Crackling thunder....

(If you want to see what's going on with the "Accentuating the Positive" carnival, please read the previous post. )

~*

This morning, I received some interview questions from Emily at Wheels on the Bus. I know a lot of you might be getting weary of the interview questions, but please do read. Emily asked me some challenging questions. Given her consistent honesty about her background, I've decided to follow her lead.

This is the first of five questions.

1) I know you are far from family. Please tell us about one family member you do not often write about. Share a story or your feelings about your relationship with this person.

Wow. Well, it is a bit more than "far" from family. For all intents and purposes, I do not have a family.

Before I talk about the relationship I've chosen, I need to put this into context. Otherwise, it will leave people thinking "big deal" without realizing what a big deal it was for me.

My family of origin was possibly the chilliest, coldest collection of people you can imagine. As I've mentioned before, I was raised in a particularly affluent neighborhood and the entire focus was always on materialism and competition. There were no cozy nights around the fire. There were no "warm fuzzies" to be remembered. There were no pet names or hugs and snuggles. There were no bedtime stories. There were no birthday parties or sleepovers. No stuffed animals or hot chocolate on a cold night. There was no time for emotions or warmth. I jokingly talk about having grown up in an emotional refrigerator.

It wasn't really a joke.

My brother and I were accessories, kind of like the electronic gadgets in the entertainment center or the silk plants in the cabana in the back yard. We were part of a picture that was created for the outside world.

There was very little physical contact, positive or negative. We were not hugged or snuggled. My brother and I were to be seen and not heard which was an axiom rather commonly repeated to children when I was one. I don't think I am exaggerating to say that my brother and I were entirely emotionally abandoned and neglected.

This kind of thing leaves scars, no matter how much we might like to deny or diminish the impact. I still live with many of those scars. As adults, we try to minimize it so that we won't be perceived as just one more dysfunctional Beverly Hills dilettante who believes her life was horrible, horrible.. even in the face of all the opulence. No one would hear anyway, let alone believe any of us. Christina Crawford might be believed because that was physical abuse. People like me, no. We would just be perceived as spoiled brats, whining about not getting what we want. So I hid my background like a dirty little secret, even if I had to make up stories to conceal it. The stories kept me warm and made me believe that maybe I could even be "normal" one day.

It is as one writer put it, "My gripe is not with lovers of the truth but with truth herself. What succor, what consolation is there in truth, compared to a story? What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney? When the lightning strikes shadows on the bedroom wall and the rain taps at the window with its long fingernails? No. When fear and cold make a statue of you in your bed, don't expect hard-boned and fleshless truth to come running to your aid. What you need are the plump comforts of a story. The soothing, rocking safety of a lie." (The Thirteenth Tale - Diane Setterfield)

And make up stories I did! I never told anyone where I grew up. The question was answered with a terse "Los Angeles" and I never discussed childhood memories. There were none worth relaying. I pretended to understand things I didn't understand. I played at sentiment like a child plays with a little animal. I pretended to understand. The "Oh I understand and isn't that nice" smile worked.. as long as you didn't look into my empty eyes.

It was exhausting, to say the least. Living a lie is exhausting.

It is only within the past several years that I have begun to tell the truth. That came with what I refer to as my "shattering" in Tucson. My personality literally shattered into a million tiny pieces and I had to rebuild. I spent hundreds of hours and hundreds of dollars on soul retrievals, shamanic journeys, New Age classes and meditation, trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. I even tried a mainstream therapist. I ultimately had to accept that telling the truth was the only way out. The authenticity doesn't bring comfort but it brings me something more important. It puts the scarred, damaged person I am into proper context. At the end of the day, it is more satisfying to be known for who I truly am; flaws, damage and all. I don't have to pretend anymore.

"I love you" is not something that was ever said in my family. Ever. I never heard it as a child or as an adult from any member of my family, aside from the person I am going to talk about.

My aunt M. lived in Tucson but I didn't really give it much thought. I'd definitely stop by to see her but my expectations, to say the least, were low. I figured she'd feed me and send me on my way.

Aunt M. was probably the other family misfit if one had to classify her. She was small, tomboyish, loved yard sales and horses, had three big dogs in a house that was less than 600 square feet. She loved books and dogs and cooking. Oh, that woman could cook! She smoked like a haystack and was an alcoholic. Looking back now, I suspect she was a closeted lesbian. In her day, "coming out" wasn't an option.

My visit with her turned into a year-long relationship during which I took her for eye surgery, made sure she got where she needed to go as her eyesight began to decline even further. (I had no idea at that time that I would ultimately deal with the same eye disease.) I rented a small house near her so that I could walk over to see her often. We visited at least once a day. Sometimes just a check-in. We exchanged books. We baked bread together. We went to thrift stores. We played with the dogs.

But that first night.. the night I arrived.. is what stands out in my mind. She did feed me. She fed me pork chops, a baked potato, green beans, fresh garlic bread and milk.

It was delicious! We talked. And talked. About many topics.

She insisted that I stay with her rather than going to a motel. Although her place was small, she wouldn't accept any answer but "yes".

At the end of the day and a long, full visit, she said, "I hope you're comfortable. Don't let the dogs bother you. Please don't smoke in bed." She pinched my cheek and said, "I love you" before going off to bed.

I slept that night on her couch, cuddling with one of the dogs.

It was very significant for me. Aunt M. died in 1996 of cancer. She was diagnosed and died a few months after.

I think of 1996 as the year my mother died.

I was 44 years old and it was the first real "mothering" I'd ever experienced. Needless to say, I am very grateful for having an Aunt M. in my life, however brief it might have been. I think of those who didn't have even that.

~*

The Family Bed....

This is something I've been wanting to post about for a while but hadn't quite gotten the nerve to do it. After all, I'm not a parent so I have no particular bonafides in this arena but, still, as a community member, I have an opinion.

When Hillary Clinton wrote her book "It Takes A Village", the phrase became a cliche of sorts ~ a lot of lip service to the concept but no practical applications. As I recall, the book didn't come up with anything either.

When I was in Northern Thailand, especially in the villages, one of the things that became immediately apparent is that the children were all well cared for and very secure. They were lovely, well-mannered children who seemed legitimately happy.

The Lanna people, as an example, live in houses with one large room. Everyone lives there together, eats together, sleeps together and neighbors come in and out rather freely. It is not unusual for children to call three or four different women "mae" (mother) and it's quite sincere. They grow up in an environment where they receive the love of the community and are also taught the responsibilities of family and village community life. They have the trust of the elders and have more freedom than perhaps any children in the world. There is always someone around to give them guidance and advice. These factors form, over the growing period, a clear perception of the people and life around them and a solidarity with their fellow villagers that makes them virtually inseparable. There is often a sharing of work, of food, of families and of homes.

I know that is not possible here but there is an idea that has always attracted me. It was under discussion quite a bit several years ago. It is the idea of the Family Bed.

There are many reasons why I believe it is a good idea.

~* It seems to me that babies and children would feel much safer, more secure, at night if they are sleeping in the same room or same bed as their parents, brothers and sisters,

~* Bedtime is less of a struggle because the children are not crying and carrying on because they don't want to be put in a dark room by themselves,

~* It is a bonding thing... It would seem especially important for parents who aren't able to spend as much time with their children as they'd like due to work,

~* Sharing sleep is said to cause children to become more self-confident and independent, despite some arguments to the contrary,

~* Mothers and fathers sleep more easily because they don't have to be worried about their child in another room, and finally,

~* There is some evidence that SIDS deaths are fewer.

More important than any of these cited reasons above though, I think it makes a child feel loved, not forced to behave in a way that he or she may not be mature enough to handle (being alone all night) and helps the child to feel more bonded to the family and a sense of community.

Ideally, of course, the child would be surrounded by grandparents, aunts, uncles and extended family as well to create a community for them but that's not always possible. The Family Bed seems to be one compensation for that.

I'd be interested to hear what others think. :)


Peace,


~Chani