tamarjacobson

I cannot
remember the exact moment in my life when I decided that I would be a good mother. I think it might have been in my late teens, early adulthood. In
fact, I wanted to be the mother of all
mothers. I had the perfect model in mind. It was clear to me that if I was
in touch with my child’s emotions, loved him unconditionally, and gave him
everything he needed or wanted he would have the perfect childhood and would
live happily ever after. I just needed to be present for him emotionally and then
all would be well. It was a simple, purist view of my self that blocked out
complexities of relationships, and did not take into account the fact that I
was young, human, and fallible. It was an omnipotent view that denied any other
person’s role in my son’s life as having influence or importance. I would be
solely responsible, and, thus, to blame for whatever happened to my child –
forever. Indeed, I would be a saint, modeling my feelings and behaviors after a
Maria-type fantastical stereotype – all-loving unconditionally and
self-sacrificing at all times through even the most challenging moments. I left
myself no space for failure or real life situations.

As I
write this, my mother is well into her nineties. Even though she is  no
longer able to walk, she knits and is still an avid reader. In fact, a couple of years ago she knitted me a blanket in pinks,
lavenders and greens with brown and peach colors splashed throughout. The blanket reminds me of her love for me even as she grows so
old. I look over at the blanket lying warmly, gently over our sofa, and think
back to my childhood. It was a complicated time in my mother’s life, and not
easy for me. Indeed, growing up my relationship with my mother had some rocky
moments accompanied by feelings of abandonment, exclusion, and longing.

When I
was young and beginning to process repressed early childhood anger and pain, I
decided I would be the mother I had always wished I had, and not model myself
after the one I had grown up with. As I have become older – with an
adult son almost forty, more and more I want to understand my own mother’s
motivations, struggles and challenges as well as the decisions she made, and I find that I am more able to forgive her for the pain she
caused me as a child. And yet, there is much to explore about how she considered herself as a good parent to her five children. After all, she did not
have an easy childhood either.

Long years ago, when I left Africa for Israel, my mother gave me a picture called the Madonna of the Lilies. It was an old-fashioned picture post card in
an artificial gold embossed frame, probably from the nineteen twenties or
thirties. A wispy, young woman in a diaphanous gown, who was standing in a garden surrounded by tall, white lilies, portrayed the Madonna in the picture. In her arms she
looked down lovingly at a gentle infant in swaddling clothes that she was cradling in her arms. My
mother had cherished that picture since she was a young child, vowing to be the
mother she had never had, but had always longed for. I had not always
understood why she gave me that picture but realize now that perhaps she wanted to
share her aspirations with me about wanting to be a good mother. However,
when I was in my twenties, struggling with the typical challenges young mothers
face with a first-born child, that picture represented a burden for me – a model of high expectations I had to follow. Indeed, the picture made me feel as if I had to strive to be
an even better mother than mine had been. As I look back now, I think
I might have felt those expectations from within me, rather than my mother actually had for me. Instead, I think she just wanted to share her aspirations
with me – woman-to-woman.

As I think about our different life stories, I realize that “good mothering” was an important feature we
both focused on, surely for different reasons, or perhaps similar ones. She was
always a harsh critic of women, who did not live up to her expectations and
high standards about being a good parent. I wonder, though, how she came to
terms with life’s complexities and the times she was unable to live up to her
own high standards of good mothering. On a past visit to see her in
Israel before she became bed ridden, she declared forcefully that she had
nothing to feel guilty about as a mother to her five children.

I, on the other
hand, am a harsh critic of my self, ridden with feelings of
guilt and regret about how I could have behaved or supported my now-grown
son better. And yet, I wonder how I have become more understanding and accepting of people who parent differently from me. Perhaps a combination of formal education as well as living and
working within a number of different cultures has helped me. 

Update:

Just in … from a colleague's email about this new blog:

Just wanted to let you know that this blog is exactly what I needed to share with an old friend today. She is the grandmother. She will be sharing your blog with her daughter. Thanks, Tamar!!

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.

He says gently,
clearly that for me to change would be to realize that I am okay. No need for
self-alteration. Just to accept myself as I am. Not that I am without flaws.
But, that I am human and more than all right. Oh, and, by the way, it is not my
fault.

This blows me
away. For days after our session, I wander around in a daze not fully
understanding what was said to me recently. I look back on my life and think of
all the times I ran away or missed out on chances for happiness because I kept
on thinking, “There is something wrong with me.” Whenever emotions became
strong or pain unbearable, I thought there must be something wrong with me. If
people hurt me, I thought, it must be my fault, and, yes, I deserve it! And
now, what is my therapist telling me? That it wasn’t my fault? What do I do
with all these years and years of feeling to blame, unworthy, unredeemable, or in
need of serious alteration? I wonder how long he has been trying to explain
this to me, and why it confuses me. I realize that I have been unable to hear
him, but for some reason this time, I hear him – loud and clear. It strikes a
chord, hits a nerve, and penetrates my brain. It taps into my ancient,
emotional memory.

And now, I feel
free, vulnerable, wide open, and without defenses. Flapping in the wind, flying
and tumbling about wildly way out somewhere in the universe.

I pull myself out of my bath and wrap a large, white towel-like robe close to my body enveloping me in comforting warmth. Water is still dripping on the floor as I almost run up to my study to my computer. How strange. Sun is streaming through the window, where snow was blowing just a short while before. I look up at the wall and see the note Wendy wrote for me in Villa Lina last October: First in Hebrew, she wrote, "To Tamar, with love," and then:

"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 – Wendy adds). From, Freeman House, Totem Salmon

I am in unchartered waters …

Back in time …

Today, at the University bookstore, I joined a long line of students buying books for the spring semester. I waited to purchase two greeting cards. One was for a colleague's birthday, which I was told earlier this morning we would celebrate later in the day. The second, well what can I say, was in preparation for Valentine's Day. As I stood amongst almost thirty students winding in and out of three lanes, I added up the prices of the cards. I thought to myself, "Is it worth waiting the twenty odd minutes or so for such a small purchase?"

My mind immediately began to wander back to 25 years ago. I had just arrived in Buffalo, and was going back to school, at the huge Buffalo University to complete a BA. In order to register for classes, I arrived at the administration building at five o'clock in the morning. A line was already stretching as far as the eye could see, and further. I joined hundreds of young, undergraduate students – me a Mom, 39 years old, a foreigner, an immigrant from a far off land. We sat together drinking coffee, sharing snacks and chatting about our futures. Six hours later, at 11:00 a.m. I finally made it to the front counter to sign up for all my classes. Indeed, twenty five years ago Internet on-line registration did not yet exist. On-line meant something physical, concrete – literally sitting inside a huge, long, diverse line of human beings – a social, community-like experience, and required enormous amounts of patience.

I must have been reminiscing for quite awhile, for before I knew it, I was at the front of the line and paid for the two small greeting cards in my hand.

I walked out of the bookstore onto the path towards my office still lost in thought, back in time.

What is it about vacations that make me anxious until I settle in and then it is time to go? I am able to travel with much more ease all over the world and country when it is for presentations or meetings. And yet, relaxation and pleasure trips are such a challenge for me. Vacations are a change of rhythm and a time to let go of everyday worries and stressors – aren't they? In some ways I feel that expectations are higher when I take a holiday. I feel as if I must know what I want to do each moment, whether it is where to eat, if I want to walk, swim, or just sit and read in the sun. Shouldn't I want to go out and see all sorts of wondrous places and museums rather than sit still and stare for hours at the sea? Sometimes, to ease the pressure, I wait to see what others want to do, and then resent them for not doing what I want! In short, vacations can be nothing short of torture for me. 

So, this vacation I vowed to enjoy myself. And lo and behold, it is coming to pass. Just learning to chill out with the expectations. Who cares what I do? I am leaving stressors and worries behind, and literally going with the flow. And it isn't too difficult after all. I wonder why it took me so long to realize there are no deadlines, or should's, and if I don't want to sight see – so be it! One thing is for sure. I must soak my toes in the ocean each day. My body and soul need that. I don't care when or how it happens, just that it does. For the rest … well, each moment I will allow me to find out what my heart desires. 

Just one more thing. Guilt. Or as one therapist I knew many years ago described it: "The big 'G'!" What do I do with that? For it creeps in at all different times during a really pleasurable vacation. It slips into my brain just when I am letting down my guard as I start to enjoy myself. It comes in the form of worrying about "those poor little kittens back home," or, "how hard the housekeeper woman has to work for so little pay, to clean my bathroom as I decadently lounge about the swimming pool slurping away at mango-passion-fruit type smoothies." Sometimes, guilt makes me weep with gratitude that a poor slob like me is fortunate enough to be enjoying her life as much as I do. "What did I do to deserve such kindness from the Universe?" I wonder pathetically.

Ah – that insidious of all feelings – Guilt!

I look up from writing this post and notice sunshine streaming into our elegant hotel room – diaphonous drapes waving softly with a cool breeze as rays shimmer through the fabric, shedding circular beams on the bed, up to the ceiling, and around the carpet with glorious patterns of light. 

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Seven year itch

Writing as practice. Ten minutes: Go!

Even as I think about writing practice, I feel an excited burning sensation in the pit of my stomach. Writing is important to me. It is all about self expression. Getting out words that I find so difficult to say in person. It reminds me how I really am uncomfortable speaking on the phone. At every turn in the conversation, especially when t is my turn, I feel an urge to say, "Well, it was nice speaking with you. Goodbye." But still I continue the conversation struggling to find words to describe how I am. For I am never sure that anyone is really interested in how I am. Writing practice allows me to speak freely and not worry if anyone is interested in me. Of course, I am delighted when people stop by to read the blog, or anything else I write – like books, papers, or articles. I certainly enjoy acknowledgement. There is no doubt about that. And who doesn't like a bit of attention from time to time? But, the act of writing is something that is just for me and me alone. I am able to speak my mind, discover memories, and share thoughts, that I might not have ready access to when talking face to face with people. Especially people I care about and whose opinion I value. So, while practicing writing can sometimes seem like a chore, it is also always a little exciting for me. My mind goes blank for a moment but the clock is still ticking. I think a little too hard instead of allowing the thoughts to flow through my fingertips for these ten minutes of non-stop writing practice. No need to edit right now. I can do that later. Just let the mind cough it up. All of it. Practice, practice, practice. That's the way I learn to perfect my art. There are months that I travel and present non-stop and by the third or fourth speech I have it down pat. I am able to discover words and even jokes with ease, and the attendees seem to flow with me in the room. I gave up practicing the piano when I moved to America twenty five years ago. I gave up a lot of things back then. Cooking. Not that I was ever a great cook. Singing. I gave up all housewifely-type things except for, perhaps cleaning, and even that I don't do so much any more. Was I never the housewife type? And yet I struggled so hard to perfect that, and always felt I came up short. Academia seemed to fit with me. Activities of the mind are important for me. But then so is spirituality. Or is it philosophy? I would rather spend time thinking about thoughts, ideas, or discovering the subconscious workings of my mind, than cooking or cleaning – or even baking a cake. I used to bake wonderful cakes. Coffee cream with meringue atop a really light, flaky pastry shell. It was always a success and people would applaud me when I brought it out. Cooking was a way I gave my young child love – no question about it. I remember the day I caught him making his own sandwich to take to school. I was mortified. What? He did not need my love any longer? The whole day I dragged myself around work feeling like there was a vacuous hole in my soul, that the lights had gone out, and that my life no longer had meaning. By evening I realized it was because my son could make his own sandwich, his own food. The need to give love through the culinary life fell away. I would have to find a different way to give of myself. And I began to write.

Eight years ago at Tamarika: My father sang to me.

It seems odd to me that every January 18th, I wake up with a sensation that something important is happening on this day. It always takes an hour or two, and then I remember that it was my father's birthday. It is one those subconscious things that happen, for usually I have not thought about him for a long time. Just suddenly and suprisingly his birthday comes out into my consciousness, and always is accompanied by a twinge of sadness and nostalgia.

My mother never actually asked me not to love him. Nor did she imply it. When I was a young child, I just assumed, that in order to please her, I had better not show that I loved or admired him. For, she made no attempt to hide her disdain for just about everything about him, including his Sephardic heritage. I took my love for him underground and buried it.

Until he died.

And even then, it was uncomfortable for me to admit it to myself. It would subsequently take years of therapy for me to allow myself to grieve my father's death, and understand the complexity of my relationship with him. Loving the forbidden, and keeping it hidden affected my confusion about loyalties. Not to mention complications about dealing with abhorring the part of me that came from him, which seemed to cause my mother so much pain. 

[Visiting my father in Rhodesia when I was 26]

Nowadays, I find myself wistfully observing my friends and siblings as they care for their aging fathers, and hearing them share openly about complexities of their relationships, and grief that comes with this stage of their lives. I realize how alone I was with regards to my feelings about my father.

In a way I was a little like an only child – only, without the perks and benefits! 

Early this morning, I rummaged through my old photographs trying to find a picture of my father holding me up proudly when I was an infant. It is the only photograph I have of me and him when I was a baby. The image seemed to be clearly waiting to greet me in my brain the moment I awoke. Almost in a panic, searching feverishly amongst my albums and photos, I suddenly stopped and wondered, "Why is it suddenly so urgent for me to find this picture?"

And then I remembered. Today is my father's birthday. He would have been 119.

My journey began 26 years ago. The details of how it got started are long and complicated, but not for this particular blog post. Suffice it to say that I was at a crossroads and took off in an academic direction, crossing oceans, shifting and changing my path in dramatic ways. There were companions along the way. Some were welcome and others not so much, as is always the case on a long journey. I confronted major cultural shocks and revelations with country, cities, studies, institutions, and people. At times the way felt treacherous and lonely, and at others it was exhilarating and exciting. Every turn I took, brought new adventures in my path, as well as humps, bumps and obstacles. Mostly, though, I was buoyed up and carried along by the kindness of many strangers.

Recently, it was beginning to seem that I had arrived. A fire burned in my belly as I rounded what I thought might be the last corner on the voyage I had begun more than two decades ago. I could almost touch it, even image it – when guards at the gate waved their fingers back and forth in front of my nose. "Not quite yet, lassie," they exclaimed. "We have yet to test your patience, confidence, and fortitude one more time at least. Can you wait for another six weeks or so? Will you?" 

I thought of the many times I had traveled across the country to make presentations at this or that city. When I arrived at the airport, tired and so ready to reach home, the plane was delayed, or even canceled. I would sigh despondently and throw up my hands. Nothing to do but wait. Let go, and breathe deeply. Inevitably, I would be on my way again, and arriving home the mini despairs and frustrations already forgotten. 

And so, I replied silently to the gate-keepers jealously guarding their turf. "I can wait. Of course. This little bump in my path is a bump indeed. In fact, I will sit by the wayside and have a picnic. Some warm fresh multigrain bread and delicious cheese, a bunch of juicy red grapes and a bowl of hot tea. I think I will invite one or two people to join me so that we can joy away the hours together."

As I look back, I realize how important each part of the journey was in developing who I am today. And surely, this waiting game is yet another gift for me, as necessary as all that went before. It reminds me about being in the now, breathing deeply, and letting go. Indeed, it teaches me to have faith, and gives me renewed hope. 

Let's face it, I have waited too long for this part of the way, and arrival seems irrelevant now. Let it take six weeks or more. I have time.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Patterns of behavior

I have written about my "abyss" numerous times over the years [Here; here; here; and here]. This morning I am reminded of a letter my mother wrote to me over a decade ago.

In response to my having written her a loving and admiring letter at the time, she described her own feelings as:

… there have been many times in my life that I felt I was standing alone on top of a cold mountain with icy winds roaring around … I am not a morbid person. That is just the way I felt but now your letter has made me feel a warm soft blanket wrapped around me and great security.

I am struck by the difference in metaphors between my mother and I. Hers is atop a cold mountain with icy winds roaring around. Standing high up out there in the open like that seems to me wide and expansive, even courageous. Whereas, my abyss is dark and deep below, quiet, and insidious. The similarities between us being feeling cold and alone. But our expressions of those feelings are different: open, on top, versus hidden below. 

In a way I am always looking for the differences between my mother and I, because there are so many ways I have not wanted to be like her. And yet, as I read what I wrote to her so many years ago, I recognize there is much I am pleased to have inherited from her:

Dear Mom … I thought about how much you have always helped others and how you enjoy life through all your suffering. I see, in myself, pieces of you … my strength, determination. The fact that I help anyone – doesn't matter who they are, where they come from – doesn't matter how much it costs or how risky it will be. That comes from you. My ability to not just accept what someone tells me – but check it out (research it!) – that comes from you … I learned from you that injustice and intolerance is not right. I learned about brutal honesty from you! I learned from you that one could always make things better. Even in my darkest hours, I always find a way out. I learned that from you. Money is no object! I learned that from you. Love of – no not love – passion for music – I learned from you. Passion for drama, I learned from you … You tirelessly search for happiness and find it in beautiful moments, beautiful gardens, … books, movies, with interesting people, and with children. You taught us all to love children – to respect children – and to fight for them. Each of us fights for our children - in our family – in deep, respectful ways. Sometimes the love and fight for our children seems weird – but we all know that our children are the most precious. You taught us all that.

Even though I dramatically fear heights, I think I would prefer to stand atop a mountain, than bury myself below the earth. Perhaps when I finally heave my leg over the rim, and pull myself completely out of the abyss, I will stand on top of a mountain, hopefully without icy winds roaring all around.

And so, I enter my eighth year of blogging. As I look back at so many of my old posts starting with my first blog, Tamarika, and then heading into Mining Nuggets, I do sense a change, a shift within me – an opening up. My mother gave me a typewriter for my sixteenth birthday. What a gift that was, even though recently I wasn't sure whether it was her dream to become an author, or whether she recognized that in me. Whatever it was, I carry it with me now, as yet one more way she and I are similar. One more way to cherish.

Eight years ago at Tamarika: Having fun