I wish I didn’t but I do. I have issues; more than a couple.
I’m a fifty-eight-year-old woman; I understand the nature of personal responsibility and don’t play the victim. There are simply facts that have influenced who I am and how I live in the world; one of the larger issues being my relationship with my Mother.
Ruth Wylodene Sturdivant Ramey had a big name and even larger presence.
She weighed 89 pounds when she got married, a diminutive, complicated combination of waif and warrior. My Mother played both princess and martyr; she, the consummate shapeshifter whose presence, though loved, was not to be trusted. This planted within me as a child, a quiet bud of longing that took root until I too became a shapeshifter, never quite sure of my center.
It happens a lot. Despite our best efforts to defy, know better, and resist the pull of our past, many of us still end up becoming our parents. I find this ironic and also hysterical.
I spent the larger part of my life disgusted and impatient with my Mother. I thought she was weak, manipulative, and narcissistic. I was embarrassed by her inability to manage her emotions, be consistent or take responsibility for her behavior. She was everything I did not want to be, and that resistance to her left its mark. I nursed a secret aversion for the feminine, a misogynis, afraid that being female also meant you were weak, indecisive, and irrational. Predictably I cultivated the more “masculine” parts of myself.
I took charge, pursued success, and denied vulnerability. I then systematically cut my losses when things didn’t work out for me. I stuffed my emotions by overworking, overeating and overdrinking . I then took it to the other “extreme” and over exercised to try to right the ship.
And for a long time, it worked- sort of. There were jobs’ lost and relationship troubles and divorces, but through it all, I remained stubbornly hopeful and certain my life was on the right path. My sons grew into men, my businesses expanded and I met a man who loved me, challenged me and made me laugh.
I began to believe I might deserve this happy life and gave myself permission to enjoy it.
Last year was difficult, unexpected and distinctly unwelcome. I thought I had done the work necessary to be a fully present, balanced and loving adult, but I was wrong. The old shapeshifter resurfaced, adrift again, only this time it was worse, much worse because I’d believed myself to be so grounded, and faithful and true.
I didn’t see the hole, but I fell anyway, grasping for handholds that weren’t there. From the bottom, I could see the light above but had neither the faith nor the motivation to muster the climb.
Time passed. Things happened. People helped me.
The other part of my “Mother” story is the fact that before Ruth Wylodene was my Mother, I had another one, the Mother that gave birth to me. This Mother was unmarried and could not keep me, despite the fact that she was already raising my brother. This Mother planted the first seeds of fear and shame in me because even in the womb you can tell when you’re not wanted.
When I was in my early forties, living large and in charge as the manager of a local health club, I decided it was time to find that birth Mother. Adoption records were sealed in the state of Missouri, so I had to hire a private investigator – Laura was her name- to help me find her. She was an intermediary, designated to make contact so that my Mother and I could finally connect.
I sent my carefully crafted letter, with pictures of my three sons, my husband, adopted parents and siblings to my birth Mother. I assured her I was happy in my own life but also had questions; questions only she could answer. I already began bargaining with her saying that even if she could not meet me, could she please write and tell me my story.
I explained to her that when you’re adopted, it’s like having your portrait painted on glass- I needed her to give me the background to give context to my features.
The process moved slowly despite my anxious inquiries for updates. I picked up the phone at work one day and was surprised to hear Laura’s voice on the line. I wasn’t expecting her to call me, so it took me awhile to process what she was saying.
“No more contact,” she repeated. Your mother returned your letter with the words, ‘No more contact’ written on the outside.”
“No more contact? So, is this is it?”
“I’m afraid so. It’s her choice.”
I put down the phone and began to sob. Crying was something I didn’t do back then, especially at my workplace, but I did that day.
I don’t know with whom I was angrier- her for rejecting me, or with myself for believing she wouldn’t.
I gathered my things and quietly left work. I sat in my car for a long time until it was time to pick up my son Sean from school. He was eight years old.
When he got in the car, seeing my eyes and face swollen, he immediately asked, “Mom! What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong sweetheart. I’m just tired,” but it was obvious I’d been crying, and that meant something was definitely wrong. We drove a few minutes in silence; I could feel him staring at me.
“Mom! What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
“No, I’m not sick. I’m fine. I just had a bad day.”
Always the sensitive soul, Sean, now near tears himself said, “Mom, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”
I pulled the car off the road, exhaling as I explained what happened, “Something happened today Sean and it has NOTHING to do with you and I am not sick.” I told him how I’d been adopted and that for years I’d wondered who my parents were and why they would give me away. I hadn’t told him or pursued it because I didn’t want to hurt Grandma and Grandpa. Finally, I’d hired someone to help me locate her, and they had.
“Today the lady called and said they’d found my birth Mother, but she’d sent my letter back and wrote on the envelope NO MORE CONTACT” at which point I burst into tears.
In that moment, I felt stupid and sorry I’d exposed my son to my pain. He just looked at me for a few seconds, thinking. Then he said, “Well I’m sorry Mom but she must be a “B,” because who wouldn’t want to know YOU.”
His innocent compassion catapulted me back into the present.
What did it matter what she thought of me? I was his Mother and he loved me unconditionally. His honesty offered a profound spiritual lesson: focus on what is and let go of what is not.
This was the moment that mattered, sitting in the car on the side of the road with my eight-year-old, not some story about a stranger who, for whatever reason, chose not be in my life.
I wish I could say that I learned this important lesson that day, but it’s still something I remind myself to work on often. The laws in Missouri have recently changed, making all adoption records public. My friend, an attorney, is working to locate my birth records. I am not looking for the same reasons I did then, but I am still looking for my birth Mother.
Longing, loss, and heartbreak have been recurring themes in my life. But so are loving big, laughing hard, taking risks and pushing my limits.
I’ve been told I need to learn to let go of control, accept help and be vulnerable- in short, embrace my feminine side. I wouldn’t disagree, but it still makes me smile. “Working” on this isn’t the answer- it’s much harder to simply accept, trust and let go.
I am not a Motherless Child. I’ve had two of them: one gave me life and the other just made it a lot more interesting.
I’m not sure why I chose to believe their decisions were my fault; that somehow I was damaged, unloveable or wrong. I suspect it was simply because I was a kid who wanted to feel loved.
I like the poet Rumi’s words, “Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.”
That sounds true to my heart, and I’m just going with it.
It’s Spring in Kansas City, despite the cooler than average temperatures. Everyone is a bit on edge, cranky that we’ve been robbed of the Springtime weather we deserve. When will all this cold and rain stop they ask? But as I sit here writing, I can hear the robin’s song and they are not worried. They sing because the can and they do, and they don’t complain.
For whatever reason, as I was preparing to meditate this morning, I reached for a book that someone (perhaps Peggy Peterson) gave me years ago. Written by Buddhist Monk Pema Chodron, it focuses on the Lojong Teachings on awakening compassion and fearlessness. Who couldn’t use some of that, right?
Wow, sounds familiar. At night, when I wake up, which is often, I often ask my angels to speak because I am quiet and can hear them better. Last night they repeated what they have been saying for a while now, “let go, trust, you are loved, all is as it should be.”
I’ve been wearing a rose quartz heart necklace around my heart for a few weeks. When a young woman at the coffee shop counter commented that she liked it yesterday, I smiled and replied, “Thank you. I’m working on my heart.” She replied, “It’s a good time to work on our hearts.” We were both right, except maybe it’s not supposed to be work- maybe our hearts are just fine already, and we just need to stand down.
On a recent trip, I met a young woman who’d been in a horrible car accident several months before. She’d been near death, but not ready to die, had pleaded with God to return her to life.
As it turned out, her butt was just fine and we all had a magical day together in Tikal. As we sat in our circle the next day, telling our classmates about our adventure, my friend, near tears told the group about her surgery and concerns about going to Tikal.
And so, when I am triggered, I remember a long night when I was suffering, feeling lost and hopeless, desperately wanting to help someone who would not be helped. Crying, I heard a voice. The voice said calmly, “Stop. This isn’t yours. He’s fully capable. He’s able to choose. It’s not about you. Remember, ‘One Soul. One Source.’ ”
Recently a few of my Pilates 1901 team and I went climbing at the nearby ROKC climbing gym in North Kansas City.
Eventually all of us got the hang of climbing and descending, cheering each other on, enjoying ourselves as we improved with each climb. We were also humbled and thrilled by the physicality of it, correctly predicting how sore we would be the next day.
And Tricia, married to a rock climber, impressed all with her experienced cat like splits and grip skills.
I began to shake and got pissed which only made me shake more. “Okay, that’s it! Let me down Ulysses! I’m done.” He pulled the rope tighter and said, “Hang on and rest a minute.”
Okay Lord, I thought, I get it!
As I’ve gotten older I am learning more about my body and appreciating it more for the amazing home it is. It’s no longer about losing 5 lbs, or fitting into the size 2 or feeling “acceptable”; it’s about being able to cherish the moments of my life, doing the things that I want to do, with the people I love, in a healthy, strong, 59-year-old body.
It’s not often you get the chance to leave the country for an extended period, and frankly, it took me until I was forty-five to leave it at all, so the novelty of travel (all travel) is still a thrill for me. This most recent trip to Belize was unique in that I would be experiencing three separate trips in one, three trips that like all great travel experiences, reunites you with parts of your self you may have misplaced, forgotten or simply not yet discovered. This was the case with Belize.
In case you’ve missed this fact, Herb and I had one suck ass year last year. Illness, homelessness, inopportune acts of nature and major surgery all took their toll not only on our health but our relationship.
So, Belize Part One is all about a tony resort, being waited on all day, lounging by the pool and eating and drinking way too much. It was also, to Herbs credit, a workday or two as Dr. Johnson (my retreat co-host) had come down a few days early to prep for our first international T School retreat. That involved the two of us running around Ambergris Caye trying to get the last bit of our retreat details nailed down.
This was our first retreat out of the country and as you can imagine, there was some anxiety about getting it all right to provide our 12 expectant participants the experience we wanted them to have. The great news is we just happened to get the most amazing group of women ever! They got along together, were laid back, fun and participatory.
It also helped that we had an amazing home, private pool, beach, and dock to do Inversion Therapy, Yoga Puncture, Mindful Movement or just kicking back.
Evenings we reconvened around the table for delicious and healthy meals lovingly prepared by Fanny and Siria, the two most amazing cooks ever! Fresh fish, veggies, fruits, tortillas, and desserts left no one longing for more.
With only the stars for light, our steps into the void became a metaphor for overcoming our fears- it was frightening, but in a good way. It was an experience I’ll hold in my memory for my lifetime and I am glad I was with Tricia to do it.
These women taught Dr. Johnson and me as much or more than we’d been prepared to teach them.
Dr. Johnson and I stayed after our peeps left to discuss the retreat before catching a cab to the airport. We talked until it was time for her to fly back home. I would not be going with her, I was staying on for another adventure of my own.
My friend, Sabin, suggested I look up a woman who did retreats in Belize, a healer of sorts who had written a few books on the healing power of plants and the Rainforest. When I looked this person up online, I discovered that she was offering a retreat, one that was offered only once a year in the jungles of Belize, the very day after my retreat finished in Belize.
I spent my last day in Ambergris Caye, walking the beach walks, eating plantain chips and homemade guacamole, and sleeping. I didn’t realize how tired I was until I laid down on the sofa in my hotel room and quickly passed out.
The next morning I called Herb to tell him all was well and getting ready to board my plane to Belize City where I would meet my co-participants for the 2-hour ride through the jungle to our destination at Chaa Creek just outside the city of San Ignacio.
As it turns out my time in the jungle was neither “wackadoodle” or scary. It was phenomenal. From the time I arrived at Chaa Creek, walking thru the darkness to our Jungle Camp, serenaded by a cacophony of birds, monkeys, and other unseen creatures, I felt I’d come home.
The first evening we had a dinner of rice, beans, corn tortillas and some overcooked vegetables prepared by Docimo, our camp director, who as it turned out, entrusted our care to his entire family. He’d been working in that Jungle Camp for twenty-three years, so it was only natural that his family became part of the business, too.
The workshop, on meditation, grounding and the healing property of plants turned out to be not only interesting but exactly what I needed.
Beyond the noise, there is quiet, stillness and peace. It’s always there and always has been; we need only listen and trust. That requires being still, and quiet and peaceful. This is hard because nothing in our culture supports that.
My first trip to Ouray to ice climb was several years ago. We went to meet our dear friends Chuck and Doris Downey who are avid rock and ice climbers. Each year, between mid-January and mid-February, ice climbers from all over the world congregate in tiny Ouray, Colorado, home to one of the world’s greatest ice climbing parks. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking because I thought it too- who in the world gives a shit about climbing big icicles? Well, apparently a whole lot of people.
My first climb I clawed and picked my way half way up the wall, shaking, cussing and sweating even though it was 40 below. I was cold, thirsty and dying to be anywhere but in this crevice, on this wall, heart pounding, ego trampled, miserable in my task.
This January, when we talked about ice climbing, it was Herb that would not climb. Only 6 months post surgery, climbing was still out of the question. This did not make him happy but we wanted to see our friends and decided to go anyway.
First, it was Herb’s diagnosis with mold toxicity- a disease that was dormant in his body for years and triggered by a perfect storm of unfortunate misdiagnosis, bad meds and a horrible condo rental in Costa Rica. His pneumonia in January signaled an abrupt change in our world, providing a new opportunity for education and adjustment that we’d just as soon have avoided.
Three days after we’d moved back, on a sunny Wednesday morning, a swift and fierce gust of wind uprooted our neighbors 120-foot Oak tree, toppling it with all the force of a train, onto our house and through the roof of our bedroom. I kid you not. A fucking tree came straight through the roof of our bedroom.
Somehow, I’d missed the air thick with dust, the door blown off its hinges, the mangled metal air vent, and the gaping skylight created by the limb which now pierced our roof.
A tree fell on my house. It did not fall on me, my kids, or my husband. I woke up on a Wednesday morning, a tree fell on my house and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to prevent it. Random shit happens. Lack of control and vulnerability is what scared me and made me angry, not the damn tree.
Cindy Cart, one of my clients, had generously shared tickets to an exhibit at the Nelson Atkins Art Gallery where she works. Another client had just reported that this unusual exhibit was fabulous and a must see, so I was eager to go and Herb, feeling so much better, was easy to coax. So after our morning ritual of coffee together in bed, we jumped in the shower, and, all smiles and unicorns, set out for our Sunday morning adventure.
When I looked up the meaning of the word Motet, it read, “a motet is a mainly vocal musical composition, of highly varied form and style, a piece of music in several parts with words, from the late medieval era to the present.”