My favorite season was always autumn. Partly because I’m not a fan of summer’s heat, and partly because of the beautifully colorful images that I (along with all the other kids growing up on the Gulf Coast) saw represented by books, TV, movies… It didn’t really matter that those images virtually never looked like our reality. We wore those first sweaters of the season defiantly. And sweated.
I often talk with clients about the movies we play in our heads, about the way we saw things and the ways we wished we’d seen them. We talk a lot about how our lives’ past events impact our present and how we might change those images in our minds to bring about futures that we prefer. It’s not easy. Sometimes it seems like a fool’s errand. But the first time it works for us — the moment we experience a realization that’s more than just intellectual, an all-over body sense (or maybe even just a few parts, like a letting down at the back of our neck or our collarbone or our abdomen) — that’s when we know that, truly, there is some kind of magic in our heads that we can make intentional use of, for the better.
At some point in my growth, I decided that I actually prefer the season of spring, at least here where we live. The promise of fall as presented in the stories I read and saw… never panned out down here. Oh, I still get very excited (some of you heard me recently celebrating the coming of October) just in case it finally happens. But I’ve become much better about recognizing and then embracing reality. And spring on the Gulf Coast is (almost) always what it’s cracked up to be.
On that note: I will be celebrating the final quarter of the year (aka “autumn” and start of “winter”) by taking an extra day off each week. I’ll continue to be in The Woodlands office on Mondays & Wednesdays, and will be in Houston on Sundays & Thursdays. You might find it harder to squeeze an appointment into the new schedule — I will be posting cancellation-related openings on my Facebook page, and encouraging you to schedule farther in advance. You can always cancel later, if you wish (just be sure to let me know the day before your session.)
I hope you find the realities in your life that are celebration-worthy. And enjoy the weather!
Raising young humans is always, without a doubt, an emotionally challenging job. It’s been my experience that most parents hope to do at least a few things differently than they recall from their own childhood. When you add to those normal challenges a parent’s strong desire to be better at the job, the pressure can feel overwhelming. Even the best parents aren’t perfect.
And in spite of all the eye-poppingly negative news out there, one really positive trend has been the upswing in understanding about human emotions. (I know, it seems like the topic of human emotions would be so basic that we’d be done learning anything new, but…) What’s more important to teach the kids — free expression or self-control? Is it better to convey a constant sense of calm perfection to them or should they see how you struggle in life as an adult? So many questions! A recent study offers us some insight into how emotional expression or suppression plays a role in children’s well-being.
This article about the study, conducted at Washington State University, is a quick read. It explains the balance that parents need to find between keeping a lid on emotions and coming unglued — in front of the kids. The researchers talk about “emotional residue” — a ‘feeling’ that kids ‘pick up’ from stoic parents who are often sending confusing mixed messages.
The bottom line advice: Let children see how conflicts are handled, from beginning to end, including the related emotions. This is how they’ll learn to handle conflict in their own lives.
The ongoing challenge: Doing the above well requires parents improve their own “EQ” (emotional intelligence), so they’re better able to recognize, understand, express, and settle their own emotions. But that’s for a different blogpost…
Karnilowicz, H. R., Waters, S. F., & Mendes, W. B. (2018). Not in front of the kids: Effects of parental suppression on socialization behaviors during cooperative parent–child interactions. Emotion. Advance online publication. http://dx.doi.org/10.1037/emo0000527
It’s time again to look at my book pile. As usual, this won’t be a complicated, dense review — just a quick list of what I’m reading right now.
I don’t intentionally read books that have things in common during the same span of time, but I enjoy wondering if there are unintended connections among my interests. See if you can find the connections between the title of this blogpost and my current reading list:
Creative Grieving: A Hip Chick’s Path from Loss to Hope by Elizabeth Berrien
Standards of Care for the Health of Transsexual, Transgender, and Gender Nonconforming People by The World Professional Association for Transgender Health
The Solution-Focused Marriage: 5 Simple Habits That Will Bring Out the Best in Your Relationship by Elliott Connie
Feels like there are weights in the soles of your shoes at every step down the crowded hallway where you recognize every mark on the tile floor because you’ve done this every day for months (years?), staring down at the next tile in your path because you don’t dare look up and see the faces of all the people who are — apparently — so much happier, more confident, and just plain cool.
When the chance to say “hey” to someone — anyone — arrives, because there’s some part of you that keeps thinking there’s a way you should be doing this better because you’ve seen the videos and read the books and people in those always end up chatting with other people… your voice withers away, disappearing into nowhere, and that someone, anyone, never responds the way you hoped.
Eating dinner alone again, with the one person in the world you’d die for in a heartbeat, you attempt small talk with a smile and a joke because you know it’s the right thing to do, to try and connect at least once a day (a week?) and you worry they’re growing even farther away from you and you want to take the pain of life away from them even though you know can’t — and their snarling response just reminds you of your lowly impotent place in their new world.
And do we even need to comment about the pool party scene? No, we don’t. The crippling pain is just too lavish there.
I jokingly (sort of) refer to myself as “entertainment challenged” because I haven’t owned a TV in years or seen a lot of movies, but the other story is that I’m extremely picky about how I spend my precious entertainment hours. Last week, I selectively chose to spend my time and money on the movie, “Eighth Grade,” in part because I’d heard the writer-director (Bo Burnham) talking about it, and also because my 19-year-old kid ‘knows’ Burnham’s work and is a semi-fan.
If you’re in 8th grade (or lower grades, or probably even 9th or 10th grade), you probably won’t like it. It’s too disgustingly real.
But if you’ve lived the tale to tell it, whether you’re now a parent or just on the other, safer side of the K-12 nightmare, you may find yourself amazed at the unnerving power of such simple, everyday scenes of life in a suburban girl’s last week of middle school. It’s been many decades since I walked middle school hallways and only a few (eternally long) years since my own offspring was busy surviving that scene, but we were both squirming out loud on the protagonist’s behalf. I was also roiling with not-too-distant emotion in relating to the film’s dad and his poignantly courageous, persevering, flailing attempts to initiate even the most mundane conversations with his daughter who skillfully, savagely cut him down to size every.single.time.
Why on earth would this itch-raising exhumation of pitiful pasts be considered entertainment?
Because of the sparkling moments of courage.
They might be hard to spot and easy to miss, those minutes (seconds?) of purely ferocious expression by Kayla, the main character — but they’re there, supported at times by sweet musical backup, and other times by nothing more than the raw sounds of hundreds of adolescents living on the loose.
Just like life.
Like the rest of us, she was tethered to a treadmill over hot coals, requiring occasional explosions of awkward animation to release the building pressure, resulting in respites of celebratory relief so brief they go unnoticed because there’s only more of the same ahead.
Spotting those moments of courage and reveling in them — for her, for my kid, for me — made that time I chose to spend on this movie something I’ll remember for a very long time.
And I’m so grateful I — and we — survived 8th grade.
Therapists are trained and advised to steer clear of open political discussion for many reasons. However, the current situation in the United States — of children being separated from their families and held in detention centers — is one that warrants comment from all people.
Regarding the possibility of media spin: I have heard from trusted colleagues who’ve witnessed first-hand the situation. With confidence in their reports, here are my thoughts:
I began my studies of families — the development of human beings, the impact & influence of culture on parenting practices, and the things that lead to emotional wellness of individuals and family groups — in the 1970s. While there is no one (or even two or three) “right way” to care for children, or raise a family, there are a few points that are unquestionable. One of the most crucial is regarding the key connections between the caregiver-child bond and the child’s emotional health. Many times, I find myself hearing stories from clients of all ages (and perhaps especially those in middle-age or older) who are still experiencing results of disrupted caregiver-child bonds. The emotional pain experienced by young children who are being separated from caregivers has what we call a ‘formative impact’ — the pain of that situation is so intense and occurs at such a crucial developmental period in the child’s brain, it will necessarily curve how that individual begins to experience the rest of their life.
By intentionally putting these children and their families in these separation situations, we as a country are setting up the very scenarios that can create a tsunami of mental illness.
It is very important to reflect for just a minute from a trained perspective on the educational, professional, and other backgrounds of the people who are making and carrying out these decisions. It is quite possible in this country to become extremely successful as a professional and financially “at the top of the food chain” without ever knowing much at all about typical human development. In fact, the bulk of what we understand about human emotional wellness has been learned in just the past century — before that, folk tales prevailed, stories of “how things should be” passed down from generation to generation, virtually all without any factual basis other than anecdotal evidence. In short, the people who have been the most successful (in terms of financially-based power in this country) have never had a reason to know much about the optimal developmental needs of humans. And so, they have not and do not. And they act accordingly.
This is not a political issue. This is one of the most seriously detrimental symptoms of what can happen when uninformed people use politics as an excuse to act inhumanely. I invite my professional colleagues to join me in speaking out — take the risks, whatever it is you fear, and position yourself on a continuum of belief in treating others humanely. I stand with the emotional well-being needs of humans.
The title of this blogpost came to me in a flash. Did those 4 separate words bring you here, too, out of curiosity?
No plans for a high-level, complicated essay on the concepts — spirituality, madness, children, resilience. Just a quick list of the books currently on my reading shelf, all of which I’ve recommended to clients in recent weeks. Some were recommended to me by clients. Some I’ve read in the past, some I’m reading in the present.
The Spiritual Gift of Madness: The failure of psychiatry and the rise of the Mad Pride Movement, by Seth Farber, Ph.D.
10 Principles for Spiritual Parenting: Nurturing your child’s soul, by Mimi Doe with Marsha Walch, Ph.D.
Resilient: How to grow an unshakable core of calm, strength, and happiness, by Rick Hanson, Ph.D. with Forrest Hanson
I’ve wanted to write a brief post on books I read, without actually reviewing them, for long time. And as I looked at my current pile and wondered how they fit together, if at all, the title came to me — and I was intrigued.
This essay was originally published on a blog of mine from a few years ago, when I was taking something of a geographical sabbatical and had moved to a place very different from my hometown of Houston. You may have noticed that it’s standard protocol for helping professionals to avoid sharing much of their personal life in public, and especially to keep under wraps any life events that might be viewed as “other than” a particular version of socially optimal. But I think that such choices — to offer up only those versions of ourselves that are scrubbed of the things that all humans go through — only promotes the division between “expert” and “client.” And that’s not how I practice. I offer the following up in honor of new beginnings, which almost always unroll after struggles.
“Well, here’s to a new, BETTER year ahead!” “Yeah, no kidding.” “I hear ya, sister. It’s got to be…” “Can’t be much worse, right?” “Yeah. This year has to be better. This last one was really bad.” Nods and affirmative mumbles all around…
I sat at the wobbly wooden table, peering into the styrofoam cup at my iced tea dregs, wondering what to say, and knowing that I couldn’t echo their sentiments. So I didn’t.
I didn’t say anything, in fact, as I looked around the weekly gathering of friends who all, apparently, had just experienced a really rough year. At least it’s good they were looking forward with some hope, even if it came off the tongue with a sort of dread in the lilt.
I didn’t offer up that my year had been pretty damned grand. It only took me a few decades to wise up and know when it’s just cruel to utter positive thoughts. Besides, explaining to a group of relative strangers how a year such as my own could be labeled “grand” would take a lot of energy. It’s just not so good to get your forehead stamped with “Ignore This Crazy Woman’s Ramblings” during your first year of residence. Better to wait until they’re convinced you’re really an Okay Gal first, then lay the crazy on ’em. A few days later, I’m prepping to take Burb Dawg on what might just be the Time Of His Life — camping in the cold — or what could possibly be One Big Lesson In Dog Camping for me. And in between the tent rolling and coffee packin’, I’m reading RevEl’s latest. I’m reading her approach to the time-honored New Year’s Resolution tradition (a game I’ve always found utterly ridiculous; probably manufactured by marketing copywriters), and I’m likin’ her educating us on Janus/January and how He was granted the gift of seeing backwards and forwards, and how we can be standing in the metaphorical doorway that is really just a turn of the page on the Western Art calendar hanging on my pantry door, looking backwards, looking forwards…
And I started to cry.
No, no, not tears of the Auld Lang Syne variety. Not even weeping from the joy of Holy Cow There’s Nothing But Glory Ahead Of Me. It was more like Yet Another A-ha Moment Revealing Another Possible Reason Why I’m Out In The Sticks kinda cryin’.
Those A-ha’s are damned relieving, if nothing else. I mean, I may be staring down a task that looks about as meaningful as avoiding the deer poop in my field, but at least I’m seeing something. And down goes the left shoulder with that breath out. Aaahhhh. Aha.
Last year at this time, I had no idea that I would be leaving The Swamp for the first time. I wasn’t exactly sold on anything happening, in truth, because that’s just the way I think. Pondering possibilities is what keeps me waking up every day. Nobody in their right or wrong mind could’ve convinced me that I’d be takin’ my Burb-raised, middle-class, metaphysics-lovin’, out-of-the-box-thinkin’, Buddhist butt out to live among people who appear quite nearly the opposite of me in a lot of fundamental ways. But here I am, and some folks already know that I felt pulled or pushed, or that maybe I even floated over here, without really knowing why. I keep my eyes and ears open for clues, but mostly I let the silence wrap around me tight enough to hear my heart.
My heart hears people out here who feel forgotten. The world is moving beyond their reach while they hold tightly to what they were always told — by people who love them, mind you — was right and good. The ambience of fear and fortitude was the first thing that hit me. Now I’m feeling their sadness and sense of abandonment.
They’re just like me. Apart from appearin’ quite nearly the opposite…
So, I’ve changed my “permanent” address, even on my driver’s license (thanks, young Mr. Trooper, for that warning). I’ll continue to sit in as just another jester in the weekly happy-hour court at the Grill. I’ll let them get more glimpses of how much like them I am.
Eventually, I’ll let them see how crazy good all of this really is…
