, whichever direction I follow … but what else? I desire something different to write about. Perhaps I will focus more on my Good Mother blog … or create a book about cats out of all the blog posts I have written about my feline friends these past eight years. This is a project I have been thinking about taking on since sweet Oscar died. I still sense that somewhere inside me lives a memoir waiting to tumble out. And, have I exhausted all the knowledge and wisdom I have learned and experienced to share with teachers of young children?

So, where to now? I sense exciting times ahead, because I feel able to choose the direction – my new path. And, to that end, maybe I will just hold still awhile, and wait for a muse or a sign … to send me on my way.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: The first senior moment in history

I must say that lately it seems that feeling good has become relentless … I mean, it just keeps coming back stronger than before even and in spite of the obstacles I try to put in my way.

Indeed, I am amazed at how versatile my mind is in coming up with ways to make me feel bad essentially only minutes after I feel empowered, joyful, or just plain happy. Headaches; anxiety attacks; chest pains; regrets; guilt about being a bad mother, pet owner, wife, friend, human being; general nostalgia and longing; self-loathing; fits of desperate hunger, only moments after I have eaten a full meal; and tensions in my neck and shoulders so deep that a massage therapist recently almost broke her wrists trying to drive out of me!

I am beginning to understand the full extent of the power of my mind-body connection, and it is awesome. As if on a bumpy roller coaster ride, noisy, painful, and even terrifying at times, I soldier on through pushing any ailments or rising negative feelings aside, allowing myself to feel good over and over again.

This is it, I imagine. If I am able to weather this storm long enough with as much courage and strength as I can muster, I am bound to reach peaceful waters, where I might float quietly, bobbing and up and down with a few mild ripples caused by a gentle breeze only now and then.

Eight years ago at Tamarika: Oh, may they hear me calling (Update) & I dream of Dali

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Foreign flower

This winter, one of the potted plants that I have had for the past eight years could not take the cold out on the enclosed front porch. As the months passed by, I watched as its leaves turned from yellow to brown and sagged sadly downwards. This bright and sunny, brisk, spring morning as I busied myself with my Sunday watering plants ritual – you know, lighting candles, burning incense, and playing relaxing music (the type of music my son calls "alternative to music") – I decided it was time to pull up the plant and bury it in the yard outside. Kneeling down on the floor by the large, green, clay pot it has been housed in all these years, I dug my hands into the soil around it and started to tug at its roots. There was an intense network of them thick and large burrowed down deep into the soil. I tugged with all my might as bits and pieces came up in my hands. Once or twice I almost fell over as the roots seemed to stubbornly dig themselves in deeper the harder I pulled.

As I cleared the pot of all the lingering smaller roots closer to the surface, I realized that moving to a different country, town, or even a new home, feels a lot like the struggle I had with those plant roots. Indeed, it almost felt as if I was pulling the heart and soul of the plant out of its pot where it had resided all these past eight years or so. Each time I transplant a flowering plant or tree I watch as the flowers wilt and sometimes it takes days, even weeks for it to settle into its new pot or spot in the garden. It is a lot like that for me too. Each time I moved between continents or even between states, I found it took days, weeks, and even months for me to settle in, feel familiar and tentatively put down my roots in my new space. Sometimes I felt myself withering and wilting, needing just to sleep or cry until I felt at home again – found the corner store for bread and milk, or the nearest post office to send a card to the people I had left behind again and again. 

When Ada died, or sweet little Oscar, there was nothing to pull or tug at.

Just emptiness.

Silence … and a large hole in the space around.

Perhaps the roots of animals or people are the memories they leave behind, for it feels as if they have burrowed into my brain and heart, and settled deeply there forever …

… or, at least, until I finally slip away.

Update:

I received an email response to this post from an old friend, who agreed that I post it here:

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Healing dimensions: Part IV

Eight years ago at Tamarika: This little yogi went wee, wee, wee all the way home

Once again I find myself wondering why I want to write a memoir.

Recently I realized that both the books I wrote for early childhood educators are, in fact, types of memoirs, because I share my story so that teachers will feel comfortable exploring their own. I do this because I want them to learn self reflection so that they may improve their relationships with young children. Time and again I am surprised when readers of my books let me know that they are inspired by my story. I guess my surprise comes because that was not the original purpose when I wrote my books. My goal was to model self reflection, and show how "internal ethnography," as I call it, can help us (as teachers) improve our understanding of why we do what we do. Thus, we become more aware and intentional about our actions and behaviors, and are less inclined to unwittingly humiliate or hurt children in our care.

When readers are inspired by my story, my surprise also comes because I cannot imagine my story as inspiring anyone. After all, I have lived it all my life. It is old, familiar and habitual. My life script was written into the emotional memory templates of my brain decades ago, and my struggle to alter it has, indeed, been a challenge. But it was my challenge – still is – and even struggles and challenges are old, familiar and habitual by now. And yet, somehow, others are inspired by my story of resilience and how I survived and overcame my childhood trauma. As I start to see my story through the eyes of readers of my books, I understand differently what, in fact, I went through to become the person I am today.

And so, I guess that one of the reasons for writing memoir is to tell a story about how we survived trauma.

We are inspired by stories of resilience, because seeing how others are able to overcome trauma gives us hope to survive our own.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Benevolent dictator

Quote of the day:

"The breezes at dawn have secrets to tell you
Don't go back to sleep!
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep!
People are going back and forth across the doorsill where the two worlds touch,
The door is round and open
Don't go back to sleep!" 

—Rumi (Found at Elizabeth Gilbert)

So – it's the asking for what I really want from myself, significant others, and the Universe (?) – that's the hardest part for me.

Starting small, though, this poem is what I really want right here and now.

… up close to the grave I had created for Ada in October, last year. As I arrived home wearily from the writer's workshop with Natalie Goldberg at Villa Lina, I found the box of Ada's ashes waiting for me by the front door. We had both arrived on the same day. I remember feeling a twinge of pain reverberating through my heart strings, when I discovered the box on the front porch as I dragged my suitcase up the steps. I took Oscar's ashes out to the back yard and dug a hole in the cold dark ground around Ada's grave. I spoke to him in my mind assuring him of Ada's company and the coming of warmer months. Breaking open the plastic bag that held his ashes, I poured them into the earth, and then laid some daffodil bulbs on top. They had bloomed for a couple of weeks in my office during the last weeks of February when I needed to cheer myself up and onward through to the end of winter. 

When I came back into the house, Mimi was waiting for me by the back door. She mewed sweetly and smelled my hands, licking them over and over again with her raspy tongue no doubt checking out where I had been without her as she sat by the window watching. I said out loud, "Mimi, I buried your brother this morning." 

Then we went upstairs to my study. Mimi jumped up into the soft, white bed I placed on my desk next to the computer. She curled up, first looking back at me as I began typing. She purred as I put my hand out to stroke her.

I sensed Ada and Oscar close by looking on with approval. 

I looked up at the computer screen for a moment and then began writing:

I buried Oscar's ashes this morning …

Quote of the day:

I don't why it is we are in such a hurry to get up when we fall down. You might think we would lie there and rest awhile. Max Forrester Eastman

There are two different dimensions that help me understand my early childhood in two equally important ways. One is cognitive and rational, realizing what the adults caring for me were going through at the time. In that way I become aware that their behaviors were not personal in the sense that they intentionally meant to neglect me emotionally. It is an understanding that develops over time supported by life experience and knowledge of the human condition in general. It is also a type of forgiveness that develops only after I am able to process the first aspect. This one is emotional, derived from the earliest emotional memories in my brain and requires that I learn to allow myself to validate my feelings. That is to say, validate how I felt as a young child experiencing emotional neglect within my brain, body and soul. The former cannot be authentically achieved unless I am able to validate how it felt as a child. At least, that is how I see it working for me. 

My mother's life was chaotic and filled with anxiety when I was born. She was heading into her third marriage, and I understand that I arrived at a bad time for me – and certainly for her. Her mind was preoccupied with a new, unpredictable stage in her life. She was clearly emotionally overwhelmed. Partly because of the effect of her own early childhood experiences, and partly because of the facts on the ground: making a life with a new life partner, wanting to please him, and having his child late in her life. She was an intelligent woman, who loved children in general, and probably loved me too. She certainly provided me with basic physical needs, shelter, clothes, food etc. However, she was unable to give me what I needed emotionally: Attention, acknowledgement, and a sense of worthiness. 

My older siblings were just that – older – and leaving the house to find their ways out in the world. I remained behind, feeling like an unwanted appendage to a small family unit: my mother, her husband, and their new baby, who seemed like a miracle child to everyone. And so, my experience growing up was of great and deep loneliness, accompanied by longing and yearning to be someone's – anyone's priority. 

These past few months, therapy has brought me face to face with those early childhood emotional memories. It has been excruciatingly painful to understand where my deepest feelings of loneliness spring from. Alone in my study, or during the long commute back and forth from work, I have wept and raged as I remember how it felt during those early years. And somehow I see that the more I allow myself to shed years of emotional repression and validate my feelings from back then, the more I find it easier to forgive my mother for the pain the emotional neglect caused me.

Indeed, I am also starting to feel less lonely, and even more worthy! It is strange and new for me. Exciting as well as peaceful. It almost seems as if new doors are opening within me. At times, I become frustrated that I understand all this so late in life, and so naturally it brings up feelings of regret. But these pass swiftly in light of what lies before me right now. A sense of personal power and, finally at the ripe old age of 63, the ability to discern what I want and need.

Eight years ago at Tamarika: Waiting for a bus