1012 TWINKLE TWINKLE—REVISITED 7

(Writing complicated thoughts, running through my mind, is one thing.  Reprocessing the rawness of thoughts, complicated by emotional reactiveness, proves necessary when retentive absorption of informative knowledge is our primary goal.  As yesterday's thoughts, pulsing with complicated emotion, were in need of simplification, you might want to review that post before moving forward—as did I.)

(7)

In our family, hero worship was not unusual.

From the moment my father had first laid eyes on my mother—at a public dance where they’d met in May of 1941—he was smitten.  And Dad remained smitten with ‘his Jennie’ until late into his eighties, when he’d exhaled his last breath.  On countless occasions, I’d watched my dad stand mesmerized, while staring at my mom.  Here's how that played out before my eyes, repeatedly:

Assuming a relaxed stance—with one hand resting lightly on his hip—my Dad stands, staring at my Mom, drinking in his vision of black-eyed, raven tressed, curvaceous, feminine perfection.  While standing there, utterly transfixed, Dad’s inner glow of gladness shines forth from his smile until his eyes glisten like a pair of star sapphires.  Ultimately, an incandescent radiance enhances my father’s entire being.  I kid you not.

As seconds pass, Dad’s intoxicated gaze prevails until Mom blushes and laughingly exclaims, “Jack!  Stop that already!”  Then waving her hands, back and forth, before Dad’s face, Mom breaks through love’s magic spell.

Ultimately, during that final moment of mesmerized adoration—right before his state of heightened awareness descends into the range of normalcy, again, Dad conveys the depth of his wonder by declaring in a voice filled with awe, “Just look at her.  Isn’t she something!

At that point, every person in the room, who had witnessed Dad’s naked adoration of my mom, repeatedly, passes an amused glance from one to another, until Dad, growing self-aware, realizes why his ‘audience’ is chuckling.  Then he “busts out laughing” too.

This scenario did not ensue solely when my parents were attired in formal finery.  This was Dad’s natural reaction whenever Mom appeared, wearing a Peter Pan collar, pedal pushers and flats.

Thus did I grow up watching the regenerative powers of magnetic attraction, which had intuitively drawn Dad toward Mom at the dance where they’d first met in the spring of 1941.  And, all my mother had to do to cast the siren’s spell over her husband’s heart for the next 60 years was—walk into the room ...

1011 TWINKLE TWINKLE—REVISITED 6

As yesterday's post was brief, I've copied it here instead of suggesting you go back to review insights added in the late afternoon …

At not quite three years old—and for many years thereafter—I did what most children do.  I took the best aspects of life with my parents for granted.  Today, reflection suggests that my parents shared two powerful strengths, which profoundly affected everyone in our family:

Each conveyed the ability to express love and accept love in return.

My father, whose eyes shone with a joyful passion for life, had been famous for flashing smiles as bright as sunbeams at his wife and daughters.  As for Mom, the depth of her love of family cast a quiet glow as heartwarming as Dad’s natural bent toward expressiveness.  I’d felt welcomed to nestle in the tender warmth of my mother’s embrace, and unknowingly, I'd looked to emulate her womanly traits in every way.

Each time I’d looked up at my Dad, I saw much more than a male authority figure.  I saw a handsome, blue-eyed, blond, solidly built, super hero, who, in all of life’s arenas, seemed masterfully immune to defeat.

In reality, Dad had tipped out at five-foot-six.  Even so, his super sized spirit had far surpassed his height, and his playful imagination proved so engaging it’s no wonder why I grew up laughing at his corny jokes, worshipping the ground he walked on and eagerly obeying his every word.  In addition to being my first playmate—Dad was my hero.

Cradled in the safe haven of my parents' love, I developed a strong sense of trust concerning those who had my best interests at heart vs. those who would dismiss my needs in favor of their own.  Then something changed:  Tragedy struck our family, fear shook up my brain, and my needs became entangled with the needs of those I loved.  There's a term for this fearful state of mind in which a child fails to develop a voice that can freely say:  Sorry, but that won't work for me.  This fearful state of mind is called enmeshment.

Though we often misperceive of an enmeshed relationship as being 'close', upon deeper consideration a friendship, based in mutual respect, suggests that both parties develop the ability to say 'no' with authenticity.

In the aftermath of our family's tragedy, I only felt safe when Dad held me close.  Why?  Well, that remains to be seen as this story continues to unfold …

May 6, 2014

In later years, I'll walk down the aisle, and as Will takes me as his bride, you'll see me take no issue with the verbiage:  love, honor, and obey.  Why?  Because thought patterns are the same as habits.  Hindsight offers us insight into the submissive nature of my subconscious thought pattern:  Each time I serve the needs of others and receive a smile, I'll feel safe from being abandoned, which I'd unconsciously feared since the age of three.

In the aftermath of our family's tragedy, saving myself from possible abandonment became my greatest need, as proves classically true of over achieving pleasers.  Therefore, whenever possible, I'd say yes in hopes of winning a smile.  If for some reason a yes proved impossible and upon saying no I'd received so much as a hint of a frown anxiety spiked.  As anxiety spins the mind into a swirl of confusion, I'd feel conflicted and afraid.  Damned if I'd honored my needs, damned if I didn't.  Not a healthy way to live.  

In recent years, an intuitive quest led me to wander onto the path of self discovery where insights gained along the way, concerning the negative effects of unidentified fear, have offered me countless opportunities to develop an assertive voice, silenced by terror at the age of three.  This voice, which is mine, today, expresses my needs assertively and respectfully.

On the other hand, no matter how clearly and compassionately my needs have been expressed, lots of boats continue to hit the rocks.  Why?  In the past, when I'd felt pressed to serve the needs of another, it had been my habit to dismiss my needs so good-naturedly that no one was aware of my repressed frustration—including me.  Over these past two decades, while working mindfully to acquire the self confidence to drop the role of first mate in favor of captaining my own ship, power struggles developed.

Power struggles ensue when those accustomed to having their needs satisfied bump up against unexpected resistance.  Adult power struggles can be so subtle that we don't recognize how often one person bows to the needs of another.  Though we all know why speaking skills are vital to success, the importance of developing listening skills is less widespread.

People tend to hear what they fear

Or we hear what we want more readily than

Absorbing the true meaning of

That which has been said

You know the expression:  In one ear out the other?  Well, try this one on for size:  As soon as the defensive portion of the human brain is aroused, the ear acts like a trampoline, suggesting that no part of change is absorbed into the conscious mind, at all.  No part of change other than:  Hey!  You're not taking good care of me, anymore.  This condition of deafness has a name:  Denial

If one person, works to establish a new foundation based in mutual respect while the other, who is struggling unconsciously to re-establish dominance, the pressure of escalating tension between the two may cause their original foundation to crack in half.  If at that point a new foundation is not laid, friends or partners tend to separate.

If you ask me to describe why a build up of inner tension turned my mind into a pressure cooker at the age of three, I'd reply:  For most of my life, I did not understand that my decision-making process was in need of reconsideration.  Each time I'd felt the need to assert myself, my head pulsed with fear as though inner conflict and external conflict were actually squeezing all sense of inner peace in a vice.

Thank goodness for EMDR therapy, which guides me toward consciously enhancing character traits, such as patience, courage, humility, compassion, forgiveness and mutual respect, all of which strengthen the sense of self trust that I’d lost at the age of three.  If I had to name one trait that has not been in need of strengthening during my quest toward change-for-the-better that would be positive focus.  As you may recall, my therapist believes I'm addicted to hope.

Though Carrie's belief may be true, this much I know:  In order to create lasting change for the better, both parties, engaged in a power struggle, must develop a whale of patience, a tolerance for escalating tension, well disciplined self control, and flexibility of thought.  If one mind works to enhance these strengths while the mindset of the other remains stubbornly rooted in denial, their power struggle will not resolve.

The only way to disengage from a power struggle of this magnitude is to drop my end of the rope.  This is easier said than done, because many adult power struggles tend to be so subtle that they remain unidentified for many years.  During sessions of EMDR, I came to recognize the subtle nature of power struggles in which I'd unwittingly engaged.  Once I embark upon this quest to captain my own ship and you'll watch me recognize one subtle power struggle after another, you'll watch me drop my end of rope after rope without severing ties with those I love.

Francine Shapiro, PhD. is the founder of EMDR.  You might find it of interest to read her book:  Getting Past Your Past.  If not for yourself, then perhaps in hopes of deepening your understanding of someone you love, who may be struggling with unprocessed memories associated with PTSD.  An example of an unprocessed memory will appear in a story that takes place before my fourth birthday.  This unprocessed memory will have sent me on undeserved guilt trips for most of my life.  

"Francine Shapiro's discovery of EMDR therapy is one of the most important breakthroughs in the history of psychotherapy." — Norman Doidge, MD, author of The Brain That Changes Itself

For some reason, I felt a pressing need to condense a wealth of knowledge concerning the subtle nature of adult power struggles into today's post.  Perhaps that was the case because I came close to being sucked back into a power struggle during recent weeks.  Thank goodness intuition suggested my not picking up the rope when baited.

And having satisfied that pressing need, where were we?

Oh yes—I was a child of not quite three, worshipping my Dad ...

1010 TWINKLE TWINKLE—REVISITED 5

(6)

At not quite three years old—and for many years thereafter—I did what most children do—I took the best aspects of life with my parents for granted.  Today, reflection suggests that my parents shared two powerful strengths, which profoundly affected everyone in our family:

Each conveyed the ability to express love and accept love in return.

My father, whose eyes shone with a joyful passion for life, had been famous for flashing smiles as bright as sunbeams at his wife and daughters.  As for Mom, the depth of her love of family cast a quiet glow as heartwarming as Dad’s natural bent toward expressiveness.  I’d felt welcomed to nestle in the tender warmth of my mother’s embrace, and unknowingly, I'd looked to emulate her womanly traits in every way.

Each time I’d looked up at my Dad, I saw much more than a male authority figure.  I saw a handsome, blue-eyed, blond, solidly built, super hero, who, in all of life’s arenas, seemed masterfully immune to defeat.

In reality, Dad had tipped out at five-foot-six.  Even so, his super sized spirit had far surpassed his height, and his playful imagination proved so engaging, it’s no wonder why I grew up laughing at his corny jokes, worshipping the ground he walked on, and eagerly obeying his every word.  In addition to being my first playmate—Dad was my hero.


May 5, 2014

Years later, when I walk down the aisle and Will takes me as his bride, you'll see me take no issue with the verbiage:  love, honor, and obey.  Thought patterns are habits.  My subconscious thought pattern:  By serving the needs of others and receiving a smile, I'll feel safe from being abandoned, which I'd feared since the age of three.  In the aftermath of our family's tragedy, saving myself from feeling abandoned became my greatest need, as is classically true of over-achieving pleasers.

As to why a child who is deeply loved developed abandonment issues, please stay tuned ...

1009 TWINKLE TWINKLE—REVISITED 4

(5)
         On that tragic Saturday afternoon, in the fall of 1946, my mom had asked my dad to take her grocery shopping.  Dad had been an agreeable, spontaneous kind of guy who’d always been ready to help ‘his Jennie’ in every way, so I imagine that he’d put down the newspaper and said, “Okay Sugar, let’s go.”

Once my parents slip into their coats; Dad will unlock and open our apartment’s front door.  Then, Mom will bend down to hug and kiss me goodbye.
        At that point:  I’ll spin toward my daddy, and with a sunny, expectant smile, I'll reach up while he, bending forward to grab me up by my waist, laughingly swooshes me over his head.  Flying up toward the ceiling, like a plane soaring high in the sky, I’ll squeal with delight.  Then, catching me against the strength of his chest, Daddy will drop tender kisses on each of my cheeks before gently setting me down.

Once Dad, the spitting image of a young James Cagney, joins Mom on the third floor landing just outside our apartment’s front door, he'll throw me his customary, tongue-clicking-wink, and with a cheerful “See ya later, Dolly,” he’ll close and lock the door.  As you can see, we were a merry trio, indeed.
         On the other hand, I'll bet I was not squealing with delight about sharing the spotlight with the newest member of our family, whose birth had delighted everyone else.  I mean, rare is the two year old, going on three, who shares anything, equally.  And recently, that pedestal, which had been mine, got to feeling crowded ...

1008 TWINKLE TWINKLE—REVISITED 3

(4)

         Upon arriving home from the hospital, I found that my family lived in an urban setting, several blocks north of a prestigious university. Our spacious, two bedroom apartment sat on the top floor of a massive, three-story, brown brick building, which wraps around the corner of a quiet intersection to this very day.
         At the time of my birth, ‘white flight’ will not have transformed our lovely, middle-class, culturally mixed neighborhood into the lower income ghetto that it was fated to become. (Several years ago, curiosity drove me to check out our old stamping grounds, and much to my delight, I found that social awareness and urban renewal had restored a cultural mix to the neighborhood of my youth.  I also learned that our spacious, two bedroom apartment had been divided into smaller units where university students eat, sleep, study, and party, today.)

If you asked me to describe the first two years of my life in twenty words or less, I'd say:  My smile seemed to be the sunshine around which my adoring family revolved.

Then, as change is the only constant in life, an unexpected change took place that knocked me off my pedestal.  The unexpected nature of this change led to many more changes until dark clouds of confusion and stormy tears replaced sunny smiles with grievous frowns, all around.

At the time of our family’s tragedy, my maternal grandmother lived with my parents and not quite three-year old me.  Grandma Ella, who’d been raised in a Russian shtetl (a small Jewish ghetto), was a good looking, robust woman who'd mixed music and dancing into her cooking and baking.

One look at my brown eyed, brunette grandma made it plain to see why she'd deemed herself the ‘gonsa baleboste’ (number one mistress of the house).  Each time her animated spirit flew around the kitchen, pots, pans, and rolling pins came to life.  She was a strong-willed woman, who often spoke before filtering her thoughts, and though I don’t believe my grandma meant to wound anyone she loved, a dollop of humility would have sweetened many a conversation, that's for sure.

1007 TWINKLE TWINKLE—REVISITED 2

(2 and 3)

On December 8, 1943, I slid, head first, into a brightly lit world.  And with one slice through the umbilical cord, my mother and I were free to be uniquely separate individuals.

Next thing I knew, some guy flipped me upside down and smacked my naked bottom so soundly that I grabbed hold of LIFE with a strong spirited cry.  You’d think that such an indignant beginning would have prepared me for what was to come, but no such luck.  As far as I was concerned, the world was my oyster; I was the sun, and the universe would surely revolve around my needs.  At the age of five, I'll feel shocked to learn that I'd been the product of—sexual passion.  As to why I was shocked?  Good question.  Which I plan to answer, sometime later.

Once the fires of lust energize my existence

Do I ponder upon what kind of person I'll grow up to be?

Not on your life!

At first breath, before my spirit smiles, laughs

Rolls over, sits up, crawls

Stands, toddles, walks, runs

Flies toward each next personal goal ...

I will cry, right out loud ...
As though I have something significant to say

Instinctively

My adventurous spirit and curious mind

Will stretch toward achieving

Every challenge life sets before me until

A lightening bolt

Strikes from out of the blue

Knocking my self confidence senseless

Each time my spirit has been pierced

By a bolt of lightening so powerful as to

Color my mind black and blue

I've tuned into this PLAN

Which inspires my exhausted life force
To fire up, yet again:

First I rest to reset my emotional compass to neutral

Next I call upon humility to seek out a trusted guide
Then, having benched my ego

My mind opens naturally to absorb spirit-strengthening knowledge

And here's how this common sense approach to personal growth

Will serve me well after I embrace the concept of mindfulness as my own:

Whenever I sense a NEGATIVELY CHARGED EMOTIONAL MAZE

Readying itself to suck my spirit dry

I remind the thought processing center of my brain

To seek out the shining star of insight that lights my path

And each time my think tank is guided by insight

My spirit feels empowered to
Rise above any negatively focused attitude, which might otherwise
Pack such a punch as to knock out my self confidence, again

Each time you watch me
Take conscious control over my think tank

Here's what you'll hear me sing:

Twinkle, twinkle little star

No Maze, charged with negativity, proves as mighty as

A positively focused insight, which empowers me to
Re-ignite my life force by
Illuminating a misperceived subconscious belief that's
In serious need of reconsideration
I mean, think about it:
As long as negatively focused
Subconscious beliefs slam my self esteem
I'll put myself down
And that makes no sense, at all!
Needless to say
I'll know nothing of questing toward insight that serves to
Reprocess subconscious misperceptions
On the day of my birth

As an infant, I’d not yet met the baby cousin who’d been born on the west coast, so I crowned myself first grandchild on both sides of our family.  As everyone’s dimpled darling, my life felt grand until two weeks before my third birthday when FATE knocked down our apartment’s front door; tragedy struck, and life grew grim.

When trauma interrupts the natural course of a child’s development, an inexperienced mind may wander into a deeply confounding, emotional maze.  Once lost in this maze, it can take decades to figure out how to reclaim one’s original path.  Seriously, we can't 'get over' subconscious distress until we know which terror we need to recover from—right?

Luckily, my curious mind will set out on a life long quest.  However, before I can identify the nature of this quest, I'll need to crash through my self protective wall and wander about in a foreign land, wondering if it’s possible to be true to those I love and be true to myself, simultaneously.  Thank goodness, the intuitive nature of my quest will guide me toward a path strewn with insights, and as I go forth 'connecting the dots', I'll find that being true to those I love and being true to myself are, actually, one and the same.

With time, I'll learn that the key to maintaining inner peace during times of unrest does not depend upon pleasing others or pleasing myself.  The key to maintaining peace of mind depends upon figuring out which of my perceptions is in need of reconsideration, because much of what we are taught to believe contradicts deeper truth.  Bottom line:

Personal perceptions (beliefs) change, but TRUTH remains constant.

Each time mental stress offers me reason to quest toward insight into DEEPER TRUTH, my sense of self deepens, as well.  As self awareness deepens, so does peace of mind—even during moments when conflict swirls around me.

As each insight leads to a host of insights, eventually, that which is in need of change comes to mind.  And change is a mixed bag.

Since one change leads to many more, you'll watch me come upon one fork in the road after another.  And though I may take a wrong turn, now and then, my compass will remain set upon my intuitive quest to circle back to that stage of development, where tragedy's dark clouds of fear caused me to misread so many signs that I lost sight of my true path, early on.  Needless to say, I know none of this on December 8, 1943.

In fact on the day of my birth, I 'know' nothing at all.  I certainly have no clue that tragedy can silence a young voice, thus changing the natural course of a child's life.  On the day of my birth, I'll have had no clue that life is a quest—not for happiness but for TRUTH—which leads toward inner peace, over time.  And if you ask how I know this to be true, I'd respond:  With patience, you shall read stories that illustrate why I've come to believe that questing toward DEEPER TRUTH, INNER PEACE and HAPPINESS are one and the same.

Though we are born knowing nothing, our instincts are fully functioning right from the start.  And once cradled in my parents' arms, intuition suggests my having been born under a lucky star, as is true of every child, who feels swaddled in love, all around ...

1006 TWINKLE TWINKLE—REVISITED 1

(1)
These early scenes are based on conversations with my mother.  Though we'd shared most of these experiences, the memory, in greater part, is Mom’s—the commentary is mine.  While revisiting these stories, details, not yet exposed, will be revealed.

TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR Scene 1

Society clings to conformity (to the detriment of individuality) in hopes that stability will counteract LIFE’s unpredictability.

The story of my life begins in an interracial neighborhood on the south side of a major Midwestern metropolis—where the weather proves as unpredictable as life.  It’s a blustering kind of day, during the late fall of 1943. Trees are bare, and the russet colors of Indian summer have been raked away.

Several people, ducking their heads against a fierce wind, are scurrying down the sidewalk of a busy thoroughfare, lined with small shops on both sides of the street.  The cloudy sky, which has been darkening and grumbling, releases a sudden, driving downpour, drenching everyone in sight.

A young couple is running along the sidewalk, seeking shelter from sheets of icy rain.  As Jack spies a forest green awning just a shop or two ahead, he grabs his sweetheart’s hand and speeds toward its protective covering.

         Once under the awning, the two face each other and burst out laughing. “My gosh," exclaims Jennie.  “We’re soaking wet!”

 Jack, the ever-upbeat soul, wipes streams of water off his face while chuckling, “Well, that’s what we get for leaving the umbrella in the car.”

         Now that they feel protected from wind, rain (and tragedy?), the young lovers huddle close for warmth, and with arms wrapped around each other, they become aware of the book shop behind them.  “My teeth are chattering,”  says Jennie.  "Let's go in."   Jack opens the door and follows Jennie inside.

The mahogany shelves, lining the walls of this small, neighborhood shop showcase a variety of books, and the warm, cozy atmosphere provides a protective cocoon from the elements outside.  Holding hands and glancing over titles of books set out on display, the young couple browses from table to table.

As one book captures Jack’s attention, he stops and stands quite still.  Staring at the novel’s title, his face lights up, and turning toward the lovely, brown eyes of his raven haired wife, he asks, “Hey Jennie, what about—‘Annie’?

Jennie looks up from the book she was eyeing and smiling at the animated expression on her handsome, young husband’s face, she asks.  “What did you say?  Something about—‘Annie’?”

“Yes, Annie!  If the baby’s a girl, let’s name her, Annie.”

Jennie is seven months pregnant with their first child (that would be me), and I’m to be named after Jennie’s father, the grandpa I’ll never meet, because he’ll have passed away several years before my birth.  Standing there in the bookstore, ‘Annie’ has an appealing ring to my parents’ ears, and since I’m destined to be a girl, Annie is my name.
(Whoops—this post was originally written on August 6, 2011, suggesting that I'd not yet introduced my maternal grandfather.  Guess I should have renamed him, Arnold.  Details, details!  Well anyway, for the sake of continuity, let's continue to call my mother's father, Harold, okay?  Thank you :)