Sorry I’ve been away from the blog. I was traveling, but I’m back.
Many people are asking me what this blog is about anyway. Here’s how I understand the power of stories. Each of us navigates our lives with stories that we know. They provide us with rules, meanings, and choices for action. Sometimes the stories that we know however, just don’t fit our life experiences especially when things happen that we never expected. So where can we turn when we feel confused, lost, overwhelmed. I’ve found it enormously helpful to listen to the stories of others and then take what they tell me and weave the parts that fit for me into my life story, often remembering parts of my own story that I have forgotten or overlooked as important. The key to resilience is holding in your mind a coherent narrative of life with all its ups and downs.
I hope that as you read the stories on this blog you will think of stories to tell others and post them here.
Reflection on the Seekers -My Story
Finding independence in spite of myself
If someone had asked me as a young person if I were a seeker, I would have said “yes” without question. I longed to live away from my family and to explore unfamiliar people and places. When my father drew a line on a map at the border of Michigan and said that it was the furthest distance he would allow me to travel to college, I applied to the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. There I met Ron, to whom I was drawn because of our differences. I was the one who convinced Ron that we should go to Lagos, Nigeria for three years, against the wishes of our families.
But my seeking of the new and unknown was based on a false assumption that I would be safe no matter where I went or what I did. During Ron’s illness I craved the familiar. After he died, I was often fearful and unwilling to go very far from home. Only after facing the reality of life and death have I reconsidered what it means for me to be a seeker. The Seeker’s stories encouraged me to track how I redefined my seeker self during those terrible years.
While my husband Ron was ill, I struggled for many months with depression, dragging myself from responsibility to responsibility. I spent many sleepless nights after giving up sleeping with Ron in his narrow hospital bed. I wandered from room to room, carrying a comforter with me, trying to decide where I should lie down. I mentioned to a friend that I imagined how peaceful it might be if, for one or two nights a week, I could sleep somewhere other than at home.
A week later, this friend arrived at my door and said that we should go out and look for a place for me to rent. I protested, but admitted that I had seen an old apartment building in town that advertised a small studio for rent. She insisted we go over to the building and take a look. With her urging I found myself in the possession of a room of my own for the first time in years.
I furnished the room sparsely with a mattress on the floor, a lamp, and good books. I went there one or two nights a week and found that I slept well for the first time since Ron came home on the ventilator. I wasn’t always listening for the sound of the ventilator’s alarm.
After a few months, I became curious about what else I might do at my studio. In the neighborhood, I found an art center that offered a class in clay sculpting using live models. Although I had never made anything in clay except for a misshapen bowl as a child at camp, I signed up. I can’t explain what happened, but I became entranced with the clay and the possibilities of bringing figures and faces to life. My passion for what I was doing made me able to create figures that were technically crude but had surprising vitality. As a child, I had been told by many teachers that I had no artistic talent. I believe that attempting sculpting saved my sanity and gave me a way to live with daily pain and suffering.
After Ron died, I searched for my independence reluctantly. Joan’s story (See Joan's story below) about her husband Allen reminded me of one afternoon, when, not knowing what else to do, I had driven to Limantour Beach on the northern California coast. It was a beach I had visited many times with my family, before and during Ron’s illness. The evening was foggy, but the sky was still streaked with the fading sun. I hesitated when I saw that the parking lot had few cars, but I pushed myself forward.
I took the path above the beach, the path along which we had pushed Ron's wheelchair when we had been compelled to keep it all going, no matter what. As I walked along the path, I remembered placing large plastic sheets, one in front of the other, so that Ron’s wheelchair could roll along the sandy path and not get stuck. It was easier now just to walk up the path, but I felt terribly alone.
When I arrived at the tree where we would stop with the wheelchair, I climbed down from the bluff and struck out onto the beach in the fading sunlight. I got caught up in the beauty of the rolling dunes and the shadows they cast on the sand. I watched the birds flying and feeding in the waves. I kept checking the receding sun, counting on it to light my way. To my surprise I found myself humming as I walked along. Only when I turned back did I realize that the light was no longer visible. I could barely see two feet in front of me, and then I was afraid.
I saw shadows moving, and I imagined I was being followed. How stupid I was to be out alone in a deserted place. I felt panic rising in my throat. If Ron were there, I would have turned to him, leaned on him, and he would have led me back to safety, but he wasn't there. How could he leave me? We had agreed to go through life together, and he had left me, little bit by little bit. I knew he made the right decision to turn off the ventilator, but I still couldn’t believe that his illness took him from me.
I kept going, placing one foot in front of the other. I felt terrified all the way to the parking lot, but when I realized I was going to make it back to the car I had some sense that maybe, just maybe, I could make it in life, although I had no idea how. I was once again becoming a Seeker.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Monday, February 19, 2007
Reader's Comment
Sylvia Paull said...
i was just thinking of how to write a response to your blog about dealing with grief, but i've never really experienced deep grief personally. I've always worried about something happening to my son (and still do), but that's anticipatory grief. Grief just seems like a process to me....i've seen people grieve and they go through stages. I like Cindy Sheehan's actions and see that as a positive way to deal with grief and support her son's life while preserving the lives of other young men. When people close to us die, part of us dies too, but then I feel that that person becomes part of us and we grow richer as a result of having known them. That's the way I've absorbed my sadness over my father's death...whenever I hear music he liked (he was a classical musician), I share my joy of the music with his spirit, which is part of what informs me.
i was just thinking of how to write a response to your blog about dealing with grief, but i've never really experienced deep grief personally. I've always worried about something happening to my son (and still do), but that's anticipatory grief. Grief just seems like a process to me....i've seen people grieve and they go through stages. I like Cindy Sheehan's actions and see that as a positive way to deal with grief and support her son's life while preserving the lives of other young men. When people close to us die, part of us dies too, but then I feel that that person becomes part of us and we grow richer as a result of having known them. That's the way I've absorbed my sadness over my father's death...whenever I hear music he liked (he was a classical musician), I share my joy of the music with his spirit, which is part of what informs me.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Seekers Grieve and Embrace Life
Joan # 5
One story ends and another begins
Much to Joan’s surprise she fell in love and married again. Her second marriage was fulfilling in many ways. Joan says:
“My second husband Allen and I shared a love of the wilderness and of travel. We sat down early in our marriage and made a list of all the places that we hoped to go together, and we did go to many of those places before he died. It was however a surprise to find that traveling as a couple didn’t always go smoothly. We started out by trying to do everything together, and we discovered that our interests and attention spans were different. In museums, for example, Allen wanted to see every painting, giving each one his complete attention. I tended to move through the galleries more quickly, choosing fewer paintings to focus on. We learned that we didn’t always have to do the same things. Sometimes we traveled separately to a place—this was enormously freeing. I began traveling solo, often meeting Allen later in a trip.
With Mike, her first husband, Joan had created a family, but within narrow confines that hadn’t allowed her to be herself. With Allen, the doors of the world opened for her, and Joan healed from her losses and learned what she was capable of doing. Since Allen’s death, she has been able to live her life with clear intention and self-confidence.
I asked Joan to tell me about Allen’s last year. He died only six months after my husband, Ron, died. She didn’t answer me right away, but looked out to the hills beyond her house. When she continued, I had to lean closer to her in order to hear what she was saying:
“Allen and I lived well together for 20 years. The last year of Allen’s life wasn’t easy, but we did it together. He had stomach cancer. He managed his treatment, and ultimately decided when he would die. He didn’t want to give up life, and tolerated enormous pain, until he decided it was too much, and he wanted to die on his own terms. We spoke together about every aspect of this experience for both of us.
“When Allen finally made the decision to die, he was too weak to push the morphine applicator, and I wouldn’t do it. A colleague, under Allen’s instructions, gave the order to Allen’s nurse to give him enough morphine to ease his pain and allow him to die. When the time came, she was reluctant to go through with it and called the doctor one more time. He told her that those were his orders. Everyone in the family had hoped that Allen would live until his seventy-fifth birthday, only a few months away; but he was in terrible pain, and he was ready. The nurse gave him the morphine as he lay in my arms. He went to sleep.
“My daughter Lyn was there with me as she had been when her father died. We stayed with him through the night. It took a number of hours, but I held him, and then he was gone. He didn’t want me to take care of him, to again go through what I had experienced with Mike. I wanted to care for him, but not if he didn’t want to be here. It isn’t as if he gave up easily. He went quite far, and it was just time. This was his philosophy, and I share this with him. We spoke about it many times. He wanted to enjoy life and live as long as he could live with some purpose, but no longer. He was so enthusiastic about life, and his death made sense.
I told Joan’s story to my second husband, Patrick. It gave me hope that perhaps in our relationship we could accomplish what my first husband Ron and I had failed to do—to stay in conversation with one another through the harshest times. Ron and I had married young and had been fortunate until his illness. The conversations that we hadn’t had before he became ill were impossible to have after his diagnosis. Joan’s story showed me that partners can hold onto one another even in terrible circumstances.
“After Allen died,” Joan said, “I knew that I would manage day-to-day and take care of what needed to be done, but I didn’t know if I could manage my emotions. I was afraid that I would miss Allen so much that I wouldn’t know how to go on with my life without him. The challenge was living alone, not finding another relationship, but to live alone and do it well. I knew that I needed to learn to feel fully alive by myself. The loneliness of my childhood often lurked in the background, but finally it fell away.
“I didn’t feel joy, but I forced myself to do things anyway, so as not to miss this part of my life. The year after Allen died, I went to Bhutan. I knew I was too sad to do it well, but I went anyway. Later that year a young friend, almost a third daughter, invited me to kayak in the Chilean fiords. I went and took my grief with me. For a week, we hiked in Patagonia and after kayaking rode horses into the Chilean wilderness. I kept pushing on, although I didn’t feel like it. I came home and stretched my finances as far as they would go to redo my kitchen and the bathroom. This was a huge project. I also worked in the garden, and walked as much as I could on familiar paths. My heart was heavy for eight years, but much to my surprise, it changed, slowly.
“Now I see that I can be here and enjoy myself without Allen. I have a sense of my own future. I look forward to my life alone. I appreciate my good fortune. I will always miss Allen, especially his touch, his companionship, and the spontaneity of what we might do. I will always miss him. Yet, I know that my life is good right now.”
Joan’s oldest brother, Paul, died recently. In a telephone conversation she told me that her dreams were filled with a sense of loss from Paul’s death and the deaths of Allen and her son Mark, and at the same time, she told me that she was thinking about going to a global peace conference in Bali and then traveling on her own to Borneo. Although she was sad right now, she was choosing life once again.
The notion of being sad and moving on impressed me. I had believed that I had to get over being sad before I could move on. The expectation that life would either be all good or all bad got in my way of experiencing conflicting realities. Joan's capacity to hold all her life's experiences and possibilities gave me a wider sense of what might be possible for me.
What about you? Do you have stories to tell of either getting caught in grief and struggling to find your way out or moments when you could see the wider geography of life. Please send me your stories. Either click on "comment" at the bottom of this post or send me an email at: Ellen@Berkeleyfamilytherapy.com. Hope to hear from you.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Seekers- One foot in front of the other through struggle
Joan #4
Years of struggle
Joan continues:
“Although Mike and I both loved our home, we had a difficult marriage. In the beginning, he had been my hero, the older man who could teach me about life and love ,but the more I grew up, the more possessive he became. Mike and I even joked about whether women compared to men should have a 40/60 or 30/70 split in being the boss. During the first years of our marriage, although we fought about these things, I didn’t question the basic assumptions underlying our rules. We focused on what we shared -- our home and our three children.
“I thought I would go back to school while my children were young, but my son Mark had neurological impairments and visual perception problems. When I realized how serious his condition was, I switched gears, and Mark became the focus of my life. At four and a half, he was diagnosed with diabetes, and that only added to my sense of responsibility for him. From then until his fourteenth birthday, even after the birth of my two daughters, I was absorbed in keeping Mark safe, and helping him develop. His condition was difficult to handle. He was an active, curious child. A delight really, but I had to monitor everything he did and everything he ate.”
My daughters Kim and Lyn sometimes drew me out of my worry for Mark. With them I did the normal things a mother does. In those moments I delighted in them, but, my worry for Mark often took over. I had difficulty seeing the life around me. I felt responsible for Mark’s insulin, his calories, his exercise, and his every moment. I watched over him so carefully that as he reached adolescence my supervision upset him. Thinking about his need for independence, I explored boarding schools for children with diabetes and his set of learning disabilities. I found one in Texas, outside of Dallas. I hoped that he would finally get what he needed. I wanted more for him, and wanted to make sure that he would have the chance to make a living for himself, and that he would never be institutionalized.
“Mark left for school in the spring of his fourteenth year. He came home for the summer, older and more mature. He went back to school in September. He continued to do extremely well, and the plan was for him to come home at the end of the semester. This never happened because in February, when he was fifteen, he died from an overdose of insulin. By that time, he was giving himself his insulin, though still under supervision. Mark died on a Sunday after spending a weekend at the home of a classmate who lived out on a farm. He wanted desperately to be accepted by his peers. Before going to the school, the other kids never paid attention to him, but at school, he began to make friends for the first time. He was very excited about the weekend. He and his friend had done many things that weekend. He returned happy, but exhausted, to the house where he lived with five other boys. He tested his urine and found that he was spilling sugar. He gave himself insulin, but he must have given himself an overdose. He died during the night.
“I have lost many people I have loved, but Mark’s death is different for me. I carry the guilt of his death. I carry a terrible sadness. I should have done it differently. He loved his home and our family, and yet I encouraged him to go away to school. I know that it was because I wanted more for him, but I will always wonder if it was the wrong decision. I will carry this guilt to my grave. I know that I can go on, but the pain and guilt come with me.”
Joan’s guilt about Mark might have overwhelmed her, but after Mark’s death, taking her grief with her, Joan returned to school to finish her education. But once again illness struck. Within two years of Mark’s death, Joan’s husband’s kidneys failed. He elected to have a kidney transplant, but after ten days the treatment failed. Without their permission, the surgeon in the emergency room placed him on a dialysis machine, something Mike had said that he would never have wanted or allowed. Once he was on the machine, Joan became his full-time caregiver and tried to keep him going as his condition worsened. Joan said:
“I was clinging to Mike’s life. It was my duty to see that he stayed alive yet, over time it was harder and harder to run him on the dialysis machine, and he had more and more near-death emergencies. During one of these episodes, I called the hospital, and the nurse on duty told me to bring him into the clinic in the morning. At that point, he also needed his shunt replaced if he was going to go back on the dialysis machine. That night, I sat with my daughters around our kitchen table, telling them that I was thinking of letting their Dad go. They were nineteen and twenty-one. Both of them at different times had stayed at home to help me care for their father. It was hard on them, but they both showed up to help me. Kim was home the summer before Mike died and in addition to helping with Mike, she had held down two jobs. The night we spoke of letting Mike die she had come home from college to be with us. Lyn was living at home at the time. They both said that they thought not putting Mike back on dialysis was the right thing to do.
"At the hospital the next day Mike wasn’t put back on the machine. I stayed with him until he died the next day. During the years that Mike was ill, we resolved many of our differences, and we were quite close and had spoken directly about his choice to live or die. But, in those last months when I tried to bring up the subject, Mike refused to talk about it, saying that his care was up to me and that I knew how much he hated being on the machine. He was so miserable that I know it was the right thing to take him off the machine, but I desperately wanted to do it with him and not on my own.”
Joan’s losses have moved her toward living fully and not fearing death. Her response to life’s fragility has been to choose a path and to follow it to the end. Sometimes, when hiking with her up a difficult hill, l suggest that we turn back before we reach the top. Joan laughs at me and keeps on going. When it is time for her life to end, she plans to move toward death in this same way.
Years of struggle
Joan continues:
“Although Mike and I both loved our home, we had a difficult marriage. In the beginning, he had been my hero, the older man who could teach me about life and love ,but the more I grew up, the more possessive he became. Mike and I even joked about whether women compared to men should have a 40/60 or 30/70 split in being the boss. During the first years of our marriage, although we fought about these things, I didn’t question the basic assumptions underlying our rules. We focused on what we shared -- our home and our three children.
“I thought I would go back to school while my children were young, but my son Mark had neurological impairments and visual perception problems. When I realized how serious his condition was, I switched gears, and Mark became the focus of my life. At four and a half, he was diagnosed with diabetes, and that only added to my sense of responsibility for him. From then until his fourteenth birthday, even after the birth of my two daughters, I was absorbed in keeping Mark safe, and helping him develop. His condition was difficult to handle. He was an active, curious child. A delight really, but I had to monitor everything he did and everything he ate.”
My daughters Kim and Lyn sometimes drew me out of my worry for Mark. With them I did the normal things a mother does. In those moments I delighted in them, but, my worry for Mark often took over. I had difficulty seeing the life around me. I felt responsible for Mark’s insulin, his calories, his exercise, and his every moment. I watched over him so carefully that as he reached adolescence my supervision upset him. Thinking about his need for independence, I explored boarding schools for children with diabetes and his set of learning disabilities. I found one in Texas, outside of Dallas. I hoped that he would finally get what he needed. I wanted more for him, and wanted to make sure that he would have the chance to make a living for himself, and that he would never be institutionalized.
“Mark left for school in the spring of his fourteenth year. He came home for the summer, older and more mature. He went back to school in September. He continued to do extremely well, and the plan was for him to come home at the end of the semester. This never happened because in February, when he was fifteen, he died from an overdose of insulin. By that time, he was giving himself his insulin, though still under supervision. Mark died on a Sunday after spending a weekend at the home of a classmate who lived out on a farm. He wanted desperately to be accepted by his peers. Before going to the school, the other kids never paid attention to him, but at school, he began to make friends for the first time. He was very excited about the weekend. He and his friend had done many things that weekend. He returned happy, but exhausted, to the house where he lived with five other boys. He tested his urine and found that he was spilling sugar. He gave himself insulin, but he must have given himself an overdose. He died during the night.
“I have lost many people I have loved, but Mark’s death is different for me. I carry the guilt of his death. I carry a terrible sadness. I should have done it differently. He loved his home and our family, and yet I encouraged him to go away to school. I know that it was because I wanted more for him, but I will always wonder if it was the wrong decision. I will carry this guilt to my grave. I know that I can go on, but the pain and guilt come with me.”
Joan’s guilt about Mark might have overwhelmed her, but after Mark’s death, taking her grief with her, Joan returned to school to finish her education. But once again illness struck. Within two years of Mark’s death, Joan’s husband’s kidneys failed. He elected to have a kidney transplant, but after ten days the treatment failed. Without their permission, the surgeon in the emergency room placed him on a dialysis machine, something Mike had said that he would never have wanted or allowed. Once he was on the machine, Joan became his full-time caregiver and tried to keep him going as his condition worsened. Joan said:
“I was clinging to Mike’s life. It was my duty to see that he stayed alive yet, over time it was harder and harder to run him on the dialysis machine, and he had more and more near-death emergencies. During one of these episodes, I called the hospital, and the nurse on duty told me to bring him into the clinic in the morning. At that point, he also needed his shunt replaced if he was going to go back on the dialysis machine. That night, I sat with my daughters around our kitchen table, telling them that I was thinking of letting their Dad go. They were nineteen and twenty-one. Both of them at different times had stayed at home to help me care for their father. It was hard on them, but they both showed up to help me. Kim was home the summer before Mike died and in addition to helping with Mike, she had held down two jobs. The night we spoke of letting Mike die she had come home from college to be with us. Lyn was living at home at the time. They both said that they thought not putting Mike back on dialysis was the right thing to do.
"At the hospital the next day Mike wasn’t put back on the machine. I stayed with him until he died the next day. During the years that Mike was ill, we resolved many of our differences, and we were quite close and had spoken directly about his choice to live or die. But, in those last months when I tried to bring up the subject, Mike refused to talk about it, saying that his care was up to me and that I knew how much he hated being on the machine. He was so miserable that I know it was the right thing to take him off the machine, but I desperately wanted to do it with him and not on my own.”
Joan’s losses have moved her toward living fully and not fearing death. Her response to life’s fragility has been to choose a path and to follow it to the end. Sometimes, when hiking with her up a difficult hill, l suggest that we turn back before we reach the top. Joan laughs at me and keeps on going. When it is time for her life to end, she plans to move toward death in this same way.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Seekers--Searching for Home
Joan #3
Finding a home of her own
Joan goes on with her story:
“As a young child, I had expressed my frustrations with tantrums. As a teenager, I expressed feelings of frustration with rebelliousness. To make matters worse, I had to keep moving around because I lived with my brother Paul, and he was in the army. During those years I had little opportunity to be out in nature. I felt out of place everywhere and put all my attention on trying to figure out how to make friends—without much luck. When I was young, my brother Paul was the one who put on band-aids when I fell and scrapped my knees. He was often kind to me in other ways, but as a teenager when I lived with Paul and his young family, I gave him the impression that I was wild. He tried to control me and that only made everything worse.
“One day Paul came into my room and sat me down on my bed. He told me quite harshly that he hoped I would behave myself, because I had no other place to go adding that there was no one else who loved me. It was sobering to hear him say aloud what I already knew was true. After he scolded me, I tried hard to straighten up. I believed him when he said that I had nowhere else to go. I wasn’t scared, but I was sad. I wanted to be loved. I felt terribly alone.
Joan was buffeted about during her first eighteen years. Her life was made up of disjointed events with no place for her to land. She was confused about who she was and where she belonged. It isn’t surprising that she was searching for someone to love, and she married young. Joan told me about meeting her husband Mike:
“I began to put my early experiences together when I was eighteen, and met Mike, my first husband. We fell in love, and told each other our life’s’ stories. Up until then I had no sense that I had a story. At the time, I was up in the Santa Cruz Mountains as a camp counselor at a girls’ camp. My mind cleared and I found parts of myself that I remembered from all the times when I had been up in the Sierras, hiking and horseback riding. I thought about everything that had happened to me. At this camp, I began to work with horses again. These interactions with horses, loving them, understanding them, working with children, and feeling my body, brought me up against myself trying to figure out who I was. My life story was bursting out of me when Mike showed up.
“I saw him at the barn and was enormously attracted to him. He was training the horses. He was handsome and so capable around them. I was determined to meet him, and came up with what I thought was a great plan. I took the camp car on an errand. I knew there was hardly any gas in it, and instead of going to get gas, I ran out of gas near the barn, where I knew I would find him. We met of course. He rescued me; a knight in shining armor, and our romance began. We were married a few months later when I was just eighteen, much to the horror of my brothers, who thought I was too young. At the time, I was ecstatic. Mike was my hero. I counted on him, learned from him. This caused problems for us later on, as he was enormously possessive, but in the beginning I finally felt deeply loved and cared for.
“After we married we took off, not knowing where we would end up. I wanted to be away from my family and to live in a different place. We were romantic and idealistic. Our only requirements were that we land some place beautiful where we would work with horses and finish school. We packed up all our possessions in an old station wagon and drove east. We ended up in Charlottesville, Virginia. We chose Charlottesville because it was beautiful horse country, and we found work on a horse farm in exchange for our rent.
“On the horse farm where we worked, we were housed in what used to be a slave cabin with high ceilings and no insulation. That winter was the coldest winter in eighty-eight years. A coal stove that went out in the middle of the night provided our heat. We needed it for heat and hot water, and because we were young we thought this too was romantic. On my nineteenth birthday, in February, Mike devised a plan to keep the stove going all night so we’d have both heat and hot water. He made a contraption that dripped oil into the coal box of the stove from a shelf above it. That night, we were quite pleased with ourselves. The next morning when we woke up the walls of the cabin were black. The oil drip had caught fire and smoked through the night.
We didn’t last long at the farm. “I didn’t fit in Charlottesville, but I was more confident by then about what I thought and what I had to say. I didn’t understand the rules of the South. It was the late forties, and segregation was still firmly in place. I was deeply disturbed by the treatment of African-Americans there. I often found myself commenting or protesting what others around me took for granted. I even managed to get a police record in Charlottesville. One day, I parked illegally outside the post office. When I came out, a police officer was writing me a ticket. I confronted him, saying that the city didn’t provide adequate parking spaces, and I had only been there for a minute or two. He handed me the ticket. I tore it up, and threw it at his feet. He took me to the local courthouse for an immediate trial. In spite, of the added fine, I was pleased with myself. It was probably a good thing that we stayed there for only a short while.
“We left Charlottesville with all our things and our two dogs. Back on the road, we first visited San Diego where my grandmother Banna and my aunt lived. Then we headed for Phoenix. We had a plan to develop a commercial stable with another couple that Mike knew. They turned out not to be the best business partners, so Mike pursued his engineering career and I taught riding and worked in stables as we worked our way back west. Finally, we landed back in Northern California.
“Together with a group of people, we were able to buy 120 acres in the foothills of Portola Valley. We personally bought five of those acres and built the house that I live in now. It was during those years that we had three children; Mark, Lyn, and Kim. In 1957, we all moved into our new house, this house that I still live in today. We chose the property because it is surrounded by hills and open oak-studded grasslands, good for riding and schooling horses. It was tremendously important to me to move here. We imagined that we would live here for the rest of our lives.”
Joan had finally found a home, and that provided her with the foundation on which she created a life of her own choosing. Fate wasn’t to make life easy for Joan, but as she learned to speak her mind and to make choices, her home held her in ways that her family had not. Her sense of home gave her the support that she needed to get through the hard times still ahead.
Finding a home of her own
Joan goes on with her story:
“As a young child, I had expressed my frustrations with tantrums. As a teenager, I expressed feelings of frustration with rebelliousness. To make matters worse, I had to keep moving around because I lived with my brother Paul, and he was in the army. During those years I had little opportunity to be out in nature. I felt out of place everywhere and put all my attention on trying to figure out how to make friends—without much luck. When I was young, my brother Paul was the one who put on band-aids when I fell and scrapped my knees. He was often kind to me in other ways, but as a teenager when I lived with Paul and his young family, I gave him the impression that I was wild. He tried to control me and that only made everything worse.
“One day Paul came into my room and sat me down on my bed. He told me quite harshly that he hoped I would behave myself, because I had no other place to go adding that there was no one else who loved me. It was sobering to hear him say aloud what I already knew was true. After he scolded me, I tried hard to straighten up. I believed him when he said that I had nowhere else to go. I wasn’t scared, but I was sad. I wanted to be loved. I felt terribly alone.
Joan was buffeted about during her first eighteen years. Her life was made up of disjointed events with no place for her to land. She was confused about who she was and where she belonged. It isn’t surprising that she was searching for someone to love, and she married young. Joan told me about meeting her husband Mike:
“I began to put my early experiences together when I was eighteen, and met Mike, my first husband. We fell in love, and told each other our life’s’ stories. Up until then I had no sense that I had a story. At the time, I was up in the Santa Cruz Mountains as a camp counselor at a girls’ camp. My mind cleared and I found parts of myself that I remembered from all the times when I had been up in the Sierras, hiking and horseback riding. I thought about everything that had happened to me. At this camp, I began to work with horses again. These interactions with horses, loving them, understanding them, working with children, and feeling my body, brought me up against myself trying to figure out who I was. My life story was bursting out of me when Mike showed up.
“I saw him at the barn and was enormously attracted to him. He was training the horses. He was handsome and so capable around them. I was determined to meet him, and came up with what I thought was a great plan. I took the camp car on an errand. I knew there was hardly any gas in it, and instead of going to get gas, I ran out of gas near the barn, where I knew I would find him. We met of course. He rescued me; a knight in shining armor, and our romance began. We were married a few months later when I was just eighteen, much to the horror of my brothers, who thought I was too young. At the time, I was ecstatic. Mike was my hero. I counted on him, learned from him. This caused problems for us later on, as he was enormously possessive, but in the beginning I finally felt deeply loved and cared for.
“After we married we took off, not knowing where we would end up. I wanted to be away from my family and to live in a different place. We were romantic and idealistic. Our only requirements were that we land some place beautiful where we would work with horses and finish school. We packed up all our possessions in an old station wagon and drove east. We ended up in Charlottesville, Virginia. We chose Charlottesville because it was beautiful horse country, and we found work on a horse farm in exchange for our rent.
“On the horse farm where we worked, we were housed in what used to be a slave cabin with high ceilings and no insulation. That winter was the coldest winter in eighty-eight years. A coal stove that went out in the middle of the night provided our heat. We needed it for heat and hot water, and because we were young we thought this too was romantic. On my nineteenth birthday, in February, Mike devised a plan to keep the stove going all night so we’d have both heat and hot water. He made a contraption that dripped oil into the coal box of the stove from a shelf above it. That night, we were quite pleased with ourselves. The next morning when we woke up the walls of the cabin were black. The oil drip had caught fire and smoked through the night.
We didn’t last long at the farm. “I didn’t fit in Charlottesville, but I was more confident by then about what I thought and what I had to say. I didn’t understand the rules of the South. It was the late forties, and segregation was still firmly in place. I was deeply disturbed by the treatment of African-Americans there. I often found myself commenting or protesting what others around me took for granted. I even managed to get a police record in Charlottesville. One day, I parked illegally outside the post office. When I came out, a police officer was writing me a ticket. I confronted him, saying that the city didn’t provide adequate parking spaces, and I had only been there for a minute or two. He handed me the ticket. I tore it up, and threw it at his feet. He took me to the local courthouse for an immediate trial. In spite, of the added fine, I was pleased with myself. It was probably a good thing that we stayed there for only a short while.
“We left Charlottesville with all our things and our two dogs. Back on the road, we first visited San Diego where my grandmother Banna and my aunt lived. Then we headed for Phoenix. We had a plan to develop a commercial stable with another couple that Mike knew. They turned out not to be the best business partners, so Mike pursued his engineering career and I taught riding and worked in stables as we worked our way back west. Finally, we landed back in Northern California.
“Together with a group of people, we were able to buy 120 acres in the foothills of Portola Valley. We personally bought five of those acres and built the house that I live in now. It was during those years that we had three children; Mark, Lyn, and Kim. In 1957, we all moved into our new house, this house that I still live in today. We chose the property because it is surrounded by hills and open oak-studded grasslands, good for riding and schooling horses. It was tremendously important to me to move here. We imagined that we would live here for the rest of our lives.”
Joan had finally found a home, and that provided her with the foundation on which she created a life of her own choosing. Fate wasn’t to make life easy for Joan, but as she learned to speak her mind and to make choices, her home held her in ways that her family had not. Her sense of home gave her the support that she needed to get through the hard times still ahead.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Seekers-Listening to themselves
Joan #2
Finding her voice and connecting to nature
Seekers learn to look within themselves and beyond their families to find resources that help them tolerate pain, advocate for themselves, and make decisions in moments of crisis. They often begin developing this capacity in childhood when the adults closest to them don’t listen to their stories.
I(Ellen) was fortunate as a child to have a strong voice. My family story is that I was born talking. My sister still tells the story about a ride to our grandmother’s house when at age two, I got the idea that I wanted an ice cream cone, and, no matter what I was told, I continued for over an hour asking for something that I was denied. My first memory of myself is standing up in my crib protesting that someone had dared to leave me there and not include me in whatever was going on.
This strong sense of voice was silenced the day I sat with my husband Ron in the doctor’s office in Rotterdam and heard his diagnosis of ALS. I sat there frightened by a reality beyond my understanding. Following Ron’s illness and death, I had to rediscover my voice with others’ help. When I compared myself with Joan, I saw how my childhood of good fortune and indulgence encouraged me to believe in and to speak about whatever I wished, but that my voice disappeared in difficult circumstances.
Joan, like other Seekers, had difficulties as a child finding adults who listened to her. As I interviewed her about her childhood stories she told me how hard it was for her to speak up as a child and how she discovered her voice:
“When my father lost his money, we moved to Burlingame where we had a small summer house. It was a house I had always liked, with brown shingles on a deep, narrow lot. There was a bridge across a creek that led to an orchard on the other side. I was allowed to wander by myself all over the property, and I climbed the trees, although that was forbidden. I loved it out there. I didn’t mind moving to this house. The problem wasn’t the house, but who lived in the house, and outside I thought that many things were possible.
“In the house, the only way I knew how to express my frustrations were with tantrums, which didn’t help matters, but I think these were my first attempts to speak about what was happening to me.”
The rest of Joan’s childhood was spent mostly away from home. She was sent to boarding schools because her father was ill and Rose Bell, her step-mother, wouldn’t or couldn’t take care of her. She went to seven schools before she reached adolescence. When she visited home between the ages of nine and twelve, her father was gravely ill both physically and mentally.
The best times Joan had were out of doors, where she still continues to feel most alive. As a child she went to a camp in the Sierra Mountains in the summers and went skiing in the winters. Since Joan did not have adults on whom she could depend, she developed a relationship with nature where she learned to be competent and lively. It was there that she felt connected beyond herself.
At Peninsula, her favorite boarding school, Joan expanded her sense of roaming and found the words that she had been seeking. She told me this part of her story this way:
“Life really picked up for me at Peninsula School. It was a wonderful place, surrounded by wide fields where my best friend Diane and I roamed and were partners in crime. We would skip school and spend the day exploring places where no one could find us. When we returned, the principal sternly called us into her office, reprimanded us, and then gave us a punishment of some kind, but nothing very bad. This principal was a wonderful woman, and she was fond of us and admired our spunk.
“I was there for two years during the time when my Dad died. The school staff got me through. It was such a loving place. I felt free and happy as I walked over those dirt roads and fields.”
Joan laughed deeply as she remembered herself rambling. These memories of freedom pulled her out of her memories of loss. As a youngster suffering from the losses of her parents and the ensuing chaotic family changes, Joan enjoyed the few good moments in her life. She made a life in which her personal freedom was crucial to her sense of well- being. It was at Peninsula School that she began to develop her capacity to say and do the things that she needed to do to take care of herself.
“While I was at Peninsula, I dreamed that I had a lot to say, although I was actually shy and quiet. One day, I woke up after a particularly strong dream and felt compelled to write everything I had to say with a thick black pen on the walls and ceiling of my room. Without much thought, I began to write on one wall, then another wall, until they were all filled. Then I climbed up on a ladder and wrote on the ceiling. I was certain that this was a great idea and that everyone would be impressed with what I had to say. I especially wanted to impress my older brother Bob, who was coming down to visit that day. Diane may have come in and written on a small part of the wall, but I covered it all with a black marker I was so sure everyone would be proud of me and see how clever I was. I can’t remember what I wrote, but I do remember that I wrote all over.”
Joan burst out laughing, still delighted with herself.
“When my brother Bob arrived, he wasn’t impressed. He was shocked and his only response was to say that I had to wash it all off. I couldn’t believe it. I did wash it all off, but I never felt bad about it. I thought that they just didn’t get it.”
Joan continued to laugh throughout her telling of this tale, appreciating the part of her that finally wouldn’t be silenced.
“I had so much to say. I had always been shy. Everyone else had been much older and bigger than I was. They had seemed so smart, and I listened, but said nothing. This was the first time that I remember having a lot to say, and I said it. I had been saving it up for a long time.”
This theme carries throughout Joan’s life as she has repeatedly lost and found her voice. Over the years, difficult circumstances and confusion about who she was and what she wanted silenced her. Then she would find herself again, as she did on the day she wrote on the walls. Today, she listens intently to what others say. Her manner is receptive and open. Yet when roused, she speaks fiercely of things that matter to her.
Finding her voice and connecting to nature
Seekers learn to look within themselves and beyond their families to find resources that help them tolerate pain, advocate for themselves, and make decisions in moments of crisis. They often begin developing this capacity in childhood when the adults closest to them don’t listen to their stories.
I(Ellen) was fortunate as a child to have a strong voice. My family story is that I was born talking. My sister still tells the story about a ride to our grandmother’s house when at age two, I got the idea that I wanted an ice cream cone, and, no matter what I was told, I continued for over an hour asking for something that I was denied. My first memory of myself is standing up in my crib protesting that someone had dared to leave me there and not include me in whatever was going on.
This strong sense of voice was silenced the day I sat with my husband Ron in the doctor’s office in Rotterdam and heard his diagnosis of ALS. I sat there frightened by a reality beyond my understanding. Following Ron’s illness and death, I had to rediscover my voice with others’ help. When I compared myself with Joan, I saw how my childhood of good fortune and indulgence encouraged me to believe in and to speak about whatever I wished, but that my voice disappeared in difficult circumstances.
Joan, like other Seekers, had difficulties as a child finding adults who listened to her. As I interviewed her about her childhood stories she told me how hard it was for her to speak up as a child and how she discovered her voice:
“When my father lost his money, we moved to Burlingame where we had a small summer house. It was a house I had always liked, with brown shingles on a deep, narrow lot. There was a bridge across a creek that led to an orchard on the other side. I was allowed to wander by myself all over the property, and I climbed the trees, although that was forbidden. I loved it out there. I didn’t mind moving to this house. The problem wasn’t the house, but who lived in the house, and outside I thought that many things were possible.
“In the house, the only way I knew how to express my frustrations were with tantrums, which didn’t help matters, but I think these were my first attempts to speak about what was happening to me.”
The rest of Joan’s childhood was spent mostly away from home. She was sent to boarding schools because her father was ill and Rose Bell, her step-mother, wouldn’t or couldn’t take care of her. She went to seven schools before she reached adolescence. When she visited home between the ages of nine and twelve, her father was gravely ill both physically and mentally.
The best times Joan had were out of doors, where she still continues to feel most alive. As a child she went to a camp in the Sierra Mountains in the summers and went skiing in the winters. Since Joan did not have adults on whom she could depend, she developed a relationship with nature where she learned to be competent and lively. It was there that she felt connected beyond herself.
At Peninsula, her favorite boarding school, Joan expanded her sense of roaming and found the words that she had been seeking. She told me this part of her story this way:
“Life really picked up for me at Peninsula School. It was a wonderful place, surrounded by wide fields where my best friend Diane and I roamed and were partners in crime. We would skip school and spend the day exploring places where no one could find us. When we returned, the principal sternly called us into her office, reprimanded us, and then gave us a punishment of some kind, but nothing very bad. This principal was a wonderful woman, and she was fond of us and admired our spunk.
“I was there for two years during the time when my Dad died. The school staff got me through. It was such a loving place. I felt free and happy as I walked over those dirt roads and fields.”
Joan laughed deeply as she remembered herself rambling. These memories of freedom pulled her out of her memories of loss. As a youngster suffering from the losses of her parents and the ensuing chaotic family changes, Joan enjoyed the few good moments in her life. She made a life in which her personal freedom was crucial to her sense of well- being. It was at Peninsula School that she began to develop her capacity to say and do the things that she needed to do to take care of herself.
“While I was at Peninsula, I dreamed that I had a lot to say, although I was actually shy and quiet. One day, I woke up after a particularly strong dream and felt compelled to write everything I had to say with a thick black pen on the walls and ceiling of my room. Without much thought, I began to write on one wall, then another wall, until they were all filled. Then I climbed up on a ladder and wrote on the ceiling. I was certain that this was a great idea and that everyone would be impressed with what I had to say. I especially wanted to impress my older brother Bob, who was coming down to visit that day. Diane may have come in and written on a small part of the wall, but I covered it all with a black marker I was so sure everyone would be proud of me and see how clever I was. I can’t remember what I wrote, but I do remember that I wrote all over.”
Joan burst out laughing, still delighted with herself.
“When my brother Bob arrived, he wasn’t impressed. He was shocked and his only response was to say that I had to wash it all off. I couldn’t believe it. I did wash it all off, but I never felt bad about it. I thought that they just didn’t get it.”
Joan continued to laugh throughout her telling of this tale, appreciating the part of her that finally wouldn’t be silenced.
“I had so much to say. I had always been shy. Everyone else had been much older and bigger than I was. They had seemed so smart, and I listened, but said nothing. This was the first time that I remember having a lot to say, and I said it. I had been saving it up for a long time.”
This theme carries throughout Joan’s life as she has repeatedly lost and found her voice. Over the years, difficult circumstances and confusion about who she was and what she wanted silenced her. Then she would find herself again, as she did on the day she wrote on the walls. Today, she listens intently to what others say. Her manner is receptive and open. Yet when roused, she speaks fiercely of things that matter to her.
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