Posted on by palmtreemomma

The Truth Wrapped in Dreams

If you’ve been following me for any length of time, you’ll know that dreams are important to me. I find they alert me to the things I need to pay attention to. They bring clarity and understanding. Fresh ways of seeing things that help me to navigate difficult situations during my wakeful hours. Opportunities to bring healing to painful events in the past. They help me to find my voice and bring me the courage to refuse to be erased.

I’m a bit jealous of people who can just go to bed and sleep for hours and hours when they feel depressed or overwhelmed. I am not a great sleeper at the best of times, and when I am feeling depressed or anxious, it’s harder than ever to get deep sleep.

One thing I do have going for me, however, is that I dream a lot. And when I start to pay attention to my dreams, it seems as if I dream more often. There have been a number of compelling dreams that have ended up in my dream journal this year, but the one I’m about to share is one of the most vivid and entertaining of them all. And it is so very telling.

The amusement park

In my dream, I returned to a faith community whose leader was responsible for some of my religious trauma. When I arrived, a friend welcomed me, yet, when we tried to find a place to sit, there was no space for me. Even though my friend easily found a place for herself. The daughter of the leader refused to look at me, rendering me invisible. Various creatures filled my dream, both human and animal. But what struck me was the feeling of shame I bore, even though I had done nothing wrong. I found it difficult to look the humans in the eye. Yet, later in the day, I saw some of them either stoned or drunk on the floor. I marveled to myself that hours earlier, they had been the ones who were deemed “holy” and acceptable.

There was a growing sense of danger. Buildings broke apart and were swept away by an unseen force, yet I didn’t leave until I was attacked and bitten by an animal. When I dialed 911, they thought I was at an amusement park. I made it clear that, no, I am at “the church” and I need to be picked up. Now! When he arrived, the first responder thought I was a reporter and wanted to drop me in the special section outside the hospital set up to treat reporters. Clearly, the catastrophe was a big one and was gathering attention.

the reporter

Let’s face it. The church has become something akin to an amusement park where the cost of entry is high and just might be costing more than we think.

Perhaps I am a reporter. One who was almost erased. One who was used and then cast aside.

There is not enough space here to list all the ways this leader and those who worshiped him both wounded and silenced me. Discouraging me from seeking mental health help when I was on the verge of breaking down. Suggesting we may have sinned when my husband and I lost a baby. Denied days of rest that were desperately needed. Shutting down our voices when we suggested that certain policies would be harmful to people we cared deeply about.

During a large gathering of an organization he presided over, this leader brought to the stage a young man who he celebrated as the first volunteer of this particular organization. My husband and I looked at each other in shock, since we had just completed years of volunteering for this very organization. I felt both humiliated and erased in one fell swoop.

the body’s wisdom

When I reflect back on those years, what strikes me most is that I was not allowed to listen to the wisdom of my body. Instead, the body was seen as evil. Not to be trusted. Even basic human needs for rest were controlled and limited. I became so exhausted and burned out that I developed compassion fatigue. But I was expected to keep going.

The ironic thing is, I can remember the leader quoting the verse about the heart being desperately wicked and who can know it. Using it to prove that we can’t trust ourselves. Our gut. Yet we were supposed to trust the things he said. And people did. They responded to his words like eager puppies, desperate for drops of affection from their master.

Refuse to be erased

This has been a difficult post for me to write and I realize this dream has stirred up things that I probably did not have the energy to fully process until now. I found myself starting and stopping more often than usual. It’s one of the hottest days of the year so far, yet I have been drawn outdoors again and again. To plant my bare feet in the grass, walk the backbone of Mother Earth and take in sweet breaths of her warm air. Bare toes curling over blades of grass as I remember the pain and disappointment I felt. First of being so controlled. And then erased. My body is showing me the way to process this old grief.

And the beautiful thing about the human body is that it knows when it is being mistreated or erased, sometimes before our minds comprehend it. There is great danger in any religion or organization that teaches this knowledge as a dangerous thing, rather than the ancient wisdom that it is.

but i refuse to be erased

In my dream, my body took much abuse and betrayal before I was ready to get myself out of the situation. And while this parallels my real life in so many ways, and I wish I had “dialed 911” sooner, I am grateful to be where I am. The tent of wounded reporters is far safer and more restful than the amusement park that the church has become.

I know there are many others like me, who have been controlled and then erased by the church. If this strikes a cord, know that you are not alone. Like the butterfly from an earlier dream, who pulled herself out of the mud and flew across the ocean with giant holes in her wings, the muck cannot hold you down. Keep beating your wings. We will not be erased. We will display the holes that have ravished our wings – and we will fly anyway.

Want to hear more? Contact me here to be added to my mailing list. You can also find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Almost Erased

In my introductory post, Torn Wings, I wrote about my dream of a butterfly. A graceful creature I saw who pulled herself out of the mud and muck, and flew across the ocean. The light shown through massive holes in her wings, and yet, she flew. I knew she was both me as an individual, as well as all of us who give voice to the feminine. That beautiful part of the divine that those in power have tried to erase.

In my dream, I watched in amazement as she flew bravely out over the water. With each beat of her wings she put distance between herself and those who had riddled her wings with holes. She carried a power that shattered the belief that the feminine is more fragile. Weaker. Less than. Something controllable.

Today I carry her on my shoulder. Nestled close to my heart. Her wings have healed and she has found her name. Mukti.

Becoming Free

Mukti is heard in many languages across Southeast Asia and carries with it the idea of setting or becoming free. What began as a dream on a hot summer night in Bangladesh, a few months before my husband came out, has become my Mukti, a symbol of hope and healing. Of both setting and becoming free.

Her journey is far from finished. I have her on my shoulder to remind me of where we have been and where we are going. As the artist knit threads of ink together beneath my skin, I did what she taught me. Breathe through the pain. Slowly. In and out. Again and again.

Finding our Mukti

Many us feel exhausted and brokenhearted today. As if our wings have just been riddled with fresh holes. What the Supreme Court did today shows me that the Patriarchy is afraid. This isn’t about life; it’s all about control. If it weren’t so heartbreaking, it would almost be laughable. This grasp at control. But the way of the feminine is not about control. It is about love and equality.

We refuse to be erased by showing the holes that have been put into our wings – and flying anyway.

This movement of beating wings has grown massive over the past few decades. And the Patriarchy is terrified. They are trying desperately to control us. And if they can’t control us, to erase us.

The butterfly I saw pulling herself out of the muck and flying out across the ocean, was for me that day. But today it is for all of us. We can’t be controlled and we will not be erased.

We will grieve for today. Hold each other and weep. But this is not the end. The muck cannot hold us down. We’ve pulled ourselves out before and we will do it again. Keep beating our wings until we find our Mukti once again. We refuse to be erased by showing the holes that have been put into our wings – and flying anyway.

Want to hear more? Contact me here to be added to my mailing list. You can also find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

The Feminine Within

I am finding that the greatest challenge of being the straight spouse in a mixed-orientation marriage has little to do with my husband’s sexuality. Rather, it is rooted in my own insecurities and feelings of self-worth.

Feelings nurtured in a childhood lived under the demands of the patriarchy. A childhood where the little girl in me ceased to exist at a very young age. Instead of being nurtured, she quickly learned to nurture.

One could argue that this little girl was naturally gifted to nurture and was only stepping into her god-given role. Yet little girls, regardless of their gifts, need to be mothered. Nurtured. Protected. Given space to dream and try on…
clothes
styles
attitudes
beliefs.

when the feminine is flattened


Little girls are not designed to be poured into a replicable mold. To fill the same role as that of their mother before them. And their grandmother before that. When little girls are required to pick up maternal roles while their chest is still flat, something in their internal landscape is in danger of forever remaining flat and undeveloped.


Little girls are made to dream and dance. But when they are taught to serve from sunrise to sunset, to keep those around them happy and fed, their dreams quickly die and the only dance they perform is learning to anticipate the needs of others and to meet those needs before they are spoken.

silenced


I have struggled for a very long time with the words I want to say. Need to say. I fear I will bring shame and pain to my mother if I voice them. In her book Discovering the Inner Mother, Bethany Webster says,


“Many daughters equate silence about their pain as a form of loyalty to their mothers…. Our compassion for our mothers should never eclipse compassion for ourselves.”


So I am breaking a bond of silence because I must be loyal to myself. If I am to be fully whole, and find my dance again, I must do all I need to do to show compassion for myself.


I love my mother deeply and wish the same for her. I look back over the generations and see how the women in our family carry this wound deep within our DNA.

daughters who are mothers


As a young girl, my grandmother thrived in school. It was her safe, happy place. She loved words more than anything and was a finalist at more than one spelling bee. But tragedy struck when she was barely a teenager and her mother died. Her father, an Amish farmer, had no choice but to take her out of school and have her care for her baby sister. She found herself cleaning, doing laundry, and cooking for her father and a table full of brothers. As a young girl, my grandmother raised herself and her baby sister while figuring out how to keep a family of farmers happy and fed.


My grandmother was an incredibly resilient woman. Yet she had a deep mother wound herself and did not know how to fully embody being a mother to her daughters.


And my mother, having not been fully mothered and nurtured herself, looked to her young daughter to give her the nurturing she craved. I learned, at a very young age, how to be a safe space for the adults in my life. How to listen and hold, and how to be both surrogate spouse and therapist. Like my grandmother before me, by the time I was 14, I was cooking up to 3 meals a day, doing the laundry, cleaning, and caring for my brothers. Unlike her, I stayed in school and also took on a part-time job, sharing 80% of my earnings with my parents.

The Perfect daughter

To anyone in the Patriarchal community, I was the perfect daughter. Groomed to care for those around me and denied my own dreams and longings. Inside, however, I was dying a slow and painful death.

I quickly learned that even my basic, developmental needs were too much. All that mattered were the needs of those around me. In fact, the more I squashed my own inner longings and needs for affirmation and nurturing, the more I was noticed and praised. I share my grandmother’s love for words, so it makes sense that words convey feelings of love to me more than actions. I would do anything to hear words of affirmation spoken to me.

And I did. I worked my fingers to the bone for tiny scraps of affirmation. Because I was only noticed and praised when I sacrificed what I wanted and worked hard to meet the physical and emotional needs of those around me. So I worked harder. And harder still.


I could write a complete volume on the journey from that “good little girl” to the fierce and feisty woman I have become. And perhaps I will do that someday.


But I can’t wait that long to say what burns inside of me. Words that must be spilled onto the page today or I will go up in flames for the heat of it.

the feminine within you


No matter your gender, if you were raised under the Patriarchy, there is a feminine part of you that needs you to sit down and have a good listen. We are all a blend of the masculine and the feminine and yet we have been brought up in a culture that praises and empowers the masculine while silencing, controlling, and shrinking the feminine. This has not only hurt women; men suffer deeply as well.


I would go as far as to say that many of the problems we face are either a result of, or amplified by, the hatred of the feminine. From the war in Ukraine to the war on feminine bodies, the masculine need to control and dominate is making itself known.

hungry for life


But the little girl inside of us is not concerned about power and control. She is hungry for life. Full of love. Concerned for safety. This is why she cuddles babies. Speaks tenderly to tiny kittens. Picks wildflowers for the window sill. She is creator, not taker. And the earth itself heals when we listen to her.


She does not allow us to live in hatred. For ourselves or for our enemies. She is the embodiment of love and inclusion. Equality is the dance floor and she moves with grace.


If you are still long enough, you may hear her. If you can clear the clutter of your mind, and pause your race to the elusive top, you may get a glimpse of her.


We can stop looking for her in other women, in projects, in more work. She’s not in movies or books or famous people we admire and chase after. She’s in us. If we are alive, there is still time to find her. She held us before our mother’s arms found us, and she will hold us long after our mothers are gone. She carries the salve to heal our wounds. But this healing balm cannot be taken by force. We must be still and lean in before that healing balm is given.

Want to hear more? Contact me here to be added to my mailing list. You can also find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

When It’s Hard to Rest

When I was a young girl, it was quite common to hear grown ups tell me things like, “You work like a horse!” Growing up in rural Ohio, where it was common to see Amish farmers plowing their fields with big and strong work horses, the phrase made sense to me.

The phrase, meant as a compliment, told me that I was very capable of hard work. That there was much value in my ability to work hard. It told me I was admired for it.

But there was a dark side to this compliment. One that I did not see for a very long time. Like a dandelion seed blown by the wind, it found a place to settle. Deep in the soil of my ego, a story took root and began to grow.

the problem with work

One day, in my early teens, it pushed its head through the surface and allowed itself to be seen. On this day, when told that I work like a horse, instead of feeling complimented, I burst into tears.

I didn’t want to be a work horse anymore. Strong and capable but useful only in working the fields. I knew I was a very valuable worker but I longed to be valued for more than the free labor I gave to my family and community. The problem with work is that it set me up to be admired for the wrong things.

Truth be told, I was balancing a lot. I got up early every morning and made breakfast for the family before school. Did school, homework, much of the laundry, cooking and cleaning and had a part time job. This is not to fault my family in anyway. Nobody made me do these things. I chose to take on more and more, for complicated reasons.

Finding it hard to rest

Fast forward a few decades and I found myself on the edge of burn out. A place that was becoming more and more familiar to me. I’d find myself dangling on the edge, but somehow climb up and work some more. Then back to the edge again.

The problem with work became a problem with rest. In fact, it was almost impossible to really rest. I’d eagerly plan vacations for the family and the thought of them would keep me going. But when in the lovely places, I would find it impossible to be at rest for more than a short time. I’d feel this urge to put my book down and go find some chore that could be done.

It was like needing a hit. Finding some manual labor gave me something that calmed me inside so that I could go and read again.

So I have a very complicated relationship with work. Truth is, I do get a lot of satisfaction from hard work. I love to clean. Do the laundry. Cook meals. Organize things. I find it incredibly hard to sit still. It’s not long until I feel my body becoming agitated. Like I will explode if I sit here another minute. Give a bucket and a scrub brush. Or, better yet, baking supplies and an empty kitchen and my heart rate slows and my thoughts calm.

when the body screams to get attention

Then one summer, about a year and half ago, I woke up with pain in my shoulder. This felt much different than the stress pain I tend to carry in my shoulders. This pain was somehow connected to my arm and movement. I didn’t think too much of it at first. It wasn’t horrible but it just kind of stuck around. I couldn’t sleep on my side anymore. Soon I couldn’t do things like deep clean my kitchen. Or rake leaves. Or make applesauce. Eventually I couldn’t chop vegetables for dinner without being in pain the next day.
So I finally went to the doctor. Then the specialist. Then the physical therapist. Turns out I have both biceps and rotator cuff tendonitis. And a long road to healing.

The problem with work is that I just couldn’t keep up with it anymore. My body had to go into full blown screaming mode before I listened. But I’m listening now.

And one thing I keep going back to is the girl who burst into tears because she longed to be seen and valued for who she was, not for what she did. She wanted to be more than free labor. She had hopes and dreams, longings and needs that were not safe to say aloud.

I understand her tears. In the wee hours of the morning, when I can’t sleep because of the pain, she gets my full attention. And she’s shown me some pretty enlightening things.

truth be told

The problem with work is that I will probably always love it. Find deep satisfaction in sparkling surfaces, freshly folded laundry and the smell of homemade sourdough bread. There is something sacred in those things for me. And I embrace that.

But what I have had to reject is the idea that my worth comes from those things. Which has been hard to separate from because for years I was only noticed when I was working hard. I heard words of affirmation that centered around the work I did. It seemed as if my place of belonging, in both family and religious community, centered around my ability to work. And that is a problem.

Another problem with work is that it made me feel safe. My subconscious self quickly became aware of the fact that while doing hard manual labor, I was safe from the things that were my trauma. No one bothered my while I was working. And I got praised for it. It was a win win situation. No wonder it was hard for me to stop. I literally had no idea how to rest. In fact, rest was not really a safe thing. So work became my identity.

Until my body just couldn’t do it anymore. I am grateful for this pain because it has brought me to a wide open path of possibilities. While I’ve been working for a long time on seeing my worth apart from my work, the physical limitations of my body have broken open a space for something new.

choosing to rest

For one thing, it’s brought about a career change that allows me to work from anywhere in the world. Austin has been completely supportive and has helped us find a solution that takes this weight of my shoulders. Literally. We have outsourced fulfillment for our business because I physically just could not haul those boxes anymore. We have contracted with a very capable team in Chicago to ship out our orders. And, thanks to technology, I can answer questions and email invoices from anywhere that has cell service or WiFi.

I’m currently testing out my new freedom. Honoring my need for green vistas, sunshine and rest by working out of a little cottage in North Carolina for a couple of weeks. I find I can type up orders and answer emails on a screened in porch that hides behind a giant bougainvillea, just as well as when sitting behind my desk in Ohio. Maybe even better.

Is it still hard for me to rest? Yes, sometimes it is. But I am practicing it. Just as I am practicing listening to the longings of the little girl who found her salvation in work. Even then she was intuitive enough to know she longed for more.

Want to hear more? Contact me here to be added to my mailing list. You can also find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

The Beauty of Brokenness and Cracks

I find myself sitting alone in a quiet house. Chilled November air dances through the wind chimes and the almost-bare tree branches wave a few remaining leaves. I sit. Still. Trying to quiet my racing mind.

There is so much to do. I want to jump and tackle it all. Create hope and bring healing. Work in a frenzy till I can cross it all off my list. And then. Then I can sit.

I’m not so good at sitting and resting. At just being. Especially when there is work to be done.

Create hope and bring healing

I recently had the privilege to sit in a circle of women. It was an unusually warm day for November. A gift of golden warmth. We sat in the park, under an open blue sky and gave presence to the slow but steady descent of the sun as it kissed the earth good night.

My heart was heavy. So weary of the division in our nation. The anger. Fighting. Tearing each other apart. Forgetting how to listen. To really see each other.

“How are we gifted,” I asked, “to be of comfort and an inspiration to others in the coming months?” How do we create hope and bring healing?

Because we are broken. Divided. Jobs, friendships, and even lives are being lost.
I want to fix it. Create hope and bring healing. Another perspective that will help.

golden truth

But then one of my friends stopped me in my tracks. She pushed back at my question with her truth that was gold.

In essence, she said she was done. Over it. No more trying to heal and mend others. All that was left now was to be her most authentic self.

I sat. Sunned. Inspired. Relieved. The truth, when it shows up, is surprisingly easy to recognize.

And this is what I heard and recognized. A truth familiar but forgotten.

It is not my job to bring healing. To mend the tears in the fabric of family, friends, community or nation. That is a load not intended for me to carry.

BUT – what is on me, is me. My very own self. To love and care for. Nurture and grow. To find the truth of my own authentic self and step fully into who I am.

I’m going to be honest. To truly live authentically takes all of the energy I have. It takes more courage than attempting to heal everyone else. It is harder work. More painful. Gosh! Most days I’d rather go help someone else heal their pain than examine my own. Ouch. There’s more there than I imagined.

authenticity

Looking back over my life I see that the moments I tried the most and worked the hardest to bring healing to others, were the most exhausting. Futile. Discouraging. Leading to complete and utter burn out.

Yet the moments when I was just being me. Like really ME. Who I truly am. People would come up to me and tell me things about myself that shocked me. Ways I had impacted them without even trying.

Maybe the world only needs what fits through the cracks of a broken soul on its way to wholeness.

So maybe the golden beauty is that when we stop trying to fix the brokenness around us and work instead on our own broken and beautiful selves, the healing we find somehow seeps out through our cracks and finds its way to where it needs to go.

Maybe the world only needs what fits through the cracks of a broken soul on its way to wholeness.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m still as passionate about living in a world where all creatures, human and otherwise, can be whole and healthy. I’ve just realized anew that if that is to happen, it will only happen if I am as whole and real as I can be.

So I will take up my space in the room. I will care more fully and gently for the person whose face stares back at me in the mirror. Embrace her and put her shoes on each day. I will be her. Not who other people think she should be. Not who she thinks other people need her to be.

I will do my best to be who I know she needs me to be. Because she is me.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Leaking Love

Our world has been turned upside down by COVID-19. Young or old, none of us have seen anything like this before. Weariness coats our existence. Grief stalks us as unfamiliar routines become the new normal. For all who are weary and have nothing to give today, this is for you. Your brokenness is okay. All the cracks you feel prepare you for leaking love. 

 Empty, so empty.
 The chamber of my soul cracked and dry.
 How can I give another day when I have nothing?
 ...when weariness coats my existence like an ill-matched glaze
 on a cracked and misshaped pot.
 I am spent.
 Poured out.
 Nothing left but sharp words and loud sighs.
  As morning's fog wraps around me I know that my body has found  rest.
But not my soul.
 Why does love scoop out the hollows and take  every drop?
 It costs more than I have to spend.
 I wait, a cracked and misshaped pot, waiting to be filled.
 I wait while birds sing a springtime song on a winter morning,
 whispering of life exploding under the surface,
 waiting to burst out on the other side.
 I sit.
 I wait.
 The tender hands of my Creator pick me up. 
There is a smile in those hands,
 a love for cracked and misshaped pots
 that leak more than they hold.
 My Creator drinks from me 
and in that drinking I am filled for
 it is love that brought me to those lips, 
not to take but to give.
In that tender-hold of love, my cracks are beautiful.
 As long as these hands hold me, they hold my burdens too.
 I breath deep and let go,
 letting my anxiety slip through the cracks
 while love fills up.
 I wait, while footsteps fall soft outside my door.
 I know the pouring out will soon begin.
 In my brokenness today, let me leak only one thing,
 let it be love. 
Let me leak love.

Know that you are not alone. I’m here if you need to talk.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

If I Loved Myself

Most of my life, she said, I was my worst enemy. Then the cancer gave me a gift in the form of a question. It might be too simple for you…

If I loved myself, what would I do?

Notice the question has an if. It never assumes I do. Just if. So I could ask no matter if I was in pain or laughing or crying. Just if… I asked and I asked and I asked and it stopped all the behavior that impeded me. I never had to do anything. Just answer this one question.

Kamal Ravikant in Rebirth

Rebirth is the story of a pilgrim walking the Camino de Santiago. The above quote came from a conversation he had with a pilgrim he briefly bumped into on his pilgrimage. The question – “If I loved myself, what would I do?” has stuck with me in poignant and real ways.

If I loved myself

Self-care has always come hard for me. Probably because self-love was not modeled. In fact, the community where I grew up insinuated that self-love was wrong. Self-sacrifice was the thing to strive for instead. “Love your neighbor” was propped up on something else instead of the “as yourself” bit.

But the thing I have come to learn later in life is that loving your neighbor is shallow and trite if you do not first love and care for yourself. I know from personal experience that the “love” for others can slowly turn into hate. All my good intentions, self-sacrifice, and service sent me spiraling into depression and compassion fatigue because I did not know how to love and care for myself first.

The question, “If I loved myself, what would I do?” is especially relevant in times of crisis and high stress. Let me give you an example.

Loving myself in stressful times

I have trouble sleeping well in the best of times. Maybe it’s midlife hormones creeping up on me and causing havoc. I don’t know. But normally when I wake in the night I soon fall back asleep when I meditate and focus my breathing. Lately, however, that has not been working.

I find myself waking out of a deep sleep to the sound of a nonexistent alarm. Instantly I think of my son on the West Coast, struggling to get groceries and find work after his film studies program was shuttered. I worry how we will pay the bills now that sales have all but ground to a halt. A million worries and questions dance through my brain and I try to take deep breaths, but somehow there is no depth to them.

So the other night, as I lay in the quiet darkness, I let this question play itself out in my head.

“What would I do if I loved myself?”

In that moment, I realized I needed some self-care. So I spoke to myself and calmed myself down. My fears were irrational. I reminded myself that I was in a safe place. That I didn’t have to take care of anyone. There was nothing I needed to fix. I could just be. As I let myself sink into the softness of my bed, the fears drifted away and I was soon back asleep.

This morning I answered the question by leaving the house and taking a walk in the rain. Normally I hate walking in the rain, but today it soothed me. As an introvert stuck at home with some wonderful yet loud extroverts, caring for myself has become a challenge.

Now that school has shut down, coffee shops, the gym, soccer, tennis, high school club and all the normal hang out places for my extroverts are no longer an option, we are all home. Pretty much all the time. The heat has all but been turned off in our office building so every day we are bringing more things home to be able to work from home. Our tiny house is bulging at the seams and we are making it work. Yet I am feeling the strain of it. The only time I truly feel alone is walking out in the park. Or sitting in a chilled office building.

Surviving the crisis

As the world is in crisis mode, with COVID-19, stress levels everywhere are through the roof. All of us have things on our plate that we didn’t ask for. Fear and stress tend to find their way onto our plates as well, even if we don’t want them to. But we are not helpless creatures. We can keep asking the question – “If I loved myself, what would I do?”

It might mean getting outside and taking a walk. For some of you, it may mean staying at home to protect your health instead of letting life continue as normal. Letting a friend pick up some groceries and drop them on your porch. It may mean that you stop trying to take care of everyone else and give yourself whatever care package you need. Maybe you need to turn off the news and give yourself a break from social media. And in the answering, we can find the ways to not only love ourselves, but to let the ripple effects spread out to our family, our neighborhood and the community at large.

I’ve seen people shine this week, by doing something they love and are good at, and sharing it with the world. Playing live-stream guitar and taking requests. Reading a book aloud on Facebook Live. Painting and creating art. Local businesses creating care packages of ice cream or sandwiches and offering delivery.

You might think that this crisis is bringing out the worst in us. And it may be doing that for some people. But I see it bringing out the best in us. Especially in all who are brave enough to answer the question.

“If I loved myself, what would I do?”

Because loving myself is not a selfish thing. Done well, it preserves ourselves, our homes, our communities and the earth itself.


Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Embracing Self-Worth

In my last post, I talked about how knowing my self- worth was an important key to staying in my marriage. Truly knowing and embracing my self-worth has not only helped me to look at my marriage holistically, it has also changed the way I view my body.

This has taken a lot of work. I had to recognize the lies I carried with me since middle school that told me I was disgusting. I cannot tell you how much I identified with Toula in My Big Fat Greek Wedding. It was a long and painful process, to replace the lies with truth. To actually see myself and then to let myself be seen.

Body Image

I was in my mid forties before I valued myself enough to face something that had always bothered me about myself. My crooked teeth. I cried big ugly tears on the way home from my first orthodontist appointment. Not because of how much it was going to cost – though that was reason enough to cry! But because I never felt I was worth that cost. Faced with the reality of more teeth breaking as I aged due to the crowding in my mouth, along with the painful self-awareness when I smiled, I was finally ready for change.

Embracing my self worth in this way brought initial discomfort as my teeth had a lot of moving to do. But seeing my teeth begin to straighten has been totally worth it. A few days before my 47th birthday, I was finally able to look in the mirror and see the smile that my heart had always been smiling, even when my body couldn’t.

I needed to take this drastic and costly step to reinforce in the depths of my being, that I am worth it.

Embracing age

Another body decision I recently made was to stop dying my hair and embrace the silver that has been trying to be seen for nearly a decade now. I realize that for some, covering up the silver may be essential to embracing your self-worth. That is okay. But for me, I felt a wise old crone waking up inside of me and this is how I wear her in my waking life.

It’s been nearly a year now since my last color was applied. I have lots of silver spilling out the top in contrast with my dark ends. It makes me wish I would have never started dying my hair. That I would have always embraced this part of who I am. But it is what it is. And from here on, the silver is my friend.

And can we talk about wrinkles for a minute? I haven’t fought these too hard. Somewhere along the line, I decided I had earned them. That they are road maps to a life well-lived. I look down at my hands sometimes and I’m beginning to see my Grandma’s hands. And that gives me a lot of joy. I remember her, with her silver waves and piles of wrinkles, and her heart of love. If I’m turning into her, I’m okay with that.

Embracing your journey

There is no journey towards wholeness that is the same for two people. The things that represent health and wholeness for me will probably not be the same things that you need to do on your journey. Your journey must be uniquely yours. In her book Belonging, Toko-pa Turner says

The only antidote to perfectionism is to turn away from every whiff of plastic and gloss and follow our grief, pursue our imperfections, and exaggerate our eccentricities until the things we once sought to hide reveal themselves as our majesty.

Toko-pa Turner

Keep digging and sifting until you find the things that are your majesty. The world needs grace and beauty that only the shape of you can fill.


Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Longing for Light

Sunrise from Mt. Batur, Indonesia

Lets talk about self care and mental health for a minute. We are in the heart of winter and many of us live in places which are cold and have long periods of darkness. We are earthlings, all of us, designed to be nourished by the earth, to quench our thirst from its waters. Nature calms and refreshes us. Sunshine gives light, feeds plants and even our own skin by infusing us with needed vitamins. When we don’t receive these life-giving elements, our bodies, like plants placed in a cold basement corner, begin to droop and wither. This is why is is so important to pay attention and listen to your body.

I’ve struggled with depression on and off for a number of years. I know I am not alone. An estimated 15% of the adult population will probably experience depression at some point. 5% of the U. S. population experiences Seasonal Depression, also known as SAD. If this time of year typically finds you feeling sad, lethargic and irritable, you are not alone.

Listen to your body

About a year ago, I hit bottom fast and hard. One minute I was fine and the next I was flat on the floor, wanting nothing more than to die. The ferocity of my depression scared me and I immediately made an appointment with my doctor. I went on medication for the first time in my life and increased my visits with my therapist. I spilled it all to my closest circle of women so that I wouldn’t be doing it alone.

Our bodies are incredibly wise and have much to tell us if we learn to listen to them. The trouble is, we have to learn the language of the body first because it is easy to misunderstand. A craving for a donut does not mean your body needs a donut to be happy again. A longing to sleep all day does not mean your body needs to sleep all day and then it will feel better. Learn to listen to your body, to the cry beneath the craving. It might just be saying, “pay attention to me and show me value.”

It’s taken me a long time to sort out what my body was telling me on that day. I’m sure I still don’t have it all figured out but it’s easier to see the big picture when we back up a few steps and sit still.

SAD was certainly a part of things. It was right around winter solstice, when we experience the shortest days and the longest nights. My mood changes with the sunlight. The sun gives the warmth and food needed to cloak the outdoors in green. Flowers and trees, green leaves and grass, all bring so much life to my senses. My body and the world outside my window was very light deprived that day. But it was more than that. Death was beautiful to me that day because I had lost hope.

Losing Hope

We were in that particularly rough period before Austin came out of the closet. There were several times that year I was convinced our marriage was not going to make it intact. Our business had taken some huge blows and our livelihood was threatened. One of our boys had just been diagnosed with ADHD and it took pretty much all of our energy to navigate things. While the diagnosis helped us understand him, it did nothing to change the reality of what we had been experiencing for a long time.

My anxiety was through the roof. And like a house of cards, I collapsed without so much as a wind to knock me over. There was no one thing that happened that day to send me down. I just went down. Because it is hope that keeps us standing and my body knew before my brain registered it, that I had lost mine.

Year after year, after year, I had muddled through. Hoping for change in my marriage. I had worked tirelessly to build a small business with global impact. Raising sons to be lovers of peace and kindness. Everything I had poured my big, soft, endless heart into seemed only to break my heart instead of being transformed by it. Honestly, my life felt more than a little wasted and I was more than a little exhausted.

More than a year later, it’s very difficult for me to write about this. I feel a sadness creeping in the edges, dancing on the peripheral. But I’m trying to stay with the story and listen to what that sadness is telling me.

Listening to the sadness

I’m sad that a 45 year old woman felt like a life of love given was lived in vain. She is the one I need to listen to, care for and nurture. Here is what I think she was trying to tell me that day.

I’m so tired. My load is too heavy and I have to lay it down for a bit. I need you to give me as much value as you are giving away to everyone else. An endless supply of energy is not what I have to offer; I have limits. Please fill me back up again. Treat me gently because I am you.

When your partner is distant and you wonder what is going through his head, your value remains. The things your child yells in a fit of rage are not about you so it’s okay to move out of the way. I wish I could offer you financial stability but this way you identify with a larger portion of humanity. The top is not all it is cracked up to be.

Sit for a minute and let light fall into the cracks opened up by your sorrow. Hold still and see me. If you learn to love me well, it will never be in vain. I know your limitations. I hold your gifts and all the light and goodness you have to offer the world. Value me because I am holding you.

Tips for self care

I’ve always felt the weight of the world on my shoulders, needs that seemed bigger or more important than my own. It felt selfish to do something for me when the world was going to hell in a handbag around me. I had a wake up call this year when a friend died of a stress-induced heart attack. She was only 30 years old. It helped me realize that taking care of myself is actually a huge gift to the people around me.

So listen to your body and do what you need to do to take care of yourself. Ask for help. Be honest with your doctor and consider medication. Your kids will thank you later. Find a therapist. Reach out to a friend you can trust. We were not made to navigate this on our own.

Exercise daily for it boosts your serotonin levels. Find what works for you. My husband is a people person and takes classes at the local YMCA. I am an introvert and that doesn’t work for me. I find that doing yoga at home has been the only thing I want to keep coming back to. Something about the stretches speak to me about navigating the painful stretches of life.

Take Vitamin D in the winter. Our body produces it when exposed to sunshine and, in places like Ohio, we rarely get enough of it. While a deficiency is not likely to cause depression, many who take it notice a difference in their mood within a couple of weeks. I usually start taking it in the fall so it kicks in by the time the days are really dark. Read more here.

Be honest with yourself. Sometimes depression is because of the season. Sometimes it’s because of hormones. But sometimes it hits us because we have not been kind to ourselves. Maybe we have carried too much for too long. Perhaps self-hatred has caught up with us and does not want to be ignored any longer. Take a moment and listen to what your body is trying to tell you.


Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Choking on Niceness

Tree roots growing out of a crumbling temple in Cambodia.

I still think of the butterfly I saw in my dream all those years ago, right before my husband came out to me. She calls to me still, gently showing me the path towards wholeness. Her ripped, ravaged, and giant wings, refusing to stay in the muck, beating still and carrying her across the water. She beckons me on, silently flying towards freedom.

There have been many dreams since then. I have journals set aside just for them. Sometimes the message is instantly clear, other times a pattern may appear over time. While I once dismissed dreams that were not instantly clear, I have learned to pay attention to the ambiguous ones as well. Dreams have much to teach us.

In her book Belonging: Remembering Ourselves Home, Toka-pa Turner, has much to say about dream-work and healing.

For survivors of neglect and abuse, the relationship to the instinctual life can be especially damaged. An instinct is injured when your responses are repeatedly overridden, dismissed, or ignored, often by adults who have a wounded instinct themselves. For instance, you may have been criticized for overreacting when you were having an appropriate response, or perhaps you were told to stay quiet when you knew you should speak. Maybe you had to care for another’s needs before your own. Whatever form the wounding of your instinct might have taken, over time the result is the same. It is the sense of distrusting your own responses, questioning the validity of your feelings and giving your power to another’s information over your own.

Toko-pa Turner

Letting the truth out

I recently had an opportunity to say some things that I have needed to say for a very long time. Things that I had kept bottled tight inside rather than risk being the one to rock the boat. But, when the words came to me, I knew it was time. I said what I needed to say. For me. I spoke my truth. And while I did not get the response I wanted, I am more than okay. It was in speaking my truth that I was set free, not in the other person’s response.

A few night later I had a very telling dream.

I spent the evening caring for a group of children. A 3 year old girl with blond curls was feeling unwell and had vomited. I thought she needed to sleep so I read her a story, thinking that if she held still long enough, she would fall asleep and then feel better. Her parents soon arrived to pick her up and I told them what had happened. As I was talking to them, we looked over to where she had been sleeping, only to find her on the floor, struggling to bring up whatever remained in her stomach. To my horror, she vomited up two large cobs of corn.

I woke from my dream with the realization that the little girl in my dream was me and that I had swallowed down things that were never meant to be swallowed. I had tried to keep in something much too large and the impossibility of it was making me sick.

Falling asleep while choking to death

The years of telling myself stories to soothe and put myself to sleep instead of speaking my truth was toxic. Oh, the stories we tell ourselves to keep our mouths shut and the truth trapped inside! For women who have grown up in a patriarchal culture, it is so much harder to recognize our truth and speak it.

I grew up in a sub-culture where it was expected that men dominate, women submit quietly and children obey without question. This may appear peaceful and yet it was anything but that. Time and again, it proves to be a perfect breeding ground for abuse and enabling.

Under the guise of niceness, I learned to hold much inside. I thought anything else would be selfish. Yet that niceness came at an enormous price. While I knew how to be nice to everyone else, I had no idea how to be nice to myself.

The cost of silence

When a woman’s voice is quieted, the lumps inside swell like cobs of corn, bigger than the throat. Ripping, choking and taking up all the space that was meant for breathing in air, taking in water to give life, and food to nourish. There is no space inside for her gifts to grow and the world suffers that loss.

Darling, you feel heavy because you are too full of truth. Open your mouth more. Let the truth exist somewhere other than inside your body.

Della Hicks-Wilson

The thing is, no one is going to speak our truth for us. No one is standing by to clear our clogged airways and hand us the mic. In fact, there will probably be a stampede to grab the mic out of our hands because the more we stand up and refuse to be silently compliant, the more uncomfortable life will be for those who are the most comfortable right now.

But, sister, you matter. No more falling asleep while choking to death. Enough swallowing down things that weren’t meant to be swallowed. No more being nice to everyone but yourself. Pick up a pen, or the phone, call a friend, admit your truth and let it out.

You will be amazed at how much space the silence took up. Fill it with breathing and living instead. Choose life. For you.


Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.