Growing Up Female

Though I haven't seen the film Miss Representation, this is a subject near and dear to my woman-heart. I've taken the pledge and want to thank Ronna Detrick for her call to respond.

Here is a part of my personal story on growing up female. Grab a cup o' tea and join me in my journey to uncover.


On Body

I was tall for my age, had size 8 shoes by 3rd grade, and my body began changing rapidly, before nearly everyone else. I didn't quite know how to handle this; I couldn't share my experience with my friends because they weren't experiencing it yet. The boys in my class noticed. The girls definitely noticed. The adults in my life noticed, including family, friends, teachers. My parents noticed. And I noticed their noticing. And I had no idea what to do with it.

Luckily I played sports from a very young age. I was able to tap into that deep wisdom that my body was a strong vessel. I look back on the power I felt on the soccer field more than anywhere else. I felt myself ease into this body and begin to secretly like it. I liked the power I felt on the field.

But then I began to notice something: my body had this unyielding power off the field as well. 

My parent's friends told my dad to lock me up until I was 18. Though I knew what they meant, my innocent mind truly had no idea the half-spoken truth behind their words.  I secretly naively reveled in this attention. I remember rollerblading around a campground once and someone yelled out to me from their campsite.

"Hey!"
I stopped. "Hi." I said, half-aware where this was going.
"How old are you?" the guy in the beach chair asked me. I noticed the beer in his hand.
"How old do you think I am?" I asked, more out of curiosity than flirtation.
"I don't know... 21?"
I smirked. "I'm 12." And I sped off.


On Mind

I was a smart kid. I got mostly A's and an occasional B, and I flourished in school. I loved being smart. My friends on the playground were often different from my friends in the classroom. Except for a few, the ones I played sports with were not the ones I'd share grades with to see who did better. It was a healthy challenge. This gave me a chance to be friends with everybody. I liked being more of a 'floater', as I called myself, than part of just one clique that wasn't always friendly to everyone else.

Then I noticed something. Everyone seemed to have that one friend, that best friend, and I really didn't. There was that one girl everyone wanted as a best friend. I didn't want to play that game. I didn't think there was something necessarily 'wrong' with me, I just started to not like being 'different'. I'd talk to my mom and she'd tell me I had an 'old soul' or the kids were just jealous... and while that helped a little, it couldn't take away the hurt.

In high school, I followed the same path: friends with everybody, feeling outcast here and there but knowing ultimately I was doing what I wanted to do with what I had to offer. I took hard classes instead of extra gym credits. I knew at this point I had an uphill battle with proving myself as female, and if you hand me a challenge I'm damn well going to beat it. That's how I approached this time in my life, wholeheartedly.

Despite loving it, I dropped my AP Art History class when my course load became too overbearing so I could prove myself in Physics and Calculus.  

This is the exact moment I think I began confusing what I want with what I need to prove as a female.


On Spirit

I played well with the boys. Almost better with the boys than the girls because they could be so feisty and overbearing at times. I was the one playing touch-football instead of jump rope. Or better yet, I'd do both. I loved the flexibility of this lifestyle. Until one day I didn't. It was ultimately a very lonely place to be; I did not having that one place to return to where I knew I belonged. It just made me so confused.

I struggled for a long time with understanding the power I knew my body had (looking closer to 20 than prepubescent),  and the calling I felt from the boys and the distance I felt from the girls. For a long time I relished in the calling from those boys. Well into my 20s. It became the only comfort I knew. I was seriously lacking some tools. While my ultimate optimism never fully disappeared, I was alone and confused and not feeling completely respected, by others, but more importantly myself.


On Unity

It is only now that I can put this all in a better perspective. I see now how I slowly neglected my body, and the powerhouse it can be, so that people would see beyond that. How cliche. I hate it. I hate that I felt I had to 'tone down' my physical strength and beauty to be seen as whole. My naivete was gone. I felt uncomfortable in my skin.

I long for that beautiful, strong body again and, more importantly, I long to feel SAFE in it. My spirit is very solid these days; I've finally learned the type of people I want in the front row of my life.

But, ultimately, I'm still fighting for unity between this body, mind, and spirit that I am.


- - - - - 

So what's your story on growing up female? Are there any similarities? How does your story differ? If you are male, how do you respond to this? How can we protect and change the story for our daughters of the future? Is there something I missed that you think about often?

Too Dark, Too Deep... Too Real.

I think best in the shower. I swear at some point in my life I will give in and get a waterproof voice recorder to keep in there with me. So you may have noticed I haven't posted in a while. This seems to be a reoccurring theme, and I hate it. (Maude loves it.)

Do you want to know why I stop blogging time and time again? (...Or do you maybe already know from experience???) It's not that I fear what you think, what you'll say; I encourage and embrace that wholeheartedly.

It's what they think. What they'll say. You know, the people who just don't get why someone would ever be so open, so honest with any of this... stuff. Them. And while I hate to create a divide, I can't deny coming across this continuously in my life. And while it's never so black-and-white, I'll digress from explaining myself more. (Humor me here.) I also gently encourage the thems to explore anyway, for fun, and really go there every now and again for a hot minute to see what treasures they may find.

Truth: The apple seems to have fallen from an orange tree in this case. 

'It's too dark, it's too deep, it's too real.' My super-sensor-social-media-aware-watch-your-back critic tells me.

'Okay.' And simple as that, I shy away.

But every time, I return.

I always kept a journal as a kid and teen... and well, I still have one. But as time went on, I'd berate myself over and over again so much that the writing, the opening up, came to me with less and less ease. Why? 'Because you always say the same damn thing' Maude tells me. 'No one wants to hear about your crap, what's going on "insiiide" you and it's just plain depressing.'

She's so harsh. So glad I can smile at her these most days and turn away. She's not talking to me. She's talking to anyone who will listen. Frankly I've had enough of her.

This is where I belong. I want you to hear my voice. I want you to feel my words resonate, to hear my words and say, 'Yes, I've felt that,' and know it's okay to think and feel the way you do. It's part of the human condition. Why can't we collectively embrace that? It is my hope to give you a safe place to relate. It is my hope to nurture that part within you and me, for I have so longed for that place to belong. I sense maybe some of you can relate.

And now that I've found it (for the millionth time), I'm claiming it. It is mine. I don't want to let it get away again.

Today I claimed, 'I am a writer, and an artist.' This is me.

A New Year (a Little Late)

(Hi there Maude... I see you've been back at your game. Now it's time for me to get back at mine.)

I've had an amazing January thus far, prompted mostly by the simplest action: choosing a word to guide me in 2012. I've never given this concept much thought (maybe it never came up?); I've always stuck with the process of pondering resolutions. Instead, I let the words roil in my head, one by one. I remember grasping for a few, but I knew better to simply trust. Strangely, I don't remember where or when this word came to me, but it hit me strrrrong.

Belong.  

Wait. 

Give it the space on your lips it deserves.

Belong.  

Let it sink slowly from your mind into your heart.

BELONG.

There. Within just a few days of entertaining myself with this new word (which I immediately fell in love with, of course) I sensed something shifting within me. I sat smiling with that strong, solid feeling and let it know I am here listening, waiting. Patiently as ever.

I've always been the type to jump at the chance for a fresh start. I've always felt so grounded in those moments: the start of a new school year as a child, a new season for sports, a new quarter in college, a new class, a new friend, a new year in my life, a new YEAR for the world. I thoroughly embrace the clean slate concept.

I smirked silently to myself during a conversation my mom led at my Grandpa's 94th birthday last Saturday. I knew it was food for thought.

"So does 94 feel any different than 93?" she asked.
"Nope!" he responded cheerfully. Simple as that.

But that's just it. There is nothing tangible changing. It's an invented moment: purely man-made. It's nothing more than a chance to feed on the newness of that moment.

I will take that chance.

BELONG. I (re)realized in the past 6 months... I never felt much like I belonged in my hometown. Last August, I returned here for the first time in 10 years, down to the exact month I'd left. It sucked. My (poor) brother drove me home all the way from Saint Louis. I was a mess the first half hour. I cried again 5 hours later (probably right when I woke up). And I broke down hard the moment we pulled into the driveway wondering, "What the hell have I just done to myself?"
 
But that was 2011 (Phew! See what I mean about the clean slate?), and I've grown accustomed to trusting the process. Now, here I am ready to pack my car and leave for Georgia on Monday. Freedom. A place I belong. And even better? What has ALL OF 2012 been about? Belonging... Even. In. My. Hometown. WOAH.

Not that I'm meant to stay, but that was all a part of it: recognizing I don't belong and being okay with that regardless of how others feel. My friends and family who are here have filled the past few weeks with so much love, and I've let them. I've even asked them to. (Gasp!) I don't even think, okay I'm not going to have enough time to see everyone. The reality: feeling welcome and belonging aren't quite the same thing. So why couldn't I see it? Why couldn't I let myself belong for the past 5+ months?

Because I never have. Some of this goes deep, and it hurts (when I let it). But I see it, and I'm so solidly okay with putting this swiftly behind me. I'm finally learning, in 2012, just 6 months shy of turning 30, how to belong in this world and IT. FEELS. GREAT.

I can tell you in all honesty, in pure happiness and without desire for pity, that for the first time in a long while I'm actually waking up and feeling like these days are mine to have and to hold. I wake up thinking, "I belong to this day."

So simple yet so ridiculously profound.

(There will be more on this topic I guarantee.)


- - - - -

This post is dedicated to the many people souls I've learned belong in my life...
Zak - for gently urging me to keep writing (thank you), and patiently reminding me again and again of the amazing comfort another human being can offer...
Margaret - for sharing the journey of The Artist's Way and so so so much more...
Kara - for leading me to The Artist's Way, and understanding with me sometimes it is the only way, for without it we are lost...

And the soul-full women I continue to connect with online with whom I want can't wait to learn and share so much....
(list and links to come!)

Synchronicity. Truth: Part 11.

Believe. 

Walk.  Put one foot in front of the other. 
Don't think ahead.  Don't plan ahead. 

Just do what is necessary now.
It sounds so simple, but, trust me,
I know it is not. 

It can be a lost way that takes years to find again...
but once you do, prepare for amazing things to happen,
because they will, and they do. 

They have.  Amazing. 

I'm in awe at what has transpired in the last 3 weeks of my life:
The progress.  The healing.  The ease of mind. 
The slightest sense of peace. 


I don't think much needs to be said, nor do I have the words for it. 
You can see it in my eyes, hear it in my voice. 

Change is coming here. 

Resistance. Truth: Part 10.

Image by koeb via FlickrHave you ever searched for something far and wide, and then once you found it... you froze... unable to take that final step?  You can call it anxiety, fear, laziness, or resistance.  You can blame it on being weak or a perfectionist.

Whatever it is you want, you are the only one standing in your way, but you can't move: you're paralyzed by this inundating resistance.  You can't figure out how to get out of your thoughts and just PUT. ONE (damn) FOOT. IN FRONT. OF. THE OTHER.  Thinking about the task as a whole seems enormous, too much, or maybe even pointless by now... whatever your mind is telling you.  You've created an unsatisfying end (or thirty) to the story without even engaging beyond page three.  You put the book down and are ready to walk away.  

'I already know what's going to happen,' you tell yourself.  But you don't.  But you sure know what's going to happen if you stick to that thinking: nothing.  Nothing will happen.  Nothing will change.  Nothing will come to you if you don't go get it.  Or even just ask for it... though asking isn't easy when you know someone has the power to say 'no'.

Isn't just letting it go easier to deal with than finding out what you want is no longer for sale, not in your size, or just slightly out of your reach?  'Sorry,' your little heart tells you, and it feels so real, before you've even tried seeking the (actual) truth.

I play this game.  The more important the thing that I want, the more frozen I become.  This started in college as I was nearing the end of my studio classes; a resistance kicked in that I'd never known existed within me before.  I feared everything.  I couldn't put pen to paper, or finger to keyboard.  I slept hoping to wake up without this heaviness existing upon me.   I punished myself and denied myself playtime.  But it never went away.  The heaviness stuck, time kept ticking, and deadlines were looming.  I became a zombie.  I knew the motions, and I tried to just Do the Work to distract myself.  This worked for a little while, until I'd become overwhelmed again and have to try a different approach. Then I'd start this process all over again.

I feared failure more than anything I've feared in my entire life.  I feared going all this way and not getting that degree, or that stupid little B that I needed.  I was so terrified of failing that I almost made sure I failed just so I could know if I would survive it.  What is it that makes us do this to ourselves?

Today I had something important to do.  Actually, this week I had something important to do.  I wanted to get it done Tuesday.  It didn't happen.  Wednesday passed... Thursday... 'okay, okay.'  And then the external resistance kicked in.

'Just how strong are you Sera?  How much can you handle?  How much do you want this?'  THAT... that is when my perseverance kicks in... the inner athlete in me sees a challenge.  'Oh, so you think I'm going to let this beat me down?'  I had to get something printed... and of course I'm out of ink at my house.  The first place I go, the only place I thought I'd have to go, can't print something double sided and make it line up.  'Are you kidding me?'  Maude is now having a field day.  Here we go... nothing can be that easy.  

I start calling print stores, and no one's answering.  By this time, it's after 6pm... and they're probably closed.  But I've got the determination NOW; I need to do this NOW.  I need it printed in color on card-stock.  Still, no one's answering.  The library prints for free on regular paper, and black and white.  'Something is better than nothing, Sera.'  Okay.  To the library I go.  I print.  I print a few extra copies just in case.  I check out the book I reserved from another library.  I walk out to my car and realize... I did it, and yet, nothing is going to change in the next 12 or even 24 hours.  I want color and card-stock.  I don't want to settle.  I want to do this right.

Friday morning.  Body is sore.  Supposed to do this, need to do that.  I can't do one thing because I'll be distracted by the other: I can't go on my scheduled weekly 'artist's date' because I will be beating myself up for not doing what I need to do.  One foot in front of the other.  Get dressed.  Put your contacts in.  Make yourself presentable so you can face the day without confidence as yet another distraction.  Bring all your supplies, your zip-drive and your card to pay.  Just do one step at a time.

Drive to the print store.
And then print.
Pay.
Cut.
(Breathe.)
Paste.  
Drive.
(Breathe some more.)
Deliver.

And now... it's DONE.  And while one step at a time was manageable, I was nearly in tears by then end of this process.  But I did it.  And now there will be no regrets, no lost opportunities, no blame to throw around.  Take THAT, Maude. 

I'm doing the best that I can. (And yes I have to keep telling myself this.)

Maude and the Divided Self. Truth: Part 7.

Image via WikipediaFirst, let me make this clear: I do NOT have a Split Personality disorder. 

I do though, have a habit of beating myself up, ferociously.

I hear that Inner Critic, that Censor, as Julia Cameron calls it in The Artist's Way.  I have to make it known, mostly to myself, that THAT voice isn't my Truth.  She is instead my demon, my serpent, my daily dose of self-inflicted torture.  She is crude,  a smart-ass, and a know-it-all.  She is pessimistic beyond comprehension.

She hates change; she balks the instant she senses an opportunity to talk down to me, and barks self-loathing accusations repeatedly until they are heard.   She makes me feel like a burden, exposed, ashamed, a maudlin: undeniably unworthy of anything I desire.  She is my FEAR, embodied.

I felt it appropriate to give her a name.  Her name is Maude. This name seemed fitting enough, simply to remind me how deep (and quick) her lies soak into the cloth of my being.

A little history on the term 'maudlin':
 

1607, "tearful," from M.E. proper name Maudelen  (c.1320), from Magdalene  

(O.Fr. Madelaine ), woman's name, originally surname of Mary,  

the repentant sinner forgiven by Jesus in Luke vii.37 (see Magdalene). 

In paintings, she was often shown weeping as a sign of repentance. Meaning "

characterized by  tearful sentimentality" is recorded from c.1631.

Ahh, it makes so much sense now.  I do not feel I have empowered this presence by naming her.  I feel now I can reason that she IS NOT speak my Truth, and I can now tell her, by name, to SHUT UP. 

_______________
I also have another voice that I hear or rather, sense.  This voice is quiet, like a child, maybe she is a child, my inner child.  I've been seeking a name for her.  She speaks my Truth.  She is serene... Serena... no, that name is close but not quite right.  Something soft, silent, strong, just as she is.  I'm a fool for alliteration and the 'S' was sticking with me.  It's been nearly 2 weeks in seeking.

I hadn't found it, until tonight.  As the stars align, leading me from one Renegade Conversation to another, I find myself reading a new blog (new to me) called Sophia Leadership.  I am quickly drawn in, I soak up post after post.  I find myself seeking the meaning of this name, Sophia Leadership, though the connection has not yet been made.

In the top right corner of the blog I find my answer:  

"What is this about? 

Sophia: Greek word for wisdom. A word that is feminine, 

spiritual, intuitive, creative, visionary, and compassionate. 

Leader: Anyone who steps forward with courage to influence people toward action."

 She is my Sophia.  That voice: that gentle, sophisticated, trusting, honest, strong yet soothing voice, is my Sophia.  It feels so lovely to be able to acknowledge her for everything that she is.  She speaks from all of these things: my femininity, my spirituality, my intuition.  She speaks (and craves) my creative freedom, and my true vision.  I can feel her gentle persistence when I ignore her, but she is patient and kind with me.  And most importantly, her essence of compassion embodies my Truth. 

I can work with this.

Theme 18: Under

'I'm going under'

Under. Sinking... falling.
Fallen.
Under. It's become nonsensical.

Create a world around you where you won't go under.

Embrace the changes as they come
So you don't slip and fall - become one with them
So you aren't taken under.

Beneath yourself.  To another place
Under where you are meant to be.

Never stop hearing, speaking, shouting your words,
Thoughts, ideas... let them be heard
Or they shall go under....

It is your Truth and only your Truth that will be lost...
To no one but yourself... and while that may
Make this all seem so trivial in meaning,
It is your life
Your RIGHT to be heard, to be felt, to be UNDERstood. 

I find myself asking the same questions I asked over a decade ago
When I was just a babe (some people think I still am).
I feel it slipping away... that youth.
But I've had that sinking feeling before.. that feeling of going under...

And I know I have it in me to fight, TO FIGHT until
Things turn around, and I come out okay,
I can't help but wonder HOW LONG
until I go under again.

How long in what seems a perpetual game I play
I've become a part of and haven't yet found/formed the tools to escape...

I'm going under.. just speaking these words... shame on me.
These words I've spoken so many times and, for over a decade now,
Have become so tired of speaking again and again. 

We shall rise.  We shall rise alone or with one another...
It doesn't really matter.
Into our greatness... one day it will come;
(I can almost promise this.)
We know it exists we just have to start from the bottom...
Under all of this... this pressure,
Under where we feel we were meant be.

I'm with you if you'll be here with me...
I bring myself back here to you every time
I feel I'm going under....

Theme 17: Blood

Blood. On my shoes, in your hair.

Sticky, messy, thick. Pooling
around your aching self.

Sickening to look at. Nauseating to think about.

I can nearly taste it, or feel it flowing through my veins,
running this body, this heart, this aching heart.

Feeble. Woman vs. Man. Sick. Growth, age, deterioration.
Yet it's all the same.
The stuff that moves through us is almost all the same...

Your type, my type... your diet based on your blood.
Do you subscribe to that notion?
 I might try it if I thought it would make a difference....

I see blood, oozing out your vessels like water through a tap.
Does this work for you? Does this make you queasy? 

Can you feel, taste, or smell your blood... without any
being present? Can you conjure up the vision of this
crimson-life-force running through you and me, him and her,
both your lover and your enemy?  

That man you judge, that woman you scorn, they'll bleed,
if you cut them, just the same. It's all the same.
Over and over.

Blood. Flood. Flowing blood. Through
your veins, my veins.  Like a river that never stops,
only this time it does.  Trivial compared to the Nile.
Eventually it stops flowing, the river in our song, our tune,
our beat. Heartbeat. 

Would this blood go on forever if only we could build a well?

Theme 16: Spit

Spit. Saliva. Pity. The act of spitting upon someone. Spitting on the sidewalk or out the window.  Spitting being illegal. Spitting during an athletic game... accepted... denounced. Tiger Woods on the green having to apologize.

My dad taught me how to spit and it's something I'm actually quite proud of; I see it as a talent if you will. I don't know if you'll think it's as cool as I do, but growing up an athlete, I did my fair share of spitting. Frustrated spits, over-salivated spits, nervous spits. Because-I-can spits. Watch-me-spits. One of my most memorable pictures of me during HS softball is of me in the outfield mid-spit.  I love it.  Completely cracks me up.  We were playing at a Southern, and I meant business. That was an I-mean-business/don't-mess-with-me spit.   

Long walks in the woods as a child, long walks down the dirt road I grew up on. Two miles long and we lived near dead center... either direction prime real estate for Spitfests. Walking the dogs (and sometimes the Yak), making stories up about Dive Rock, Robin's Egg Corner, and Bear Mountain. I could take you on a tour of my childhood woods... my backyard, which just so happened to back up to a gorgeous state park. We'd walk the deer trails and make them our own. We'd spit the entire way.  Not that we made a big deal out of it, it was unspoken... but as a girl, a spitting girl... I made sure to get my fair share of spits out with my dad.  It was our quality time. He'd spit, all of a sudden I'd realize all that excess saliva sitting swamped in my mouth. My turn. Pride. The relief of a good spit.

Bonus points for distance. This is what Dad's are for, isn't it?

Nurturing. Part 1.

Today is a rainy day.  Dreary, overcast, and colder than not.  A day you'd want to spend wrapped up in a blanket, soaking in the tub, or baking in the kitchen.  I plan on doing all three.  Today is a silent day in my heart, a peaceful day.

Yesterday was Friday.  A busy day.  I worked all day and I babysat all evening.  When I finally made it home, or probably even before then, I was spent.  It's been a long week in so many ways.  I just needed to sleep.  I came home, left the lights off, turned off the TV,  and opened the back door to the porch.  I then cuddled deep into the couch, completely consumed by my favorite corduroy comforter.

Comforter.  That was all that I needed at that moment: to be comforted.  I need that a lot lately.  I eventually made my way to the shower to wash off the day, the week.  I fell asleep quickly once I allowed myself to settle. 

Today I slept in an hour later than I am able to during the week.  I felt rested.  I wanted coffee.  I was ready to start my day (this doesn't always happen).  Z was heading to work, so I made coffee in time to send some with him (nurturer that I am).  I wrote my Morning Pages: today was Day Seven.  I also had my first unplanned interruption.  I quickly got back to my writing while the repair man installed our new microwave.  I had no idea he was coming, or I would have planned differently.  Either way, I completed my first week without fail.  I remember hearing this somewhere: it takes seven days to start a new habit.  Regardless of the science behind that, I'm going to make it my Truth.  I officially have a new habit nurturing my spirit.

Repair man gone, Morning Pages complete.  I returned my brother's call from last night, which turned out to be just a pocket dial.  An appreciated call nonetheless.  We talked about our mom; I'll save that subject for another post.  Then I asked him about these little pods that have developed on my spider plant and told him I'd send him a photo. Apparently that put me in an immediate inquisitive and playful mood.

Now, this is just a baby hanging off of the Momma plant, and you can see three of the little pods I was talking about.  (See those paintbrushes in the background too?  We will get to those in this journey, I promise.)  Momma's sprouted about 8 babies in the last few months, maybe more.  I decided despite the cold, I was going to go onto my back porch and replant Momma, as I've been wanting to for a while now.

So this is how we started: Momma and two of her older babies that I've grown in separate pots and a barren hanging pot.

 

And this is how we finished... with Momma planted in with her two babies for fullness, and 3 more babies being nurtured until they can grow on their own.  Momma already looks happier, though I can't actually hang her because I need her to block the passage for my kitty to get off the porch....

Then there was another problem.  I completely over-saturated my aloe plant without realizing it because the pot it was in was too small and I could barely get to the soil to see how moist it actually was.  (Have I told you about my olive thumb yet?) So she was replanted, too.  I put her in a larger pot (actually the one Momma Spider was in) along with some new soil.  I surrounded her with some other plants and objects to help support her heavy limbs.

 

Once this still-life was set up, I couldn't help but notice the words in my head, "I get by with a little help from my friends..." (So if you're now craving a Beatles flashback click here.)

On a semi-related note:

This little bugger just makes me smile.  Originally what I purchased my bamboo plant in, my mom, aunt and I did some planting and re-potting while they were visiting over Easter weekend.  I was sad when we re-potted the bamboo and I had nothing to fill this amazing little elephant-pot.  So my mom bought me this cactus when they visited the Botanical Garden the day I had to work.  My mom has always been amazingly thoughtful like that.

So there we go.  This post is a little more Slow Love Life than my usual.  I needed it.  I played a little today.  I feel nurtured.  I think this counts toward my Artist's Date, don't you think?

I have to bake a cake for a graduation party this afternoon.  I don't think I'll mind playing some more at all.