Synchronicity
Y’all! Pardon me and here comes a vain meltdown. Oh wait, I better offer a wise warning: If you’re not interested in my usual self-deprecating rants, please skip ahead a paragraph. Uhhh-umm, I would make that two. I tend to whine extra in usual Pisces style. No apologies. For those that stuck around, you will neh-ver believe that this new job of mine used headshots of my bad side! Seriously! How can one remain a skeptic of synchronicity when a job that brings out the bad side of me—grumpy, grumbling, frustrated, and exhausted—chooses such a haggard looking photo?!
How bad was my good side to opt for my bad side?!?!?! I understand my vanity here but once a dancer always a dancer. Shrug. The photographer, bless his heart, used glaringly bad lighting (think elementary school photoshoots in the school library setup), asks subjects to awkwardly jut chin forward and down while already leaning forward onto a shelf, and does not edit out baggy eyes or yellowed teeth. Silly me, I should have realized the need for more makeup for a post-lunch photo shoot. Why schedule for the absolute worst time of day?! Unbelievable. Grumble grumble grumble. On the walls in his shop are displays of the most stunning outdoor photography including senior portraits and weddings that photographer has produced. Sigh. We all have a bad side that isn’t as hidden as we think, I guess.
What I’m alluding to, more than my trite experience, is the times in our lives we have found meaning from happenstance. The correlation feels spot on and all the feels hit just right or illuminate something previously hidden in the psyche. That time a song came on the radio that answered the question in your head. When you turned around at the right time to not be mauled. The stranger you shared a laugh with that saved your day. All of the minuscule moments that draw meaning down into the core of us. Synchronicity.
Rhythms of the Brain and Matter Outside of It by Cambridge University Press
Welp, every week I feel as if I am changing my plan last minute and announcing a very different theme than intended. The plan = honoring back to school with LK’s Life Lessons. Instead, my brain was thwarted by surprise with the tiniest line a fellow book group member stated about the book we read this past month and that’s what it wants to spew. That moment and the aftermath. I blushed. My heart thudded audibly. I sat numbly feeling completely exposed. How had I not realized the synchronicity between the plot line and my own life?
Then, I realized. My behavior is the same as everyone else’s even though I’ve refused to admit it. Shall I define hypocrisy here? I didn’t want to see it. To feel it. To know the truth. Even though I already did. Deeply, mostly hidden. I’ve been ruminating in this particular truth for my entire adult life. Truth hurts. Of course we avoid it! My truth is one I knew I would write about and maybe even in significant portions. I didn’t expect to arrive here so soon. My hope was to ease into it after exhausting myself of regaling my wild and wondrous adventures. Yet, here I am about to bravely? foolishly? share the kudzu vines that bind and no matter how often you chop at them, they’re back the next morning to haunt and hold you.
What book was it we read? Fifty Words For Rain by Asha Lemmie. The question raised about the book, in a botched version restated by me, is “How does love, duty, obligations, and traditions of family lead the way we act and the choices we make?” The phrase stated by fellow book member? “I think our culture, by which I mean in a genealogical way by family traditions and expectations over multiple generations, can act as a sort of jail.” The grandmother in the story’s expectations are complete loyalty to family at all cost.
Here’s where I have to break the ending to you, and although in normal circumstances wouldn’t be so callous, it’s not really a recommended read. Despite the setting in post-WWII Japan and the main character experiencing severe abuse and not fully allowed to be a part of the family by her grandmother, in the end when faced with the decision to carry on the family empire or walk away into the blissful life she could never have imagined for herself, she opts for the former. This decision infuriated the vast majority of the group. Boggled their minds, haha. It’s the obvious ending rather than the happily ever after. But why? Why spend over 400 pages fighting hard to overcome your familial burdens and hardships to cow in the final ten stating that you’ll “be the change?”
"You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star."
~ Friedrich Nietzsche
While I was not abused to the measure the main character was in the novel, the hopefully unintentional emotional abuse and the harsh spankings for simply being a child under the “children are meant to be seen not heard” Southern 80s/90s culture, must be acknowledged. My parents did the best they could and offered me a lovely upbringing in a safe neighborhood with lots of opportunities despite being very young adults. After all, I owe my career to them and ballet classes are not cheap. While their expectations developed by their own upbringing and their surroundings—the Bible belt South—were laid on me thickly and were meant to be positive forces in my life, their indoctrinations also do not allow space for the dissident daughter I am.
When my maternal grandmother agitatedly stated to me that she “just wish I had chosen family,” I responded with, “Yeah, I wish family had chosen me too.” I get it. I moved 2,000 miles across the nation. Mainly, to escape the overly critical mother I tried hard to get to like me. To at the very least acknowledge me. Knowing truthfully that she never would. She’s never wanted to even listen or pay attention to me so why did I even try? It remains my one and only regret. I wish more than anything I walked away at 18, got counseling, and never spoke to her again. I would have been more confident, more successful in my career, and would not have struggled so much in my adult life.
Let me be clear here, my mother isn’t a “bad” person. She is a product of her generation and the cultural ideals of the South and she’s a woman. The unfortunate part is that’s all non-excusable and we all have struggles similar to these. Meaning, to my knowledge, she has not ever taken responsibility for her cold, unmotherly ways towards me. Obviously, I don’t know her thoughts, attitudes, etc. but I do know that if I were a mother, I would be very interested in even the smallest details of my daughter and I would never stop reaching out. I would be as ridiculous a human as possible to ensure that daughter knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I loved her no matter what lifestyle or decisions she made.
And that is the kind of love I sought out my entire adult life. In wrong ways. In wise ways. In every decade. Fortunately, I have discovered and am surrounded by incredible women in my life and that missing piece is fulfilled. I have moved on from blaming my mother and I have deleted her negative voice from my head and I actively chose not to continue the genetic line. I wish her healing. Now, I’m willing to not hide the hurt, turmoil, and guilt I felt while working hard towards healing from such a painful relationship.
Remember that promise I said I made to the Universe? The mirror is in front of us now. And instead of shrugging when people ask why I don’t speak about my parents, I have a story to share. Because maybe, just maybe it will help ease someone else’s pain, guilt, shame. After all, we never discuss the perspective of the child who decides to walk away. Or ask why. We simply blame them.
Throughout my teens and twenties, everyone tried to convince me that my mother loves me. I no longer allow this line of thought and audibly recognize or honor the feelings and thoughts of the child I was. My Truth simply does not align with the line of reasoning well intentioned friends offer me. Or I would have felt it. Known it. Especially, as a Pisces who feels every undertone a person emits.
As I studied to improve my relationships in life and worked hard to strengthen my emotional intelligence, I discovered many others who grow up in strict religious environments experience the same struggles as I did/do. When I read Educated by Tara Westover, I wrote entire sections down that ripped my heart and mind open in raw understanding.
More unraveled. I began to understand the piece my Father played too. How I felt like an obligation. How a child is simply a Christian duty to check off the list. How deeply I needed reciprocity in my relationships and how a chasm existed in this notion between my family and me. It wasn’t me living elsewhere. I was expected to be the one to communicate, to reach out, to do all of the traveling to go back home to visit. I remained the Black Sheep while my oldest brother continued the high life as the Golden Child because he carried on the family tradition of marrying young and having a multitude of kids.
I simultaneously wanted to be close to family yet, needed space to understand why we weren’t. There still isn’t a resolution and maybe there won’t ever be. Now, I have the tools to work through interactions and clarity to move forward.
"You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better." - Anne Lamott
I feel it necessary to somehow help you decompress, haha. I suppose I don’t really have a way to end in an uplifting manner. However, there is always hope and the lesson here is that you get the opportunity to control your thoughts, which become actions, which can improve your life. Taking responsibility for ourselves and our own education can save us. As it did for me. I am extremely grateful for my parents and the good they instilled in me. No matter how sad or serious I was as a child, I think I’ve turned into an incredible human. I love fiercely. And isn’t that all that matters?
The conversation won’t die with this one post. There’s far too many things to share. How would I possibly squeeze a lifetime into one short post? Gahh! The pressure. Can you imagine? Anyhoo, I’m at least going to leave you with some resources that helped me. I hope they offer you solace too. Please know, I’m here for you. Much love, Sprite
RESOURCES:
Adult Children of Emotionally Immature Parents;
How to Heal from Distant, Rejecting, or Self-Involved Parents
by Lindsay C. GibsonThe Artist’s Way
by Julia CameronBuy Yourself the F*cking Lilies
by Tara SchusterEvery book that Brené Brown publishes!
Untamed
by Glennon DoyleThe Dance of the Dissident Daughter: A Woman’s Journey from Christian Tradition to the Sacred Feminine
by Sue Monk KiddThe Body Keeps the Score:
Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma
by Bessel ven der KolkFierce Conversations:
Achieving Success at Work and in Life One Conversation at a Time
by Susan ScottIf Women Rise Rooted:
The Power of the Celtic Woman
by Sharon BlackieOn Our Best Behavior:
The Seven Deadly Sins and the Price Women Pay to Be Good
by Elise Loehnen