Archive for the ‘Relationships’ Category

Writing through emotional pain is today’s focus. Physical pain (Remember the slap in the face mentioned in the last post?) can be rife with emotional pain. Incidentally, one woman sent me a message, after post #3, saying that she called the slaps she received from her mother “love taps.” That’s an interesting way of looking at that topic, and I reasoned from her further remarks that she worked out her emotional pain by writing through it.

And then there is emotional pain that has nothing whatsoever to do with physical pain. It’s a not a slap or a bruise to the body, it’s a wound to the mind and spirit.  One that if often kept secret. The anguish of this kind of emotional pain is debilitating, in fact, it is often more damaging to your spirit than is physical pain.

 One way to begin to heal from emotional pain is to “write through” it. Writing is one of the most cathartic actions you can take to regain your zeal for life and free yourself as you move toward health. You can find hundreds of books and articles on the healing power of writing memoir. Google searches work, too.

The weight of emotional pain makes the journey through life more difficult than it has to be for many people. It takes strength and courage to look deeply at those events and the individuals who caused you pain – pain that lingers today. But it is within your power to work it through.

Writing memoir, even if no one else ever reads it, can be your way to release the painful thoughts and images that keep you captive. Then, if and when you deem it appropriate, sharing your work with people you trust (friends, family members, and professionals) will bring further relief on the path to wholeness. When you trust others with your “secret,” you are no longer alone with the pain; it’s out in the open. Trust is the operative word here – communicate only with trustworthy individuals.

Emotional pain is filled with complex feelings ranging from loathing and disgust for the perpetrator to personal feelings of shame and humiliation. These distressing feelings are mitigated when you feel other people’s empathy and understanding towards you, or when they relate similar experiences, and perhaps even how they came to grips with it. I know from my work with people writing memoir, writing is a powerful avenue to take.

 Begin by writing a short piece, a bio-vignette, and go from there to get it all out. It is in your hands – write now.

Ann Seymour’s I’ve Always Loved You is a book everyone interested in writing historical memoir should read. It is a remarkable example in emphasizing how to sustain a narrative voice when history is a big part of the memoir.

Fascinating and heartbreaking are the first two words that come to mind after reading Ann Seymour’s beautiful tribute to her family, especially her father, as well as all those who served in WW2.

Seymour writes achingly beautiful prose as she gives us a view of WW2 through the eyes of an enchanting, gregarious child, who doesn’t understand why Daddy has gone to war and will never return. But the well woven story goes beyond the eyes and ears of a loving daughter. I’ve Always Loved You moves between the diaries and journals her parents kept and the actual documented words of the power brokers of Imperial Japan in such a way as to give anyone a more fully rounded picture of WW2, which is an accomplishment worthy of applause.

“Only an ephemeral wall separates the past from the present,” was observed by Seymour’s father when on the battlefield he awoke from a dream of being with his wife to the utter amazement that she wasn’t by his side – he was alone.

Pick up this book, read it, and better understand WW2 through a remarkable mix of memoir and facts.

I also published this review on Amazon where you can purchase Ann Seymour’s I’ve Always Loved You, if you’re not near an Indy book store like Book Passage.

Gentle Reminder: Do something great today. Pick up a pencil or belly-up to the keyboard and write your Mother Memoir like all TellTale Souls. Doing so may be the beginning of your book length project on family history.

The last time you joined me on the memoir labyrinth, we touched on time as a great leveler. Today we’ll tap into time as a powerful healer.

When was the last time you thought about the day your mother slapped your face? I remember when my very non-violent mother slapped mine, although I haven’t thought about that incident for years. It only came to mind as I was writing this article. I now assume she must have thought she had a darn good reason for that slap. It has stayed in my memory bank for more years than I’d like to count. Upon looking back, I no longer remember why her fingers flashed to burn my cheek as we were standing in our kitchen on a rainy evening way back when. It’s strange how I can remember the scene, but not what I did to provoke her to that degree. My best guess would be that I swore. And I ask myself was I more hurt or embarrassed, and why?

I imagine on that evening, I hated her for slapping me. But time has turned my feelings around, as is often the case. Granted, a slap is not a major event in the grand scheme of things, but as an example it works to illustrate how feelings of hatred can be exchanged for feelings of understanding over time. I’ve come to realize that slap hurt my mother more than it did me, and it was probably the jolt of reminder I needed to show her the respect she deserved.

Time heals because of the distance we travel over the years away from hurtful happenings. We gain perspective from experiences we collect along the way, providing opportunities to assess matters in less self-centered ways. Taking the time to reflect on why we think we were “wronged,” leads the way to forgiveness, allowing us to heal the pain and anger.  I learned another lesson, too, for on the couple of occasions, as an adult, when I felt the urge to slap someone’s face, I didn’t know what, but something held me back – I’m thinking now, that what kept me from striking out was not a what but a who.

Take the time to write about a negative incident you had with your mother. Stand in her shoes as you rethink the event. Look at her as an individual, look deeply to find her true character, and look at your role in what caused the pain and anger now that you’re older and wiser. This exercise is not meant to excuse bad behavior on either side, but to gain understanding. No matter what the outcome of writing through an unpleasant memory, remember time is on your side – it is in your power to let go and set yourself free.

THE STORY WOMAN ASKS YOU TO WRITE A SHORT, TRUE MEMOIR ABOUT YOUR MOTHER OR ANOTHER SIGNIFICANT PERSON IN YOUR LIFE.

Please click below to Tweet for mothers.

INVISIBLE MOTHER may have been all over the internet, as most everything is. But when my sister sent this to me, it was as my first-time reading, and she asked me to post the article on my blog, so I will – I am.

As you’re reading Invisible Mother, think about your mother, as well as yourself. Was she invisible – is she still? Or do you see her as individual? Write a mother-memoir that captures her character and spirit to let her know you “see” her.

“It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I’m on the phone and ask to be taken to the store.

Inside I’m thinking, ‘Can’t you see I’m on the phone?’ Obviously, not.

No one can see if I’m on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all.

I’m invisible. The invisible Mom. Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more: Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this?

Some days I’m not a pair of hands; I’m not even a human being. I’m a clock to ask, ‘What time is it?’ I’m a satellite guide to answer, ‘What number is the Disney Channel?’ I’m a car to order, ‘Right around 5:30, please.’

I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes that studied history and the mind that graduated sum a cum laude – but now they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again. She’s going; she’s going; she is gone!

One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England.

Janice had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself. I was feeling pretty pathetic, when Janice turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, ‘I brought you this.’

It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe…I wasn’t exactly sure why she’d given it to me until I read her inscription: ‘To My Dear Friend, with admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees.’

In the days ahead I would read – no, devour – the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work: No one can say who built the great cathedrals – we have no record of their names.

These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished. They made great sacrifices and expected no credit. The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.

A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam; He was puzzled and asked the man, ‘Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof? No one will ever see it.’ And the workman replied, ‘Because God sees’ I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place.

It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, ‘I see you. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does. No act of kindness you’ve done, no sequin you’ve sewn on, no cupcake you’ve baked, is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can’t see right now what it will become.’

At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it is not a disease that is erasing my life. It is the cure for the disease of my own self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong, stubborn pride.

I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on.

The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree.

When I really think about it, I don’t want my son to tell the friend he’s bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, ‘My Mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for three hours and presses all the linens for the table.’ That would mean I’d built a shrine or a monument to myself. I just want him to want to come home. And then, if there is anything more to say to his friend, to add, ‘you’re going to love it there.’

As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if we’re doing it right. And one day, it is very possible that the world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible women.” Anonymous

The Story Woman asks you to become a TellTale Soul by writing a short, true tale that captures the character and spirit of your mother or another significant person in your life.

I’d love to read your story. The best way to send it to me is via email: lynn(at)telltalesouls(dot)com. Replace (at)  with @ and (dot) with the usual .com.

Today I’m posting a guest blog by Laura McHale Holland because she has so much to share with us. Suicide is something hard for most of us to talk about. We don’t want to even go there – especially when it involves the mother of young children. I appreciate Laura’s honesty, and I am sorry for her pain, although I cannot know what she feels. Her poignant mother memoir speaks for itself. 

 I was a two year old waddling behind my sisters when we came home from a neighbor’s Halloween party and found our mother hanging from a basement beam. Several decades later, I wrote a memoir, Reversible Skirt, about my formative years. Except for the epilogue, the book is written from a child’s point of view. My objectives were to give voice to a little girl whose very identity was stolen by events following my mother’s demise and to enable readers to experience what it was like to grow up in the shadow of such a tragedy.

 Except for my sisters, I don’t know women whose mothers committed suicide, leaving a gaggle of preschoolers behind to grow up with a void where a mother’s love should have been. But I’m sure I’ve met a number of them over the course of my life. I may even be acquainted with such a woman right now.

 And therein lies the rub.

 We who share this terrible sisterhood tend to keep it hidden. The subject of suicide brings up strong feelings not just for the person who broaches the subject, but also for those listening. To merely tell the truth about my mother means I have to consider not just my own emotions, but also the discomfort it stirs up in those I tell. As a child, this was not something I could handle. Being secretive became habitual.

 Which brings me to my silent mother, Mary Agnes, whom I knew throughout my childhood as a black and white photograph on top of my grandfather’s bedroom dresser. With her suicide, she slammed an impenetrable door in my face. On this side are questions without answers reverberating endlessly, leaving slivers in my soul, festering too far beneath the surface to reach. Suicide. What a cowardly act, I think, but then I reproach myself for my lack of compassion. I know not the extent of my mother’s misery; I cannot judge; she left no note, no clues.

 Some wise people say we should be grateful for all the experiences life has brought us—good and bad. I am grateful that my mother gave me life and that she didn’t decide to take my sisters and me with her into death. But the fact of her leaving with such force and permanence, no, that’s still not cool with me.

 And I fear that when my book is published, I’ll be doing a meet and greet in a bookstore someday, or visiting a book group, and I’ll feel off key as a read a passage or two and answer questions. Why dredge all this up when life in the present is so good? I’ll wonder. I hope that when those feelings hit me I’ll remember how writing that book set the lost girl inside of me free, and it is her mission to speak to the hearts of those kind enough to listen to the story of one long-ago abandoned child.

 Maybe her story will help some future parent discard the thought of suicide should it come to mind during a particularly trying time. And who knows? Maybe on the other side of that door, my mother will be listening too, for, you see, I know the door will never open, but I will forever be longing to connect.

 Thank you, Lynn, for asking me to join the conversation at The Story Woman blog. 

Laura McHale Holland is a writer, editor and occasional storyteller living and working amid the beauty of Sonoma County, Calif. Her memoir, Reversible Skirt, is under contract with RockWay Press. For more information, please visit http://lauramchaleholland.com.

The Story Woman encourages all daughters and sons to write a “Mother Memoir” to become TellTale Souls.

I was lured into Blair Kilpatrick’s memoir, Accordion Dreams: A Journey into Cajun and Creole Music, the moment I saw the charming cover depicting a happy little girl holding her accordion, although I was surprisingly unprepared for the extent of the adventure she’d lead me on in this extraordinary musical memoir.

Before I even opened the book, a small voice in the recesses of my mind encouraged me to find my BeauSoleil album, Bayou Cadillac, which I hadn’t listened to for ages. Find it I did, and as the first beats of Bon Temps Rouler resounded,  I settled back in a comfortable chair and darn near didn’t get up until I’d read this entire, enchanting book.

To my delight, within the first dozen pages, Kilpatrick talked about how she had excitedly ripped the plastic from her newly purchased BeauSoleil cassette, which shows off the battered red Cadillac convertible, upended in a swamp. Now the hook in me worked itself deeper and deeper. Her compelling, obsessive journey into Cajun-Creole music progressed with her quest to learn to play the accordion, and pay it well, after she fell in love with all things relating to Louisiana’s famous folksingers and musicians, whose French lyrics tell stories through song and melodies merge souls through accordion, fiddle, guitar, and triangle.

In, what I consider a love story, Kilpatrick shares the secrets she learned from the fathers of this genre from learning to play “by ear” to knowing you must practice a tune 100,000 times, if you want to succeed.  From her illuminating prose, I now understood more of the nuances of this music I love. I learned to hear the fiddles talk in their call-and-response style and to feel the easy contracting and expanding bellows of the accordions, as those who played their pearly keys lead the tunes.  Moreover, the commanding personalities of the giants of Cajun-Creole music came to life as Kilpatrick peeled back the layers of developing friendships with her friendly, though passionate, conversational style of writing.

Kilpatrick had me “vibrating in some kind of universal rhythm lock” by the end of the book; and by then, too, I wanted to play in her band, Sauce Piquante, even though I know how to play not a one of those beckoning instruments.  She has a way of expressing in writing exactly what I think I’d feel if I had been so fortunate as to have taken this journey into the heart of Cajun-Creole music.

She even includes a ‘mother memoir’ within her Accordion Dreams memoir, when in chapter fifteen she gives us a look at the women in her Eastern European family, as her “mother laughed and cried as the memories came back.” For me, that’s the beauty of writing ‘mother memoir’ because you can’t help but be taken back to your beginnings, just as Kilpatrick couldn’t help but be taken back to the roots of Cajun music. “And you find yourself back at the beginning, at the place where you began.”

I fell in love completely with the “laughter and tears, love and loss.  Holding on and letting go. The mysterious dance of memory linking past and present – and carrying us forward, into the days ahead.”  The resonance of Accordion Dreams: A Journey into Cajun and Creole Music will stay with me for a lifetime.

Link to Blair Kilpatrick

The Story Woman asks men and women to write  bio-vigettes capturing the character and spirit of their mothers to join the ranks of TellTale Souls.

Teresa LeYung Ryan’s, Love Made of Heart, is a stirring look at the intricacies of familial relationships, including mental illness and abuse, that for Ruby Lin, the narrator, have taken the bright, clear color from her world as she struggles to grow up as an American girl drowning in a sea of distinctly Asian values.

Although the intricacies of the mother-daughter bond are the overall theme of this heartfelt story, there is a convoluted push and pull in Ruby’s psyche as she clashes with her father, her Chinese husband, and in-laws, while leaning heavily on the powerful goodness and understanding she discovers in her sister and an adopted Jewish grandmother who has become her beacon in this violent coming of age saga.

LeYung Ryan has Ruby slowly awaken through self-reflection to a universal truth as she works over time with her psychologist. Dr. Thatcher encourages her to unravel the conflicts and mysteries within by speaking with a clarity that resonated with Ruby (as it does for all of us), “Your mother wears a pair of funny glasses which have been tinted by her personal experiences. They’re her special glasses to view and cope with the world.”

So, you see, this story goes beyond the confines of culture and speaks to both the dark and the light sides of love at work in the very heart of all human relationships.

Teresa LeYung Ryan’s link.

The Story Woman encourages all sons and daughters to write a short, true tale (a bio-vignette) about a woman who had a significant impact on their lives for possible submission in the TellTale Souls collection.

I close my eyes; I’m back there banging fat felt eraser blocks together making chock dust clouds slide down the slanted rays of sunshine coming through the open window on this golden afternoon the first week of 3rd grade. I try not to breathe that fuzzy stuff in, but it doesn’t really matter because I am elated with my elevated position.  I feel special.

Close my eyes again to travel back even further; I smell the suffocating odor of steaming hot wool as the nurses at Good Samaritan Hospital wrapped my paralyzed limbs in these cooked blankets rather than let me start 2nd grade with my friends. Hot packs they were called; the doctors said if I was a good girl and let them wrap me up as though I were a sausage several times a day I might someday wiggle my toes again. Well, did I have a choice? I was a good girl, but try as I might, not one of the ten moved. But that didn’t really matter because I wasn’t in an iron lung like some of the kids – I could breathe on my own. (Jonas Salk’s miracle was yet to come.)

Everyone knows by the time they’re in 3rd grade that it’s teacher’s pet who has the honor of cleaning the erasers, wiping down the blackboard, and replacing stubs with fresh, long white pieces of chock that felt amazingly smooth as your fingers slid lightly over their cool hardness as you placed them neatly in the chock tray. Mrs. Conroy smiled at me as she arranged the pages of each student’s best cursive writing on the bulletin boards flanking both sides of the clean blackboard. We had everything in place for tomorrow. It would be a great day. And I was, indeed, a good girl who had learned the hard way to wiggle her toes a few months ago with the encouragement of the physical therapy heroes.

It’s tomorrow. It’s recess. I’m standing at the bottom of the high slide on my trusty crutches because my friend is climbing the scary stairs to the top so she can make the exhilarating glide down and land triumphantly at my feet. We will both giggle at the fun of it all. Just before my friend’s turn to slide down, the boy who was climbing the stairs ahead of her stopped at the top and hollered for everyone on the playground to watch him. As we all watched expectantly, he dug deep, with both hands, into the pockets of his blue jeans. Next thing I knew rocks were careening pell-mell down that high slide at me. I was the target. I was an easy mark, since I hadn’t yet mastered the art of nimble crutching. Above the cries of my friend waiting to come down to me, he yelled out, “That’s what she gets. She’s fat and crippled and retarded and has rocks in her head.” There was a lot of laughter.

I eventually learned to walk well – no braces, no crutches, post-polio syndrome in check. Hurray! I’m special. “Sticks and stones can break my bones, but names can never hurt me.” I only think about that grade school high slide incident every ten years or so when something or someone reminds me how mean a few bullies can be. Mostly, I have nothing but positive memories of precious school days – mine and those of my three children.

August meant back to school shopping with my kids and was something I loved – or think I loved. “Do you really have to have a new backpack, what’s wrong with last year’s pink one?”  “Mom, I need eye shadow, all my friends are wearing it.” “A car. Are you nuts?”  New clothes that don’t look new, fresh books that I hope they’ll crack, magic markers that smell like fun, binder covers beckoning to be graffitied, and ruled paper awaiting critical thoughts, poems, problems, images, and answers to questions.  Now it’s whiteboards and rainbow colored markers and too much home work. My ‘baby’ in tears, “That crappy girl in the popular group stuck her foot out so I’d trip and fall down in front of the entire math class. Everyone laughed.”

Rock-Paper-Scissors.

A Joyful Encounter: My Mother, My Alzheimer Clients, and Me

A Memoir by Lynn Scott                                 The Story Woman Book Review

Well, what can I say? I am overwhelmed with feelings after reading Lynn Scott’s, A Joyful Encounter, My Mother, My Alzheimer Clients, and Me. Her memoir brought up passion and emotion in me about my Alzheimer’s afflicted mother on so many levels that I know will stay with me forever. It is hard to describe or even fully recognize this gamut of feelings that came over me when reading this collection of short, true tales written in Scott’s honest, lyrical prose as she interacts with her Alzheimer clients, all the while discovering realities about her relationship with her long deceased mother.

Scott gently, but powerfully, leads readers into the hearts and minds of this frequently fearful, heartbreakingly confused, sometimes hilarious, often enchanting, but mostly misunderstood group of elders who have love to give, and, let’s not forget, an innate need to receive love – even if you think they aren’t aware that you are there.

This book should be read by every man, woman, and teenager, whether or not one has interactions with folks diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.  There is so much humanity and understanding of the human spirit woven into Scott’s stories that the confines of disease are transcended. Her wisdom, lessons, and insights into the power of healing when love is expressed span all kinds of interpersonal relationships.

I wish I’d had this Joyful Encounter as my coach and companion during the poignant final three years I spent with my mother as her caregiver prior to her death eleven years ago. Scott’s book made me laugh, cry, and wish I could have my mother back for just a day, even one more hour.

And then my mother became my muse and was the impetus for my TellTale Souls collection of memoirs, true tales capturing mothers’ character and spirit. I’ve designed the front cover of my book with this picture of Mom.

 The Story Woman asks daughters and sons to write bio-vigenettes capturing their mothers’ character for TellTale Souls.

During a chance encounter with myself at the one-and-only Spirit Rock Meditation Center, I received a Wow! message from “my inner being” that will enhance my memoir work as I take folks down the path to memories heretofore unspoken and unrealized. Another proof of the power that awaits us when we give ourselves space to listen to the quiet within and to the voices of loved ones in the present and those who walked before us not so long ago. For my work right now, that lingering power is realized in the voices of our mothers and our looking at them as individuals, all the while searching for universal connections through the energy of the female spirit and soul.

A new friend, memoirist, poet, and down-right good woman, Lynn Scott, invited me to her meditation group at Spirit Rock a couple days ago. Not something I generally do, but probably should do more often, especially when she welcomed me afterward to her home for her freshly made strawberry-rhubarb pie. Double yummy.

Spirit Rock is a Buddhist retreat and meditation center right here in Marin County – that place just north of San Francisco that can’t seem to shake the cloak of peacock feathers, hot tubs, and hedonism. (To see today’s face of Marin click Jim Wood’s link below.) I’m not advocating any spiritual practice over another – I like them all. So does that make me a Spiritual-American? Enough of the hyphenated Americanisms, already. I’m just a garden variety American and proud to be one of the fortunate people on earth to live in a country that was founded on freedom of religion, freedom of speech, freedom…  please expand the list and count your blessings.

What is on your list? And remember to add those precious liberties that you may take for granted. The Story Woman would love to post what you hold dear as Freedom. Calling for comments. 

Hot links:

Lynn Scott, A Joyful Encounter…

Spirit Rock Buddhist Meditation Center

Marin County, Up Close & Personal, by Jim Wood

Calling all daughters and sons to write a bio-vigentte that looks at the heart and soul of your mother and become a TellTale Soul.