tamarjacobson

John left a comment that made me look again at this old photograph of Gilad and me when, in 1975, we were visiting my father in Zimbabwe – then Rhodesia. In fact, while I was out walking by the Wissahickon on this exquisitely beautiful day – sun shining, cool breeze in the clear, fresh air and many, many people out and about walking, running, jogging, cycling, all ages, colors, sizes – indeed, while I was out walking on this gorgeous Mother's Day, I was starting to become wistful, realizing that this was one of those times Gilad will be forgetting to remember and acknowledge my mothering day. And then suddenly I thought about John's comment. And also Richard Cohen came to mind as I have been reading what he has written about his experience with Byron Katie lately. As I arrived home, before I took my shower, I rushed to open my blog and look at the photograph of Gilad and me once again.

And I realized immediately that Mother's Day is not about Gilad remembering me or acknowledgment from others. It is not even about how much love I put into my time as a mother. It is about how I loved giving birth to my son. It was a privilege and honor to have him enter into my life and accompany me on my turbulent and interesting journeys. I learned so much from him especially about unconditional love and commitment. It is I who should be remembering him on Mother's Day, and thanking him for sharing his joys and sorrows, musical talent, truthful opinions, humor and love, and, especially, for being a child of my womb who changed my life in so many ways forever.

It feels exciting to celebrate motherhood in this way today. Am grateful to John and Richard for their reflections and ruminations, opinions and stories. For, with their words, I was guided down a more joyful path.

Here we go – it's Mother's Day again!

On Friday, at home from the couch in my living room, I watched the wedding of William and Catherine. In fact, I intentionally woke up at 4:00 in the morning so that I would not miss a moment of the celebrations. Many times throughout the ceremony and processions, I found myself feeling wistful, even sad, about Princess Diana not being there to experience that beautiful day in her oldest son’s life. I thought she would have been proud to see him standing tall and handsome next to his soon-to-be princess. I also noticed that when Prince Charles appeared with his wife, Camilla, I became uneasy. Quite uncomfortable, in fact.
As the wedding progressed I thought about my 94 year old mother watching the television along with all of us – two billion or so souls around the world – in our case, me in Philadelphia, USA, and she in Israel. I had been texting back and forth with girl friends about fashions, the “dress,” or what we thought about this or that incident or situation. For example, at one point I texted a friend: “What do you think the Queen carries in her handbag?” She responded immediately, “… A sandwich!” she wrote.
After awhile I called my mother on the phone. She answered quite quickly. I imagined her sitting in her special chair by her bed watching the television. My sister had informed me via text earlier that our mother was “glued” to the TV. We exchanged greetings and talked briefly about what Queen Elizabeth was wearing. My mother was not very impressed with her yellow outfit, she told me. I mentioned that I was sad about Diana not being there. She agreed. Then I said that Camilla, Prince Charle’s wife was getting on my nerves. I even said out loud, shamelessly, that I found myself hoping she would trip on the steps of the Abbey!

My mother was quiet for a moment and then stated, “You don’t like her.”

“I guess,” I responded, thinking to myself, “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well,” my mother ruminated softly, “I suppose each person has their own way of being sad about Diana.”

Tears filled my eyes, as I instantly realized with shame that through my sorrow about Diana, I had judged Camilla harshly. More than that, though, I was in awe of my mother’s gentle, non-judgmental way she had spoken her thoughts out loud to me: no admonishment, no change in inflection as she spoke … just the statement, which immediately filled me with empathy, and understanding.

Sitting here in a corner Starbucks by the sea in Waikiki writing this post – waiting for my conference to begin, I reflect on my brief, poignant conversation with my wise old mother last week, and I feel proud to be her daughter.

Filling up the hole in my soul seems to have been a full time occupation. So it is a strangely different paradigm not to need to do that any longer. The most obvious way I did it, of course, was by eating the hole full. The slightest twinge of anger, anxiety, loneliness, low self worth, despair, or even boredom, and the food shoveling would begin.

There were other ways too. But I am not going to dwell on them here … 

For one reason and another, the low self worth schtick doesn't stick any more. I do not believe it. The reality is, I am not the greatest person who ever lived (who is?) but I am certainly not the worst. In fact, I am beginning to like certain aspects of my character and personality. And the ones I don't like? Even the most pathetic ones – like living to please others? Well, they are not as bad as I thought. Indeed, they are manageable. Sure, when I become aware of them, they are embarrassing, even slightly painful – nauseating – but they are not unmanageable any longer. 

Sometimes I am amazed at how pathetic I am. It stops me dead in my tracks and I could swear that my mouth drops open at the absurdity of my feelings. For there is no longer any connection between how I see myself, and the reality of the moment. 

I must admit that this shift in me is sort of fun, exciting, and even a little scary. It is almost like getting to know someone new. It means learning different ways of communicating with my self. Or thinking about things I would like to do, or, even, what I need. It feels as if I am stretching out my hand to touch a deflector field – a pliable energy field – an invisible wall of resistance, that ripples through space as I test the waters of a different reality of Self. 

Indeed, I am finding other ways of filling me up. There's the usual stuff of course like traveling, tending to plants, spending time with people I love to be with, Facebook, long hot baths, yoga, meditation, walks – you know the drill surely? Did I forget to mention my blog? Yes. Of late, I have been writing less, and playing Scrabble more.

Recently, a friend suggested I try acting as a hobby, and that has me thinking: "Is my life other than work, or is my work my life?"

Much to ruminate and more to discover, and I am only 61.

Wheezling and sneezling as I try to blog this morning, I realize that history has a way of repeating itself – even if it is four years later. This one hit me right out of the blue. Unexpectedly. One moment I was sleeping peacefully, and next thing I knew as I awoke a couple of days ago, a cloud of illness had filled my head and chest … head and heart? Between the sneezing and coughing, eyes streaming and painful fever body pains, I was wondering, "Why oh why has this happened to me?" And immediately I heard my therapist in my brain asking, "Do you think you have so much power?" … to bring on an illness psychologically, he means. And so I succumb to the bug that landed in me and tell myself, "You are not to blame." I surrender, let go, sink into my bed with tissues, Advil, tea and Vicks vapor rub. How can I feel lonely or invisible with those four buddies in tow?

And yet I do. What can I say? I am not good at being ill. I dislike feeling helpless and hurting, and especially asking for help. I become impatient to get well, as if the sickness prevents me from living. After all, sickness is part of living. Another way for body and mind to take a breather from life's daily routines. A way to realize that I am, in fact, dispensable. So I try to breathe into the moment, be here now, and accept where I am … until I start spluttering and coughing again!

Time for another hot drink for my parched throat. I tumble down stairs into the kitchen and switch on the electric kettle my son gave me seven years ago for my birthday. This old kettle is yet another friend to see me through this sickness. Sun has started to stream through the windows. It looks like a beautiful spring day out there even if it is still below freezing. Perhaps if I bundle up I might manage a small walk in the neighborhood this morning. I have been reading Bob Greene again, and know that oiling my muscles and joints with movement is one of the best ways to get well again. Ah, I feel a guilt spasm coming on … did I become sick because I have been overeating and not exercising enough lately? Did I make myself ill? 

Or is it because my therapist told me I have changed? I remember feeling most uncomfortable when he said that to me on Tuesday. Indeed, I wanted to pick up my bag and rush out half an hour before the session was over. I mean, I felt he was right. I could sense it in my behaviors and interactions these past six months – at work – at home – out and in. So, perhaps I got ill to show him and me I have regressed – have not really changed after all? And then I hear my therapist in my brain asking, "Do you think you have so much power?" … to bring on an illness psychologically, he means. And so I succumb to the bug that landed in me and tell myself, "You are not to blame."

I remember when I began blogging. As I l reflect about that time, six years ago, I hardly recognize the person I am now. For back then I felt as if I was in a cave – alone and isolated – from family, friends, therapist, work-life, and worth-while-ness. I explored emotions and my inner life with a quiet desperation.

Indeed, my blog at that time was called: Tamarika, In and Out of Confidence: A Journey to the Center of My Self.

I remember it as dark – and the silence was deafening.

And now?

Life is full – as full as can possibly be.

Why, it seems as if my house plants bloom and re-flower constantly – even on the coldest wintry days!

I cannot work out when, how, or what shifted in me.

I wonder …

Did I blog the blues away?

Love more openly?

Or is it that, in fact, I am starting to feel more love-able? I guess I discovered this recently in therapy, and I must admit it was embarrassing – even enraging – to face that I can no longer blame others for my feeling victimized or marginalized. 

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Winging it … & A soul-full journey

I am back after spending the weekend recuperating from two very intense, very sad weeks with my aged, ailing mother in Israel.

She almost died, and then it was discovered she had pneumonia amongst other things. She had requested no more hospitalizations, but we felt terribly responsible when a third doctor yelled at us for keeping her at home when she had pneumonia (which other doctors had not diagnosed thus far).

So, thankfully, the hospitalization pulled her back from pneumonia and she is now at home.

All my siblings being there at the same time was amazing. We pulled together and helped each other with great love.

Still much to be processed for me emotionally.

At present I am so sad to not be at my mother's bedside, and trying to be home again – and back at work.

Thanks so much to all of you for thinking of me, emailing or calling.

Yesterday I went to the gym and worked out hard. Treadmill, weights and then a long, strong swim – twenty laps or was it more? After my shower I noticed a few aches and pains but those were the usual twinges I always feel after stretching and oiling those aging muscles and joints. I looked in the mirror. Rosy cheeks and bright sparkling eyes. I felt good.

I drove off energetically to meet a friend for lunch, stopping off here and there to buy a few things for the house: milk, nuts, tuna for Ada, and so forth. As I skipped up the steps of the restaurant I felt my feet were light and nimble – what can I say? I felt positively spry. Leaning over the counter, I gave my name to the hostess and was told there would be a twenty minute wait. So I stood back wondering if I had time to grab a cup of cappuccino at the Starbucks a few doors away.

Suddenly, a young man was in front of me saying, "Would you like to sit down?" I stared at him for a few seconds not quite understanding what he meant. And then I realized he was pointing to his seat next to a young woman, where he had been sitting waiting his turn for a table at the restaurant. "WHAT? HE THINKS I AM OLD AND NEED TO SIT DOWN!" My brain bellowed out loudly to me. I burst out laughing with what seemed to me like a monstrous guffaw. "Oh no thank you," I spluttered and gasped. "No, really," I continued, "Thank you but no, really … no …"

Before I knew it I had stumbled out of the restaurant confused and befuddled, wandering in the street along the pavement thinking, "I must go and get that cup of coffee now." As I ruminated, I found myself standing on the corner, where I saw my friend waiting to cross over towards me at the light. "Hi, hello!" I called out (I think I might have sounded panic-stricken), "There is a twenty minute wait!"

Since then, every time I think of my reaction to the young man's generous and compassionate offer, I burst into peals of laughter. Honestly? I thought I was right on track. Getting older and accepting it. Enjoying becoming wiser while watching my body slowly falling apart or seizing up. Even accepting the fact that there is no turning back after sixty. Just moving forward to a new age with different challenges. I was sure I was at peace with these facts – this new era in my life.

I guess – not quite yet.

Nope – not so much.

For, I simply have to admit, that what I may be feeling on the inside … does not always translate to how I seem on the outside. 

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Simply put

This just in from G.B. – thanks …

"Subject: Where were the angry people when……?

Birthers, Deathers, TEA BAGGERS, and Angry People….  You didn't get mad when the Supreme Court stopped a legal recount and appointed a President.   You didn't get mad when Cheney allowed Energy company officials to dictate energy policy.   You didn't get mad when a covert CIA operative got outed.   You didn't get mad when the Patriot Act got passed.   You didn't get mad when we illegally invaded a country that posed no threat to us.   You didn't get mad when we spent over 600 billion(and counting) on said illegal war. You didn't get mad when over 10 billion dollars just disappeared in Iraq . You didn't get mad when you saw the Abu Grahib photos. You didn't get mad when you found out we were torturing people. You didn't get mad when the national debt doubled under the previous President from $5.674 trillion to $10.024 trillion. You didn't get mad when the government was illegally wiretapping Americans and the President lied about it. You didn't get mad when we didn't catch Bin Laden in Tora Bora. You didn't get mad when you saw the horrible conditions at Walter Reed. You didn't get mad when we let a major US city drown! You didn't get mad when the deficit hit the trillion dollar mark. You finally got mad when.. when… wait for it…………… When the government decided that people in America deserved the right to see a doctor if they are sick. Yes!  Illegal wars, lies, corruption, torture, stealing your tax dollars to make the rich richer, are all ok with you, but helping other Americans… well that makes me mad! PLEASE COPY AND PASTE THEN SEND THIS TO EVERYONE  ON YOUR E-MAIL LIST TO KEEP IT GOING.  THE NEWSPAPERS NEED TO GET THIS MESSAGE TOO."

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: What a state – the union (Update)

Quote of the day:

… And remember, too, you can stay at home, safe in the familiar illusion of certainty. Do not set out without realizing that the way is not without danger. Everything good is costly, and the development of the personality is one of the most costly of all things. It will cost you your innocence, your illusions, you certainty. Sheldon B. Kopp. (Page 10)

I have been reading Kalilily Time recently, where I learned of:�If You Meet the Buddha on the Road, Kill Him! The Pilgrimage of Psychotherapy Patients.�

Checking out blog stats this morning I saw someone had come upon this post. I found it soothing to read again …

Ten minutes … go!

Unconditional love. Validation of emotions. A listener. Nurturer. A constant in an ever changing world. A tall, solid oak that is steady and firm when the rivers swell and rage through life's storms. Long, warm arms that envelope when sorrow prevails – with the ability to drive away despair and loneliness. A fixer! Protector. Willing to sacrifice her Self – Devoid of anger or disappointment. A saint with a strong shoulder to bear the burdens of motherhood. Predictable, practical, compassionate. As I write I realize that the expectations are unrealistically enormous. An impossibility to accomplish. Indeed, I know no mother like this. Who am I thinking of? Who am I matching myself up with? I have no personal experience of any of these qualities in my early childhood, or even after. Will I never grow up? When I was young, did I aspire to become a nun in order to be the perfect mother, knowing full well I could never become like her? The subject gives me an ache – a burning sensation in the pit of my stomach. My body becomes agitated. Am I a failure before I begin? No wonder I want to write: "A Handbook of Guilt for Parents." Where do these images come from, I wonder as my fingers tap away at the keyboard? I sense rage rising now. It seeps up and out from somewhere deep in my body, but intellectually I realize anger is bubbling up from the deep recesses of my brain. I hear an infant sobbing, arms stretched out – reaching for a mama … echoes of yearning, anxiety, fear, loneliness.

It has become longer than ten minutes now. I have done nothing more than describe a plastic image – a stereotype of "the good mother." When, in fact, I am well aware that mothering is a complexity of shadows and radiance, kindness and self-interest, wrapped into one whole. My old therapist, Bob, used to say that my mother is a "work of art." "Then, surely," I think, "I am too?" And in a work of art I see shades of dark and light, humor and joy, as well as despair and sorrow. That is what makes it intellectually interesting, and wondrously emotional. Art is what makes me gasp with ecstasy and amazement – sometimes, even, horror. It is what fills me with love and awe – fear and wonder – it's of the human condition – expands my imagination.

The Good Mother is evolving into a work of art.