Keeping the Dream

I never knew the elders of my family tree. I consider that a great poverty into which I was born. My mother was sold at the age of two by her Chinese mother. She left China to be raised under abusive conditions by an alcoholic stepfather and a first stepmother, who tried but could not protect her from the abuse, and a second stepmother who did whatever she could to instigate it.

My father’s very white Boston area family were appalled that he would come back from his tour of Japan with an Asian wife who had a son, not his. They did not exactly welcome her or her children with open arms.

I remember my grandfather only slightly, one or two visits over 14 years, before he was kicked out into the streets by his oldest son on charges of child molestation - which I find ironic, since there’s no doubt that’s what was happening between my uncle and his stepchildren, as it happened with my sister and I when he came to visit us.

As for my paternal grandmother, I grew up hearing what a bad woman she was by my dad and how much he hated her. That eventually changed after I had already grown up and left the house. Suddenly, he found it within himself to forgive her, because after he left my mom, he now “understood” why she left his father. Except there’s no comparison between a woman leaving an abusive situation and a man leaving a situation after he abused the life out of a woman.

So as far as my roots go, they don’t run very deep in terms of history or relationship.

But I have them. That I don’t know their names, that I will never be able to sit at their feet and ask them questions about how they lived, and what their dreams were, I cherish knowing that they were there. I don’t stand here alone. As messed up as my family tree may be, there’s also a strong current of perseverance and fortitude flowing through those branches.

I come from a line of survivors. Some who fell and became lost to themselves, a couple or maybe more, who would do humanity a favor if they were locked up behind bars forever, but enough who despite all their pain, all their suffering, all the twisted and hurtful dynamics that wove their way through their lives, also found a way to love, no matter how imperfectly, and at least with my mom, gave this child the gift of the memory of her laughter when she was in that good space.

That’s just as much my heritage as anything else, and I cherish it with all my heart.

September, my youngest child hit the 2 digits, and she was incredibly excited. She was sensitive enough to feel a twinge of sadness to be leaving one stage of her life, but filled mostly with a sense of adventure to enter into the next.

I hope that she will learn from my example that no birthday should be met apologetically or with embarrassment - ever.

Isn’t that weird, to feel bad for being alive yet another year? This insane insistence that time should stand still and we should all live or appear to live forever as twenty year olds?

You know, I was starting to write about how I look better now in my 50’s than I ever did in my 20’s, blah, blah, blah…and it all started to feel very tedious.

So I hit the backspace and just deleted the entire paragraph.

Who the HELL CARES?

I mean why is that so important and what am I trying to prove? Like the third decade of one’s life is the standard by which all things are measured. “I’m still just as good…pretty…smart, as when I was…”

When did that become the standard for humanity?

You know, if I ever have black balloons for my birthday it will be because I am decorating them with full moons and sparkling stars to honor the creative power of the night and the womb from which life springs…in this case, mine.

And some people might be sorry for that, but not me!

On my birthday week, I want to talk about death. Somehow it seems fitting. Not because I’m depressed, but because I am encouraged and feel stronger within myself than in my youth.

My growing fine lines, the appearance of more white hair and whiter white hair, the change of the texture of my skin and the slowing of my metabolism do not trigger a panicked desire to run in the opposite direction. That happened over a decade ago for a couple of years. I’ve moved to a place where I feel the desire to stand with my feet planted firm in the ground and look at what awaits me straight in the eye.

Ronni Bennett, one of my all time favorite bloggers, made an awesome post not too long ago entitled “On the Advent of Our Death“. My approaching birthday at the beginning of the 2nd “half a century” of my life makes me contemplate this reality, that seems to move closer to me with each passing year.

She writes,

Ageism. However wrong it is, however much individual pain and debilitating consequences result from it and how many people are harmed is, to a degree, about fear of death.

She includes a number of quotes about death down through the ages from the book, “Light on Aging and Dying” by Helen Nearing.

I was not only thrilled to find out about this book, but the author’s life was simply inspirational. She was a fascinating woman who left an incredible legacy along with her husband, Scott. Perhaps, when you live a life as rich as this, you are less afraid…perhaps not. I don’t know.

I do know we do associate death with aging, but really, death doesn’t discriminate like people. It has no preference for old age, like we have no respect for it. Far too many children become well acquainted with Death, embraced in it’s arms through the courtesy of starvation and indifference.

And Death is a gracious guest. Whenever invited by human cruelty, Death will enter and take a life, take a dream, take someone’s last hope. There’s the death of esteem or self worth. There’s the death a child experiences when abuse descends upon her innocence just as sure as any Grim Reaper.

But Death isn’t a solitary, for wherever Death goes, Life goes too. Like the inhale to the exhale, Life emerges from Death like the Phoenix from the Ashes or the Pegasus from the Medusa. Just because the living can’t follow the dead, doesn’t mean there’s no place to go, and just because the spirit lays crushed under snow, doesn’t mean the ice won’t crack in the spring.

I like the Zen philosophy about death, as a continuum and as a teacher. Being mindful of it is a great humbler of pride and the foolishness that follows.

How many bad choices have I made in my life because I thought I had all the time in the world? Perhaps wisdom is the beginning of realizing we don’t. But for now, I will not fear the closer proximity to Death as I grow in years, because measuring time is an illusion, anyway. This could be my last post or one of thousands more. I don’t know. And neither do you.

What I do know is that for whatever reason, I don’t feel alone, and I don’t mind if among the angels, Death is one of them.

~ ~ ~
Book referenced in this post:

While looking at the journey of my life, it’s only right that I should stop and thank my greatest teachers. These are the ones who have had the greatest impact on my life, the ones who have taught me the most about myself and living, the ones who have forced me to look in the darkest places and inspired me to sweep them out and throw open the windows.

Not always so quickly. I am not the best of students, and sometimes I need to fail a class over and over again, before I get it enough to move on…and then I always need a lot of review.

But they are patient teachers and the most forgiving ones I have ever met. It’s within their nature.

I’d like you to meet my children.

My children have certainly been a major factor in leading me out of the tangled swamp of my own childhood…and sometimes with no small amount of pushing. I will be forever grateful to them.

But tell me, is it really fair that children should grow taller than their parents? In just another couple years, my youngest will be taller than me, too…that’s just not right.

I remember how my mom used to complain about having to look up to me now, and I’d lovingly call her “Shorty”. But it’s my turn now.

But you know, I do look up to them…in more ways than one. And when it’s time for me to have to tilt my head back a bit to look into my youngest child’s face, the truth is, I will already have been doing that.

…which will be next Friday, November 2nd, I’m going to be writing my thoughts about growing older all this week. Some will be older posts, that I once had here, then moved to another blog, and now am consolidating back here. Others will be brand new.

In this week of contemplation and celebration, I will, also, be posting photos between here and my more personal blog concerning my childhood at Miyasan’s Daughter, as well as add some thoughts about my mother, her mother and the paths they traveled…and built for the one that followed.

I will also be posting a song I wrote just recently, called “No Apologies”, to celebrate and express how I feel at this stage of my life. I have the song in hand. It’s recorded, mixed and converted into an audio file. But I will wait and present it to myself as a gift and share this song and my joy with you on November 2nd. It’s that special to me.

I wrote this song not only for myself, and all older women everywhere, but for my daughters, and every woman’s daughter. The models are not the skinny ones who slink down the cat walk. We are the models, and we are the promise of what our daughters can be.

I want to do my best to make it a good promise.

You know, I just may celebrate all month.

In honor of Domestic Violence Awareness Month in the U.S., I wanted to bring your attention to this form of violence in a global perspective Bangladesh: Bloggers mobilise against domestic violence

It also goes to the power of the individual, and how much of a difference one person can make.

I have just found the most amazing website: Global Voices Online It is one of the most exciting endeavors I have come across in a long time. Global Voices Online is a media project founded at Harvard Law School’s Berkman Center for Internet and Society.

How Global Voices Works:

Global Voices seeks to aggregate, curate, and amplify the global conversation online - shining light on places and people other media often ignore. We work to develop tools, institutions and relationships that will help all voices, everywhere, to be heard.

Finding one’s voice is the heart of the healing journey. It’s part of my passion as an individual and a singer/songwriter. It’s the topic of so many of the songs I write. But being heard is the realization of that healing, or at least, the real catalyst for it.

What good is a song that is never heard, a story that is never listened to, a life that is never acknowledged? These things are meant to be shared. And what’s true for the individual is true for a community, a people.

When you are heard, not only is it now possible for others to respond, but you, knowing that you, your situation, your feelings have been acknowledged almost become a new creature.

You are invigorated with new strength. A sense of esteem for yourself is born or strengthened and suddenly, you feel you have value…and most important, hope.

Invisibility is the devil. No matter what someone has done to you or what you’ve gone through, if there is no acknowledgment of the experience, that blindness and deafness to you becomes equal to or worse than the crime, itself.

Even if someone is contemptuous or apathetic of your experience, while hurtful, that’s at least admitting it happened. Invisibility, also, permits the atrocity and abuse to continue with you and/or to find other victims, unabated.

Global Voices Online is a gift of empowerment, where people ignored by the general media, can speak and be heard. Where situations can be highlighted and made known.

I’m embarrassed and ashamed of what passes for news in America. We know more about our spoiled rich kids and what they wear and how many times they’ve been arrested for DUI or other stupid stuff, than what’s going on with our global neighbors.

I’m woefully ignorant of what the world outside of my own is really like. I’m changing that. I’m going to start by listening to bloggers around the world, just like me. Individual voices of regular people, comparing and integrating them into larger synopsis written by reporters.

Because I’m a part of it. And whether I’m silent or vocal, whether I speak words of ignorance or awareness, I’m contributing something to the world - whether I like it or not, whether I would be proud of it or not. It’s that way for me and it’s that way for you.

“All voices, everywhere, to be heard”. What a beautiful affirmation and a wonderful effort to make that a reality. This is idealism at its best - setting the goal, the ideal and then making it happen.

I contemplate on this. I know the stories of many of my brothers and sisters around the world will be sad. But for this moment, I will allow myself to be grateful. Grateful they have a channel to voice their pain, their fears

And maybe, together, all of us, we can find a way to kindle that hope, and through individual and communal effort, give them reason to hope, so that one day they may have reason to celebrate.

I just found the most wonderful article about Halloween from a refreshingly insightful Christian perspective; Halloween: the Christians second most important holiday. Not only did I enjoy reading the article but the comments were wonderful…especially, this one, by the author commenting on the comments, regarding what would Jesus do on Halloween.

I think Jesus would start with five Mars bars and two gummy worms and end up filling the bags of 5,000 children.

His delightful writing style and attitude makes me want to read more and look into what he believes and why. Oh, if more people could share their faith in the same way, what a different world we’d live in.