No matter how whole we appear to others, survivors of trauma memories know it’s an illusion. We feel our shadow-self. When we look in the mirror, it obscures what others see. Compliments and praise are swallowed by the abused child’s shame before the adult can taste the wonder of being something good. Many of us hesitate to step forward with our personal talents and gifts because the dark side dims our inner light.
We are inclined to hide from others. Whether we’ve dissociated our memories or pushed them into the corners of mind, we instinctively know getting truly close could expose our secret self. We might be the friendly person with no close friends, the quiet one on the fringes, the always giving and nurturing paragon, or the boisterous one who needs control in every situation. Our disguises come in many shapes. They reflect how we learned to manage the roaring pain of having who we are distorted by what we experienced.
In 1810, London had about 1 million people and 8500 milking cows. Milkmaids were part of the swell of street vendors that swarmed the residential streets to supply most of the food and services of the well-to-do. Their 12-hour days began with the first milking and morning delivery, followed up by another round of milking and afternoon delivery.
I smile at the memories of the milkman who made deliveries to my front steps when I was growing up in 1950’s small-town USA and love the tread of milk through history. He jumped out of his truck and left cold bottles of milk. Milkmaids carried an open pail of milk on each side of a shoulder yoke as they walked their route - often leading an ass for the preferred milk of babies and invalids so she could provide milk directly into her customers’ jugs. He would ring our bell to let us know he was there or, if no one was home, he had an open invitation to walk in and put the milk in our refrigerators. She rang the bell at the servants entrance and called out, “Milk Below Maids”.
So much was said to us by the clothes we wore in grade school. We were girls before we were people. Enthusiasm must be checked by modesty. We were little versions of the grownup world.
It was subtle and totally acceptable when I was back in the 1950’s wearing skirts and dresses to school: being a girl was more about being cute than being exploring our potential. It wasn’t how fast we could run or how high we could jump as much as it was the bow in our hair. Boys wore sturdy shoes and warm pants when the temperature dropped. Our shoes and bare legs changed our relationship with recess.
When we are thinking about something we desire, it’s empowering to gather stories of others who found their way before us. They can point us in heartfelt directions and remind us dreams unfold step-by-step. And they often show us blueprints of possibilities.
Learning stories of people who are traveling in the energy landscape we want to explore will remind us everyone moves toward their tomorrows by the compass they are using today. What we think about and how we think about it is creating a path that will take us to more of the same. What we believe builds the fences that makes us feel safe and gives our life journey direction. Feelings are the weather in our days. Doing anything that brings serenity, successes, or a smile will bring sunlight to our dreams.
Finding the words…always trying to find the words to say what I feel. I don’t know how to say the words yet. I am driven to put words together, to tell the story in different ways, exploring it from different angles. But always on paper or on the screen. My mouth can’t yet say what I write. Robin Bond
Reading Robin’s words, my heart beat the familiar erratic, rhythm from my healing journey. Finding my voice to describe my experience was the key to moving out of the shadowed forests of childhood sexual abuse, but they were elusive for three reasons.
My aristocratic, female characters of Regency England had clarity. Their possibilities were clearly defined; their path well-worn. These women were given all the benefits of art and dance instructors. Governesses drilled them in every nuance of social etiquette and they arrived at the other side of childhood knowing a smattering of French, how to run a household, and the importance of modesty. It was all they needed to fulfill their potential as a wife.
Standing on the mountain top of 200 liberating years, we can be amazed by the small world these women accepted, but it’s just as intriguing to gaze into the present to see our limitations.
Doing dishes. Standing over the sink with water up to your elbows is an image from the 1950’s as common as today's bent elbows with a cell phone pressed against ears. Though the first mechanical dishwashing device was developed 100 years earlier, the affordable, practical version was just beginning to enter the kitchens of the Elvis Presley years. In most homes, children were the dishwashers.
It was a right of passage for little kids. We had no idea how soapy water could ever turn into drudgery when we were first trusted with sharp knives and fragile glasses. The young child who sometimes got to stand on a stool and chase suds with wooden spoons could only dream of the time when they would be grown up enough to take over the sink without supervision.
A recent afternoon gave me an energy adventure of the best kind as I swooshed over the tops of redwoods. Fear came as an old companion and she's usually a dense, unmoving block standing in the way. I have rarely challenged her, but that changed as I moved from perch to perch, looking down at the soaring birds.
Underwear is a powerful force in shaping women’s experience. It defines how we show up in public and influences our personal relationship with our bodies.
In Jane Austen’s England modesty, innocence, and restraint were highly valued. Legs were not to be seen; body parts would not be mentioned in the presence of a lady. Gloves were worn in public to prevent the stimulating touch of skin. Yet, under gowns with high waists and scant bodices, women wore corsets that lifted and separated, placing breasts on display like dessert on a tray.
Computers, the internet, cell phones, a million television stations, rental movies, Wii… none of these felt compelling when introduced into my world, but each of them became best friends. Their influence didn’t feel like the wholesome, innocent Sandy Dumbrowski of Grease or her opposite, the cocky, bad-boy, Danny Zuko. They did change the landscape of childhood.
In the 1950’s, a single television with three stations and summer reruns was the most memorable, every day technology growing our world. To fill our young passion to learn more and challenge ourselves, we had to travel paths being created in a different, very modern world.
Paint-by-Numbers kept me and my friends busy until someone got a Parcheesi game and we were off on another adventure to conquer the unknown. Slinkies weren’t new, but the year Santa put one in my stocking, I was called to explore its possibilities. No less and no better than computer games, these came with a difference pace and without the sound effects. They shaped my senses.
We are inclined to hide from others. Whether we’ve dissociated our memories or pushed them into the corners of mind, we instinctively know getting truly close could expose our secret self. We might be the friendly person with no close friends, the quiet one on the fringes, the always giving and nurturing paragon, or the boisterous one who needs control in every situation. Our disguises come in many shapes. They reflect how we learned to manage the roaring pain of having who we are distorted by what we experienced.
I smile at the memories of the milkman who made deliveries to my front steps when I was growing up in 1950’s small-town USA and love the tread of milk through history. He jumped out of his truck and left cold bottles of milk. Milkmaids carried an open pail of milk on each side of a shoulder yoke as they walked their route - often leading an ass for the preferred milk of babies and invalids so she could provide milk directly into her customers’ jugs. He would ring our bell to let us know he was there or, if no one was home, he had an open invitation to walk in and put the milk in our refrigerators. She rang the bell at the servants entrance and called out, “Milk Below Maids”.
It was subtle and totally acceptable when I was back in the 1950’s wearing skirts and dresses to school: being a girl was more about being cute than being exploring our potential. It wasn’t how fast we could run or how high we could jump as much as it was the bow in our hair. Boys wore sturdy shoes and warm pants when the temperature dropped. Our shoes and bare legs changed our relationship with recess.
Learning stories of people who are traveling in the energy landscape we want to explore will remind us everyone moves toward their tomorrows by the compass they are using today. What we think about and how we think about it is creating a path that will take us to more of the same. What we believe builds the fences that makes us feel safe and gives our life journey direction. Feelings are the weather in our days. Doing anything that brings serenity, successes, or a smile will bring sunlight to our dreams.
Reading Robin’s words, my heart beat the familiar erratic, rhythm from my healing journey. Finding my voice to describe my experience was the key to moving out of the shadowed forests of childhood sexual abuse, but they were elusive for three reasons.
Standing on the mountain top of 200 liberating years, we can be amazed by the small world these women accepted, but it’s just as intriguing to gaze into the present to see our limitations.
It was a right of passage for little kids. We had no idea how soapy water could ever turn into drudgery when we were first trusted with sharp knives and fragile glasses. The young child who sometimes got to stand on a stool and chase suds with wooden spoons could only dream of the time when they would be grown up enough to take over the sink without supervision.
A recent afternoon gave me an energy adventure of the best kind as I swooshed over the tops of redwoods. Fear came as an old companion and she's usually a dense, unmoving block standing in the way. I have rarely challenged her, but that changed as I moved from perch to perch, looking down at the soaring birds.
In Jane Austen’s England modesty, innocence, and restraint were highly valued. Legs were not to be seen; body parts would not be mentioned in the presence of a lady. Gloves were worn in public to prevent the stimulating touch of skin. Yet, under gowns with high waists and scant bodices, women wore corsets that lifted and separated, placing breasts on display like dessert on a tray.
In the 1950’s, a single television with three stations and summer reruns was the most memorable, every day technology growing our world. To fill our young passion to learn more and challenge ourselves, we had to travel paths being created in a different, very modern world.
