tamarjacobson

… my son …

Gilad Barkan

Quote of the day:

I’d like to change her idea of an adult. Jess Rodriguez (regarding changing a relationship between child and teacher).

Last night in class a student passionately shared how she was determined to find a way to reach a troubled child, and change her pattern of challenging behavior. She described all the problems in the child’s life and said, "I’d like to change her idea of an adult." I think I almost gasped out loud at the precious wisdom of that statement. I asked her if I could use it as my quote of the day and she agreed.

As I was driving home I remembered how, all my life, my own ideas of adults had been changed through the kindness of strangers. And, now, as I become older I realize the importance of surrounding myself with people who simply never shun or exclude, who make small stands for me every day, by accepting me as I am and validating my feelings. More than that, they create an emotional environment where I feel safe enough to share even the toughest emotions.

Bob, my therapist, was the first one to understand my fear of abandonment and exclusion if I shared what I really feel. He even stated it one session. "Nothing you could do or say would make me leave you," he said. I stared at him long and hard. "I know you don’t believe me," he continued, "but let me say it again so that you hear me: nothing you could do or say would make me leave you." If I recall correctly I probably whipped back with something biting and hurtful like, "Well, that’s because I pay you!" just to test him out there and then. But he just sat quietly and experienced my pain of disbelief together with me.

I remember many years ago reading You Are my Brother: Father Wasson’s Story of Hope for Children, about a Priest who created an orphanage in Mexico, and that one of the basic conditions was:

"… the sense of absolute security … namely that [any child] will not be dismissed for any reason whatsoever. The principal is really the principal of unconditional … love …"

He certainly must have changed their ideas of adults!

Last night, the student’s words rang deep in my brain and heart. I thought of the child she had chosen as her emotional challenge, and was grateful. Those early emotional memories leave scars forever and rise up as we play out the scripts over and over again until we learn, sometimes through excruciating pain, to change the patterns, break the mold and create new paradigms.

I know this to be true because recently I have been struggling with ancient hurts as, once again, I was forced to face down feelings of exclusion even though, this time, it is clearly my choice. The miraculous thing about it is that as I own it as my choice, continue to emotionally detox, I become, at the same time, filled with forgiveness.

For, I realize, those old adults simply know not what they do. They are so deeply wounded themselves.

Quote of the day:

First of all, everybody has a memory when you were eleven years old and you were walking down a particular street on a certain day, and the trees – there was a certain wind blowing through the trees and the way that the sound of your feet made on the stones as you came up the drive and the way the light hit a particular house. Everyone has memories they carry with them for no particular reason and these things live within you – you had some moment of pure experience that revealed to you what it meant to be alive, what it means to be alive, what the stakes are, the wind on a given day, how important it is, or what you can do with your life. That’s the writer’s job, to present that experience to an audience who then experience their own inner vitality, their own center, their own questions about their own life and their moral life, and there’s a connection made. That’s what keeps you writing, that’s what keeps you wanting to write that next song, because you can do that, and because if I do it for you, I do it for me.

Bruce Springsteen. [Thanks, Ilene]

I am trying out an experiment. Trying to view Itzhak Perlman playing Klezmer … well, did it work?

So it seems. So it seems.

Ronni Bennett, who, usually, really does not go in for memes, tagged me for a quickie!

This one is called, My, me, meme, and I wonder if I can do it fast?

My: What would I give my right arm for?

My son. For his happiness, fulfillment and peace of mind. And, for the rest, validation and forgiveness. I mean, what I wouldn’t give to rid myself of guilt about everything I’ve ever done!

Me: What’s one word that describes how you want people to see you?

Well, compassionate would have to be that word.

Meme: If you could be any blogger which blogger would you be and why?

This is tough, and no doubt about it, I compare myself to all sorts of people all the time. But there are so many to choose from: Those who write well; those who are interesting, informative and gripping, knowledgeable, humorous and sensitive, poetic, creative; those who have tens of hundreds of readers and page hits a day, a week, a month, a year!

To be anyone but me.

I have longed for that all my life whether it was as a child, a daughter, a woman, a teacher, a mother, a tennis player, a lover, a singer, a gardener, a professor, a wife, a reader, a scholar, a cook, a friend, a sister, an author, a child care center director, and, now – a blogger.

So, on any given day I might choose any other blogger out there who I would rather be.

Which brings me right back to the beginning of this meme.

Perhaps I should have said that I would give my right arm just to want to be me.

[Oh dear, and before I forget I need to tag someone. Or do I? Please, dear readers, whoever you are, feel "tagged." But do let me know if you choose to participate so that I can come by to visit]

Well, finally it happened. I was tagged. You know. The five things you may not know about me, meme.

Jean at This Too made the suggestion and I laughed out loud. "What on earth have I left out about me that you do not already know?" I thought to myself. But when my friend Jean calls, I answer. And so, here goes:

Number One:

When I was a child I sucked my thumb, and I mean, really sucked my thumb. For years and years. I would drag around an old jersey (I think it was yellow) and hold it to my nose as I sucked. When it fell to rags I adopted another. I think when I was ten (I cannot remember the exact age or date) my mother told me that it was enough. She said I was big and it just was time to let it go. And so. I stopped. But, secretly, for years and years and years after that, just before I fell asleep, I would suck my thumb anyway – without the jersey.

Number Two:

One of my favorite teaching tools was a puppet named "Kfir Ha’Barvaz." When I emigrated to America I had to change his Hebrew name to David-the-Duck. He would lie asleep in a basket somewhere in the classroom, and when the need arose I would take him out and wake him up. The children would be invited to call him. "David," They would sing again and again, louder and louder until he would stir, yawn widely and then exclaim joyfully to see them all again. He taught the children about friendship, love, excitement at parties, or current events. In turn, the children could tell him anything they wanted: joys or concerns, or dramatic, fantastical tales. And before they would leave him to go wash their hands for snack-time, breakfast or lunch, they would be allowed to hug or kiss him – ever so gently. When my son was ten years old he bought me that puppet because he knew how I loved to play with dolls. I still have David-the-Duck. Only, now he sits on a shelf in my office at work and visits teachers instead of children. Not nearly as much fun!

Number Three:

When I was sixteen I came first in our town talent contest for singing The Dove, a cappella. The prize was some money, but the best part was having to appear on our local television station. Out of the shadows and into the light. I guess I have always loved performing.

Number Four:

   I learned about performing very early in life. For from when I was eighteen months old, I learned ballet dancing with Elaine Archibald. Every day until I was ten or so I would attend ballet classes and appeared in concerts. I dreamed of becoming famous and dancing one day in Covent Garden. My mother would tell me about how I would become famous and she would sit in the special audience box and watch me dance. When I was ten, ballet dancing was taken away. Along with my "sucking jersey." Something about my being anaemic or not having time to play. As I write this I have just realized why I was so emphatic with one of my students recently. She had described in class that until she had been involved in a car accident she had studied ballet and jazz dance. Now she was going into the teaching profession. I asked her if she was well enough to dance and she nodded her head vigorously, but said that she did not have the confidence any longer. I became quite excited and exclaimed vehemently that she must return to dancing and follow her heart. I went so far as to say that I hoped I could talk her out of teaching during the semester and get her back into dancing. Hm … I wonder … was I really talking about myself?

Number Five:

When I was nineteen I fell madly in love with a French-Canadian-Roman-Catholic Priest. He was twenty seven. We were both studying Hebrew in an Ulpan near Netanya. Louis was studying Hebrew so that he could translate sections of the bible from Aramaic into Hebrew. I was learning the language because I had emigrated to Israel. It was a stormy love, full of passion and beauty. I wrote songs and poetry because of it. Louis was on his way to Rome. On the last day of Succoth, he traveled there, and for three weeks wrote me love letters that described his inner conflict and pain: whether to marry me, or continue his calling as a Priest. At the end of the three weeks he wrote the letter telling me of his final decision, one that would break my heart, dash my hopes, leave me gasping for breath and yearning for a love like that for years and years to come. Here are some of the poems I wrote after he had left: Download poems_of_1968.doc Two of them I turned into songs.

[Click on pictures to enlarge]

Quote of the day:

I write and perform and I love my friends all over the world. I work to stop violence against women. I work to prevent and stop war. I sometimes have anxiety. I have bouts of terrible low self-esteem. I feel lonely on occasion, but mainly I feel alive, free. I feel myself. Eve Ensler

(I just can’t wait to read Insecure at Last: Losing it in our Security-Obsessed World after hearing Eve this morning on Good Morning America – have you ordered your copy yet?)

I am just too busy altogether. No time to breathe. Although I did quite a bit of that in my yoga routine today.

Yes indeed I always have time for my yoga routine. Keeping the body flexible helps my mind open and pliable I was looking out my window today and realized that since Buffalo, for me a real winter means feet of snow. This kind of piddling dusting we’re having around here is a joke. And yet the birds are eating with a frenzy at the feeder. Philadelphia city birds think this is winter? Pah! Poor deluded souls.

Yes indeed we talk about the weather when there is either nothing, or way too much to talk about.

Quote of the day:

Don’t get too teary eyed about the past or you’ll get lost in it. That’s advice from an historian, by the way. From my good friend David.

I dreamed that Ada died, and, in the dream I cried and cried, yelled and wailed.

I dreamed that I said to a Tarot card reader:

Trying to please my mother was like having a stone around my heart.

I awoke to Ada’s little paw on my face, gently reminding me it was time for her treats.

I lay silently for awhile thinking about my dreams.

I wanted to tell Tom about them. I wanted to tell him how I think the stone has been lifted from my heart, but he was working out how to use the new remote for our TV.

So, I came into my office and wrote about it in my blog.

I needed to record it, speak it or see it.

Somewhere.

With a witness.

And then I hung up a picture of Molly on my wall. Ada sat up and stared and stared.

I’ve been listening to this a lot lately on my commuting travels:

Eric Clapton
Back Home

I’ve been on the road too long
Moving in the wrong direction
I don’t know where I belong
I don’t know what I will do
If I can’t get back home

Troubles I’ve got on my rope
They don’t fit no other person
Memories keep rollin’ on
I don’t know what I will do
If I can’t get back home

I don’t fit but I don’t give a damn
I won’t quit ’cause I know who I am
And I admit and I’ve been on the left

Bit by bit, I’ll review my plan
This is it, do the best I can
Trust and understand

‘Cause I know that I am loved
‘Cause I’ll be on my way
Got no need to stay ’round here

‘Cause I been on this road too long
Going in the wrong direction
And I don’t know where I come from
All I know is I will die
If I don’t get back home

Yes indeed, it is back to work time. I have had so much fun this week. Winning Neil while contributing to a good cause. Wow! I just could not lose out on that one. I laughed long and hard most of the time and it was amazing to see how my stats soared for a few days after his generous post. What a popular guy! I realize that my introspective way of writing is so much more depressing [for one thing, I do not have a talking penis, for goodness sake], that I will never have the number of readers he has. But it is so much more than that. Neil gives me the gift of intelligent, warm, wonderful humor as he explores "personal relationships and pop culture." He deserves the popularity, believe me. I am not complaining one iota. Nor am I envious. I am just so grateful that he is out there for my personal pleasure! Am only curious if he will live up to his end of the bargain and take on my challenge of a Scrabble game some time soon.

Well, anyway, it has all been swell. But now it is time to re-harness this old mare and send her back to work where she belongs. Teaching, writing, researching, presenting, reflecting … blah, blah, blah … starting with a staff development visit at a large Preschool in Trenton today. Oh no, I guess I already started back on Tuesday. Have I forgotten?

Ho hum. I guess my stats will really be dropping now because who knows when I will have time to write here. Sigh. I shall miss you all.

A bientot, my dear readers. A bientot …

Nora Ephron dances around the D word at the conclusion of her book: I Feel Bad About my Neck: And Other Thoughts on Being a Woman.

She says:

Meanwhile, your friends die, and you’re left not just bereft, not just grieving, not just guilty, but utterly helpless. There is nothing you can do. Everybody dies.

She asks:

Do you splurge or do you hoard? Do you live every day as if it’s your last, or do you save your money on the chance you’ll live twenty more years? Is life too short, or is it going to be too long? Do you work as hard as you can, or do you slow down to smell the roses? And where do the carbohydrates fit into all this? Are we really going to have to spend our last years avoiding bread. especially now that bread in America is so unbelievably delicious? And what about chocolate?

I went to see Notes on a Scandal yesterday afternoon. I had completed some work, puffed and panted on the treadmill and as I was coming out of a gloriously hot shower I noticed it was just enough time to make the 1:30 showing of Notes. As I drove off I felt prickling of guilt stirring in my brain. I started laughing and turned up Eric Clapton as loud as can be, driving the guilt away, and rushed into the movie theater just as the film was beginning.

When it was over, I stumbled out. Overwhelmed by the extraordinary acting of everyone in it, naturally, but the tale had struck a nerve, touched me deeply at some part of me I could not put my finger on. It was disturbing. It was a kind of identification with Judi Dench’s character. She did not shock or repel me. Instead, I felt her loneliness deep inside me, especially about attraction, desire, sexuality. I wondered if that was the story of both of them actually.

Or, perhaps, of so many of us.

Loneliness about sexuality, desire, attraction.

But let’s not be morbid, as Ephron says, dancing around the D word.