Time, Strength, and the Female Spirit

I am a fraud. There it is, plain and simple.

As I stood in my closet this morning in a puddle of self deprecation that was the discarded clothes I tried on and let drop to the floor one after the other, I realized I am a fraud. I dragged myself back and forth from my closet to my bathroom mirror, chiding my body and anything I attempted to drape over it while I dressed for work. It is Thursday and I worked out every morning this week, including the pilates I had just done thirty minutes before I stood in self loathing paralysis in my closet, hiding from my own reflection. Knowing I have been trying to make healthier decisions and live a more active lifestyle just wasn't doing enough to get it done today. So I stood there in my bra and underwear, clock ticking and the day daunting and called myself a fake, a phony, a fraud.

By now, you're probably thinking why? Many women feel this if not often then at least on occasion. So what makes me different? Let me clue you in. I go to work every day to teach, mentor, and role model to 52 young girls pre-teen to age 18. I work with mostly women (we have one male teacher- brave soul), all charged with the same goals. Our job is to teach young women about overall wellness and self-value. Our entire center is built on 9 guiding principals, several of which I completely blew past in the proverbial right hook to my face this morning. Here's the first one:

Honor the Female Spirit:

We value and promote the female perspective by respecting its distinct needs, creating safe and gender responsive environments, and celebrating the female experience.

You could hardly say I was honoring my female spirit today. More like crushing it, or beating it up. In fact, I don't think I was honoring anything about myself. I thought about how my boobs are too big, how the upper abdominal pudge I've been fighting to burn off in the past 6 months was never even there until I hit my late 30's, how I feel stronger and more fit since I started working out back in January but I don't feel any different in my clothes, and how I wish in the high 90's temperatures of the Florida summer, I felt comfortable enough to wear sleeveless shirts. How in the world am I going to convince girls to love themselves and feel good about who they are if I'm talking to myself this way?

How about this one:

Focus on Strengths:

We look to identify strengths in our girls, their families, our staff and supporters.  Using these strengths as our foundation, we build strong, confident, productive community participants.

Really? I talk day after day to these beautiful young girls about how worthy they are of happiness. We look for the best in all of them, no matter how small things would seem to outsiders looking in. You came to us because you hated school and never attended? Well now, you feel positive about school and have an 80% attendance rate. Bam! Focus on your strength. You struggle in reading but you love Chemistry? Bam! Look at those grades in science. Focus on your strength and use it to build a bridge to the other things. Your parents are less than stellar as role models, but you want to finish school and rise above it? Bam! Focus on what you do best. It's not hard to seek out the promise in my girls. Why is it so hard for me as a grown up?

Another:

Value the Wisdom of Time:

We understand that patience can be as powerful as immediate action, and each has its place.  We value the discernment required for their effective use.

It takes time and patience. Changes are gradual. Be persistent and focused on your goals and you'll get there in time, when you're ready. Not hard to say to a young girl with her life ahead of her right? It's easy to relay to her the whole one step forward, two steps back cliche. Be patient. Instead I look at myself and wonder why a change I made today wasn't showing results yesterday. Why do we give ourselves ultimatums like, if I don't see this happen by this time, it must not really work. How is this valuing the wisdom of time. Why isn't it enough just to spend my time more wisely?

So here's the deal. A few of us talked about it standing around the chocolate fountain provided as a reward to the girls during lunch today. As we each allowed ourselves a dipped strawberry or marshmallow, laughing all along like we didn't deserve to eat them because of what they might do to our bodies (never mind that each if us in the talk ate nothing but veggies and healthy lunches daily), we talked about knowing in our heads one thing and how is aligned it is with what we say about ourselves. It reminds me of an Alanis Morisette song, Unsexy. It's about the inconsistency between what we know and what we feel:

I feel so unsexy for someone so beautiful

So unloved and for someone so fine

I feel so boring for someone so interesting

So ignorant for someone of sound mind

We have the right knowledge, we have the awareness of what it means to the psyche to self-talk this way, and still do it. Why do we find it so easy to tell the girls in our care all the right things and beat ourselves up as soon as we turn away from them? How is that being a role model? 

I know society is rough on women and young girls. That's a no-brainer. If it's this difficult for us, imagine what developing girls are going through. We need to remember to love and care for ourselves and each other. Embracing the beauty of all the women in our lives, and lifting them up through words and support is the best way to role model for young women. And it all starts with what we say to the first one we see in the mirror in the morning. I'm not talking about making excuses for yourself and being content with less than you know you want or are capable of in any aspect of your being. I'm talking about positive affirmations, self-acknowledgement and compliment. I'm talking about giving yourself a break when you haven't lived up to your own expectations. Rather than beat ourselves up for it and tear ourselves down, we need to give ourselves an atta girl for trying and encourage continued effort. We need to be good to ourselves.

I'm starting today with 2 affirmations:

1. Stop insulting myself, effective immediately. 

2. Try every day to find something about myself I feel good about- even if it's really small.

Join me in lifting yourself up and stop beating yourself down. What is one promise you can make to yourself to honor the woman you are?



Here are two versions of Alanis' song. One is a pretty acoustic version, and the second is the original with the lyrics on screen.

Flashback: The Forgotten Dance

In writers group the other night, we got into conversation about our own poetry. For a little while I insisted to the group that this poem had been posted on my blog, way back in the beginning- when I first got started. I even tried to find it in the archives of my blog using the mobile app on my phone.

As the evening went on, and the more I started to reflect, the more I became sure I was mistaken. I wrote this poem during the 2010 Invitational Summer Institute (ISI) of the National Writing Project (NWP) at Florida Gulf Coast University (FGCU). I can't believe it was five years ago! I was knee deep in the journey toward my doctorate. The poem reflects the sacrifice to my creativity I felt while teaching full time, putting in countless hours of studying and producing a massive volume of academic writing, and being a mom and wife. Little did I know at the time it would become an artifact in my dissertation three years later.

NWP changed my life in so many ways, as a teacher, as a writer, as a person. It led me to one of my dearest friends who I later partnered with to begin the writing group I have since come to hold so dear. It led me to the labor of love that was my dissertation. It continues to be a part of the work I do today and inspires me as an educator. Participation in the ISI that year not only informed my teaching, but brought out a side of me that was dormant and waiting to be awakened. This was the beginning of my awakening. As promised to my beloved writing group sisters, here is

The Forgotten Dance

I've lost my artist's pen
It may be buried
Under my lesson plans,
My curriculum maps, my students' work

I think it may be hidden 
Beneath the textbooks,
The journal articles, the sticky notes

I've lost my artist's pen
I may have washed it
Away with the sheets,
The clothes, the rest of the laundry

I think I caught a glimpse of it
In the drawer with my creative license,
My Crayola colors, my Origami paper

I've lost my artist's pen
I may have spotted it
Up high on a shelf
With my photos,
My journals, my poetry

It calls to me in my dreams
It stares at me from the shelf
It begs of me

Remember me
Hold me
Dance with me

A Little Haiku

It's the little things

Saturday night with my boys

Living happiness

Petty Love

Songwriters often pay homage to classic artists by name-dropping in their songs. In country music, lyrics about Willie (Nelson) and the Man in Black (Johnny Cash) pop up here and there. Waylon Jennings is another. Brad Paisley wrote a song about playing "some old Alabama," and even collaborated with them to record the song.

Gretchen Wilson unapologetically proclaims in Redneck Woman, that she knows all the words to Tania Tucker, Bocephus (Hank Williams Jr.), and Charlie Daniels songs. She also shares that she has a poster collection of (Lynard) Skynard, Kid (Rock) and (George) Strait on her wall. And of course, who hasn't heard Taylor Swifts' Tim McGraw? No subtlety there, it's right in the title.

I guess it shouldn't surprise me. Singers and songwriters are likely to be huge fans of other singers and songwriters, probably even bigger fans than those of us in the general public. After all, it's their business, their passion. As a writer I have favorite authors, and as a teacher I have mentor teachers, both local and in the expert field. Why wouldn't we expect the same from artists?

I noticed however, in the past several months there's been a recurring name in country music. It's no surprise to me country artists, many from the south, have roots in southern rock. Many southern rock artists probably have some roots in country music. But without a doubt, many of the younger country artists are rockin' it out to Tom Petty. It seems he's a driving favorite, a hanging' with my baby favorite, a quotable favorite. Since I started realizing I was hearing his name a lot in other people's songs, I began collecting lyric lines (first one in my journal is dated January 10th) knowing there was a piece to be written. I have visited them in my journal several times thinking the inspiration was there, but I just wasn't ready. Until tonight. My friend Helen and I have been playing with song lyrics and found poetry recently, so I decided to read through the two pages tonight. I wrote a poem alternating the country song lyrics with TP's name in them, with lines I pulled from his songs. I am a huge fan of Petty myself and have several of his albums. I've seen him in concert twice by the way, and a Tom Petty concert ticket is money well spent! Welcome to Petty Country.

I've started out for God knows where

I guess I'll know when I get there

A great big world with lots of places to run to.

Slow driving south with the top drop down,

her hair in the wind, Tom Petty up loud.

The sun beat down.

Throw your feet on the dash girl

You know I'm cool with that

And it's Tom Petty free fall by midnight

Don't it feel like something from a dream

She couldn't help thinkin'

That there was a little more to life somewhere else

Waiting's the hardest part, like Tom Petty said.

It's alright if you love me

It's alright if you don't

I still love Tom Petty songs.

I'm learning to fly but I an't got wings

Coming down is the hardest thing

Hummin' that old Tom Petty song

She wanted me to break her fall

I wanna love you 

God it's so painful when something that's so close

Is still so far out of reach

The town lit up, the world got still

Steady as a Tom Petty track

I wanna write her name in the sky

I wanna free fall out into nothin'

Just good times on the way

Tom Petty on the radio

His Hand

His hand
It's been holding mine for years
It held mine on the day we exchanged vows
and it still has the power of comfort and affection, even after 25 years.

Like when he winds a ringlet of my hair around his finger
or tucks my hair behind my ear
Or when he runs the warmth of his hand up my back,
beneath my shirt and touches me skin to skin
I know he is a gentle man.

His hand
It holds my face before he kisses me on the lips,
It holds my hand in a parking lot or during an evening walk
our fingers laced and locked together
His hand heals me.

Like when he rubs out the knots in my shoulders
Or when he puts out his hand as if to say "gimme five"
but he just wants me to put my hand in his hand so he can hold it.
I know this because he's done it for years.

His hand
It lays on my thigh in the car while he drives,
It lays over mine on the couch while we watch TV
and he turns my wedding band in circles around my finger.
His hand warms me.

Like when he picks up my hand randomly and kisses each of my finger tips one by one.
Or when he unapologetically swipes his hand across my rear
even if we're in public or someone else is around.
I know from his hand he still wants me.

His hand
It is so much bigger than mine, with the calluses of a hardworking man
and the touch of a loving husband and father
It cradles and protects mine.
His hand supports me.

The warmth of his skin, the gentle strength in his touch
I love to hold his hand as much now as I ever did
when we walk into someplace strange
when we walk around the block.
Forever, I'll hold his hand.

Word Press Challenge

"Shit! Boooob, come back here!" Bob always knew when the mail was coming, and Sarah should have known better than to leave the doggie door open.  He was sitting beside the picture window staring longingly at the bluejays in Mrs. Fellenbacher's bird feeder across the street when the mailman pulled up. He always had a doggie treat for Bob. Without warning, he let out an anticipatory bark and darted out for the mailbox.

As if things like this never happened before, Sarah nearly jumped out of her skin in surprise, knocking over the expensive bottle of Genuine Vermont Maple Syrup. With a gasp she lunged her body across the table to save the glass bottle from crashing to the floor and making a sticky mess. But her arm slammed over the edge of the plate catapulting it off the table and onto the floor. "Shit!" she shouted again. "At least I saved the syrup."

Bob was off and running and she could already hear Mrs. Fellenbacher, the neighbor shouting,"Teh, teh, teh. Get! Get!" She didn't know whether to run after Bob or clean up her mess. The mess and her half-written thank you note would have to wait. She took off running. "Bob. Bob, come back here." She was relieved to see Bob sitting beside the mail jeep gladly accepting a scratch behind the ear and chewing on a doggie biscuit. She thanked the mailman and he handed her the mail.

Bob followed Sarah back to the house as she flipped through the pile of junk mail to find a letter at the bottom. Elated, she exclaimed to Bob, "It's a letter from Grandma!" Sarah didn't even need to flip the envelope over for the return address, because Grandma always hand wrote letters with a fountain ink calligraphy pen. She opened it feverishly to find just what she was hoping for. A ticket to visit her this summer in Vermont.

It's the Simple Things

Waking late to a sunlit room 

Singing birds outside the window

Two cups of coffee and a bowl of granola,

still in my pajamas

It's the simple things

Floating in the Gulf

Sand between my toes

An SPF 30 protected kiss from the warm summer sun,

bringing color back to my cheeks

It's the simple things

A turkey sandwich, chips, and Pellegrino

An afternoon nap

A double head shower with waterfall pressure,

raining down over my body

It's the simple things

A relaxing dinner with my family

A hazy pastel sunset over an uncrowded beach

Coffee ice cream on a chocolate sprinkle cone,

in the late evening hours

All these things, 

priceless, joyful, simple.