Resilience

As I have shared in the other "wing" of my blog . .I've been thinking a lot lately about what keeps us stuck and what motivates us to become unstuck . . in other words, what makes us resilient? I've got my nose into research and will post some sense of what the literature has to say . . but as I've professed so many times, I'm so much more interested in how "we" perceive it rather than the number-crunched, academically-presented to-fit-inside-the-box interpretations. Although I truly value to scientific method (just so you don't get me wrong) . . I am interested in perception and description . . what we think and feel as we live it. My objective is to share our voices . .in our own words. I seem to find my way through life the best when I read and hear the experiences of other women . . this is where I find my resilience:) Without your stories or your experiences . . . I can only hear the sounds of my own words . . . and when I am struggling, it is village of your many voices that lifts me and prods me and encourages me . . just as I hope the shared stories and experiences do for each of you. With each other . . we are never alone. Resilience. So I encourage you to open that comment box and share your stories of resilience. It will be good for you (as well as me . . and I hope for many others :) As always . . I am listening . .

Woman Work

I've got the children to tend
The clothes to mend
The floor to mop
The food to shop
Then the chicken to fry
The baby to dry
I got company to feed
The garden to weed
I've got shirts to press
The tots to dress
The can to be cut
I gotta clean up this hut
Then see about the sick
And the cotton to pick.

Shine on me, sunshine
Rain on me, rain
Fall softly, dewdrops
And cool my brow again.

Storm, blow me from here
With your fiercest wind
Let me float across the sky
'Til I can rest again.

Fall gently, snowflakes
Cover me with white
Cold icy kisses and
Let me rest tonight.

Sun, rain, curving sky
Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone
Star shine, moon glow
You're all that I can call my own.


Maya Angelou

The stories they shared in an hour changed her life forever . .
What will they do to yours?

Stories of Ordinary Women
Listen, Ask Questions, Share

Maxine

Well, well, well. What fools these mortals be.
Looks like these women could use some help Doc.
They’re still standin’ upright, but they’re seriously draggin’ tail, if you know what I mean.
I just don’t quite understand how they can keep pulling all of that weighty stuff around all the time.

Me,
I took care of all that nonsense years ago.
Thought it might give me that big wrinkle across my forehead. From all that heavy duty thinking.
Too much for me, I’m telling you. Nope. I’d rather put my energy into something productive.
Like shopping.

Crazy, huh? But it works for me.
I’ve got a closet full of clothes like you wouldn’t believe. I could wear a new outfit every day, if I could still get into all of them.
Put on a little weight lately, so some of them just have to hang there takin’ up space. Until I can get that cute little personal trainer to do more than just prance around in those skimpy spandex shorts givin’ me an eyeful.
Not that I mind lookin’, I might add.
But really, I should be sweating up a storm rather than just flirtin’ with all of the other men that walk through.
Don’t think that’s gonna lift my fanny any.
But it does seem to lift my spirits.
So I keep going.

Better than that one girlfriend of mine. All she does is work.
Sticks her nose to the grindstone and never lets up.
Always tryin’ to please somebody, somewhere, someway.
That’s her style.
Lookin’ for praise wherever she can get it.
If you ask me,
she’s hiding some big secrets under those giant heaps of gotta do’s.
But then she didn’t ask me, did she?
So I let her bury herself as deep as she’s gonna go before she wakes up one day and can’t find that artificial little smile she plasters on in the morning.
Too bad for her, though. I prefer the real thing.
Got mine at the Lancome counter.
Think I’ve seen you there, too,
haven’t I?

Hey, sorry, gotta run.
Wish I could stay and help you heal all of these other women, but
Dancing with the Stars starts in about an hour and I’d hate to miss it.
Have you seen the beauties they’ve had on there lately? Bodies to die for and no wrinkles either.
Reality TV.
There’s nothing like it.

Oh, and by the way. You don’t know anybody who needs a robe do you?
I picked this one up a while back,
but there’s this stain on it that I just can’t seem to get out.
Doesn’t show much to the naked eye. Seems to have gone much deeper than that.
Makes me feel uncomfortable though.
Do you think any of these other women would notice?

copyright US Library of Congress Jilly Bean, PhD

Demands and Consequences

Today I've really been thinking about the ramifications of what passes for the truth in our society . . and how the omission of truth seems to be so acceptable . . especially in face of an affair whether it is the one who is cheating or the one who is participating in propping up the . . well, we'll call it "ego" in this instance.

Mattie's Depression

Depression.
I hate to even say the word. It’s so ugly, dark, airless.
I can talk about it now – I’m in remission. Sounds like cancer, doesn’t it?
Well, now that’s a fairly good comparison. Only you don’t die from it – at least that’s what they tell me.

You would think that I’d be used to it – the depression, I mean. But I can hardly believe that anyone could ever become accustomed to the hooded creeps who come to latch you to your bed and leave you. Helpless, hopeless, and feeling worthless.
I’ve been seduced by those ghastly goblins for years.

But I’m better now and I’m going to beat it this time. I’m going to know that it’s coming.
I’m going to stoke a little fire and send up smoke signals so that you can see when I’m going under. “Rescue me”, the puffs will plead. Such nonsense when you’re low – belly flat to the bed, pillows pulled tightly around your head.
But that’s what I was told to do by one of my counselors.

Oxymorons in my book. The counselors. Tell you what to do instead of listening.

Last week, I met this really nice woman at the library. She was browsing in the self-help section at the same time I was. Imagine that. Me in the self-help section.
This woman looked me right in the eyes and asked if she could help.
I think what she originally meant was could she help me find a specific book or something. But I wasn’t thinking clearly – so I said, “sure” and proceeded to give her an abbreviated version of what I just went on and on about a minute ago.
And believe it or not, this stranger looked straight at me and listened to everything that I said.
No interruptions, no you poor thing – just an occasional umm – as if she was really pondering what I was saying. Amazing isn’t it. She just appeared out of nowhere.
Changed my life though. Made me start thinking that somebody else out there might really care
about me, too.

So I started putting on a little lipstick and sprucing up my hair a bit. I started getting out a bit
more. Like this new Bible study group that I’ve been going to.
Met this guy there. He’s really into giving me great tips on living from these passages of Job. Says I can learn a lot from reading the Bible.
Says that God is a better listener than anyone here on earth. And I think maybe He is
– next to this guy.

We’re seeing each other now and he tells me not to worry about ever being depressed again.
He says that he just won’t let it happen. Put my worries aside and count on him.
He seems to have all of the answers. And that’s a good thing.
Keeps me out of the self-help section.

Now if he can just help me find the right job, I’d really be on top of the world.
As far as I’m concerned, that old curtain of depression has fallen for the very last time.

copyright 2006 US Library of Congress

Exploring the Ordinary through Fiction

It is often said that art imitates life – or, is the saying that life imitates art? Over the past several years as I have practiced my craft, I have begun to understand that art and life influence and mirror each other. Although the ideas gathered from real life experiences may initially be composed on a handwritten page, a shape-shifting of perceptions occurs when variations of words and phrasing alter the world that is known to reflect possibilities for personal transformation.

As an artist, my chosen medium is voice – the storyteller’s voice. Fiction holds us long into the night, expressing words for the silent, the fearful, and the dreamer. Fictional characters are allowed to voice hopes and aspirations and opinions - to explore relationships and contemplate gaping holes of desire.

With descriptive voice, I can bring the reader into a fictional world to hear, see, taste, smell and feel middle-American life as it is lived by others, although in reality, the characters’ lives are merely reflections of our human need to be loved and to belong.

It is my hope that readers through some of my stories, will find themselves curious about who they are, what they want and need in their lives, and what price they will pay to succeed. It is my hope that this work of fiction will inspire reflection on the nature of our relationships with others. If you are curious and would like to read some of my work . . just ask . . and experience the places where fiction and real life come together . .

Moving Away from Old Memories

Today, like most days, I find myself thinking about a piece of my past . . and usually it's not the one I want plastered across the nearest (or furthest) billboard. And I can't help but wondering why my mind chooses to save that memory over the ones of joy and excitement? In an attempt to understand, I put my intellect to work and I remembered how in a recent class, we were discussing the biopsychological connections of the brain . . .and how memories are stored.

The truth is that our memories are stored in an event/emotion complex . . in other words, when we have strong emotions tied to what is happening in our lives, those memories seem to get priority in the storage area of our brain (the occipital area). And when something occurs in the present, our mind (trying to make sense out of what we are thinking) rifles through old backlogs looking for some connection and voila .. the events that the mind wanders through first are those with the highest emotional valence.

Since our thinking takes place in the frontal association area (the frontal lobe) and our memories are stored in the back of the brain (the occipital lobe) . . now we're talking about the pathway from memory to processing . . and yes, you're right . . our emotional center (the amygdala) lies right in the midsection so that thoughts passing back and forth between memory and current reflection pass through emotion . . back and forth . . .back and forth.

So, it's really important for us to detach ourselves early from the highly charged emotions of certain events before we store them into memory. And yet, this is often difficult. We seem to feel some need to hang on to those words and actions that made us feel angry or sad . .rather than replaying to good words and actions over and over in our minds.

How many times have I cried or berated or sabotaged myself for something that happened years ago . . .rather than smiled and high-fived the joyful?

So, today . . as I reflect on that old memory that popped into my mirror this morning .. I'm trying to see it as an opportunity of choice . . an opportunity to remove the emotion from it . . .to lessen the charge. In it's place, I'm choosing to ripple back through some positive moments (a wildly positive ovation from a large group after a presentation . . .a compliment from a woman at the grocery store . . a fabulous meal . . .coffee with my kids).

It's amazing how the influence of old memories can affect our attitudes. Are you willing to risk letting an old negative memory go in favor of charging your storage area with a newly positive one? Go ahead . . try it :) Cheers!

Listening . . .Learning to Hear Our Own Voice

Together we have the ability to creatively take charge of our lives through self-awareness and dynamic expression. You see, there is someone who really cares what happens. It’s all about listening ~ that’s where the healing begins. The answers are right there in front of us. We hear them from each other. It’s an interactive process that empowers us. It gives us the opportunity to make different choices in our lives.

Out of personal and social conditioning, women often silence their true feelings and desires in order to maintain relationships with their mothers, with men, and with each other. Although issues of intimate personal violence, emotional abuse, and loneliness, and alcoholism may lead us to question who we are and where we are going, we have the ability to re-define our sense of self and grow. The choice is up to you. But without each other, the consequences of silence are deadly.

I’ve written a play called Ordinary Women Dying to Be Heard. It’s all about listening ~ to ourselves and to each other. Sixteen women share their personal stories about what it is like to be lonely or afraid, to be angry or depressed. But the best part is that there is hope. . . because the therapist hears their words . . .

Go ahead . . share your thoughts or story . . .I'm still here . . and I'm still listening . . .

Finding Meaning

What are the ways that we understand our feelings . . and the actions we either want to take or have taken (and question)? Do we act out of an emotional place . . because that is what we are used to doing? Or do we really take the time to STOP and ask ourselves why we're feeling the way we do?

Yesterday I "played" golf with my husband . . .and by the 10th hole, I was tired . . muffing the ball and mis-hitting even my putts (which are the only thing that I'm ususally good at). I wanted to cry. But there were also so many reasons I refused to cry. 1) I was embarassed (wanted to cry); 2) I wanted to be as tough as any guy out there playing (refusing to let the tears come); 3) I have little experience at playing physical games (wanted to whine); 4) Even old women can play golf (refusal to give in); 5) I can't find my ball when I'm tired because I'm losing my vision (boo-hoo); 6) I'm as tough as nails (suck it up).

For me, the question isn't so much why I want to cry or refuse to give in . . .the question I was pondering is what does learning to play golf with my husband mean for me?

And for each of us . . finding the meaning of our experiences is different.

In my research, Understanding the Ways that Women Think and Feel in the Lived Experience . . .I looked back at some of the philosophies that support the notion that meaning differs for each of us and that our understanding is a blend between the actual experience and our perceptions of what happened (including how we think other people see or feel about us in that same moment).

Merleau-Ponty (1963) believes that our actions are sometimes clear and sometimes unknown . . and Moss (1989) feels that thoughts and actions cannot be separated (in the moment) and are only understood together in reflection.

What event or emotion keeps running through your mind? Can you separate them in reflection? Does putting them down on paper or sharing them here help to discover meaning so that you can really choose your next action?

Ordinary Women's Voices

In 2004, I started researching the ways that women thought and felt about themselves. In the beginning, I was just curious. I knew what I thought and felt – and that was a little scary – but, I had no idea how other women felt about being and belonging in the world. I wanted to know how they felt about being in relationships. I wanted to know how they acted and reacted to their husbands or their lovers. I wanted to know how they felt about work. I wanted to know what they did when they were lonely, how they pushed themselves when they felt they couldn’t do another thing. I wanted to know who they cried to or who they rejoiced with. So I began asking them – officially – on the record. Over the course of six months, I interviewed 20 different women. I asked them to describe something of importance in their lives – no leading questions, no preconceptions. The only thing that they were told was that I was researching women’s lives. Oh, I thought it would be so easy. I thought what they would tell me could be fit into nice little boxes and I would write it up and turn it in. Dissertation done – by the distanced researcher. Ha! Well, I can tell you what I found and it is not all that surprising. Women want to be heard. Not just the sound of their voice, but the depth of their words. But it was through the sounds of their voice that I heard the depths of their words. The voices of those first 20 women changed me – forever.