I am the first woman on both sides of my family to go to college but it almost didn’t happen. My parents were divorced so my siblings and I were immediately impoverished. My dad was overprotective and didn’t want me (the oldest and only girl) venturing out on my own. My mom never got her high school diploma and worked long days as a cafeteria worker at a private college. In her eyes, a place where rich people sent their children was no place for me.
So I applied to as many colleges as I could afford to pay the application fee. (I even got accepted into Brown!) But when it came time to apply for financial aid, my mother refused to give me her tax information or social security card. Some way I figured out how to obtain her tax transcript, and I was thrilled when it arrived in the mail.
I have never once regretted the risk I took. I now also have a masters degree and am considering (even at age 50) pursuing my PhD in anthropology. Maybe what I did was “illegal” (I don’t remember the rules at that time) but because of my bravery my own children can be proud of the life I have created for them.
Good for you, Asiyah. That took great tenacity. I encourage you to pursue your PhD, even at 50. I started my program when I was 52 and I don't regret a minute of it. For me, it was a spiritual journey. I am retired now so I didn't see a lot of monetary gain in getting the degree but the process opened me up to all kinds of wonderful relationships, ideas, and focus. Go for it girl!
I am glad to hear that you were able to overcome your mother's withholding needed information and that that risk was worthwhile. And congrats on your Masters degree. I have been lucky to be able to advise and supervise Masters work for many older adults though I myself had only a Masters degree. But having done that work for over 20 years and having done over 20 years of social justice activism and adult education before that, I am now doing a PhD (begun after i turned 60) which is proving a powerful way to revisit and reflect upon all that I have done and continue to do. And (anthropology being my favoured discipline aside) I encourage you to pursue that PhD.
I love that you see your own bravery in all this. I wish you the continuing bravery to tackle that PhD. And I suspect that you know you already have it.
Ha! I got married! At the ripe old age of barely 19....Although I didn't realize it at the time, I think it was my ticket out of a big Irish Catholic family (#5 out of 9) - a very rigid and narrow upbringing. I was conflicted about getting married but also, very oddly, felt like I needed to take this offer of marriage because likely no one else would ever want to marry me. How sad. The marriage became violent within a couple of years. I turned to the Woman's Center on my college campus for support and my whole world expanded. It was a rough transition to genuine independence but, by the age of 23, I was grateful that I had gotten married. I recognized that my life had opened up as a result but not in the way that I expected. The truth that I took away was to listen to my own voice instead of the voices around me. For the most part, I have been able to do that.
So true... how our lives open up in ways that we never expected. So many roads not taken, but the ones that were always lead to something... I love your seeing that. Thank you for sharing.
A couple decades ago, in my mid-20s and going through a health crisis for which no one had answers, I used nearly every cent I owned to buy a last-minute plane ticket from Washington, D.C., to Mongolia. I knew nothing about Mongolia. I told no one where I was going. I at once declared sovereignty and leapt into a safety net of earth and sky.
Self-preservation was somehow etched into my mind from a very young age. I knew myself when I wasn't to know myself. Reading poetry and autobiographies were my sustenance. My father is an angry, violent soul who terrorized us with a rage so red everyday felt like possibly the last. On the day I turned 18 (legal age) I packed up my friend's VW bug with my books, journals, cassette tapes and player, and left. I moved a few miles away but it was an act of independence that rattled my family. My mother was tearful and worried; my father expressed concern for my financial well-being. I told them both I knew how to care for myself in every way, said good-bye. A desire to truly know myself became a commitment. Soon after, for the first time in my life, I said I love you to my parents, and for the first time I heard them say it to me. My freedom was born of a self-love seeded in me from multiple sources and I wanted to grow gardens of love everywhere I could. 31 years later, I look back and see how that courageous 18 year old lead with love and I am grateful for her example. I hold her close when I feel unsure and she reminds me of the way.
To truly know oneself..thank you for your extraordinary tale of courage and determination to open to an inner freedom in order to sow your gardens of love. 🌱🎋🪷🌾🪻
I was the perfect child to my parents, who fought constantly and terrified me. I wanted to be calm, loving, reliable, in contrast to the constant chaos. When I was about 8 years old, Mom would tell me to take my bath. I'd enter that '50s pink-tiled bathroom, run run run the water, splash it with my hands a bit, just sit there with my clothes off, on the side of the tub. After an appropriate amount of time, I'd exit with a towel around me, still dirty, but devilishly proud of my self- defiance.
Many years later, after my 2nd child was born, I took a walk during a staff retreat. I was overwhelmed with the pressing needs of my children, of everything. Having no space for me. I saw a pond off the country road path, walked down it. Took off all my clothes and skinny- dipped for the first time in my 33 years of life. I still remember the clouds drifting above me, how I was released into their sky. To freedom.
Beautiful thread running thru this story of learning internal trust toward greater freedom! Love the age gap and how you identify with your need for SPACE as sanity. 👍🏽💨❣️
Asserting my independence outwardly wasn't a possibility for me as a younger person. My way was to go inward. Plumbing the depths of your own psyche is as much of an initiating experience, and it can be just as dangerous if you go too far. But it was my rebellion.
This line in Pàdraig’s writing today (She gave a sad smile, and asked what we talked about all night.) so touched me. The quiet grief of his friend’s mother wanting to connect with a younger version of her son.
When I was 18, I was accepted at a university but my parents, particularly my father, thought I should go to the local community college as three of my older siblings had done. At the time, it felt like if I did not get out of that toxic place called home, I would not see 19. I went only for one year. I used every penny I had saved and worked a job making donuts for the dorms for that year of freedom. After one year, not knowing what I wanted to study, I made the decision to drop out. I couldn’t see going into debt until I knew what “I wanted to be when I grew up.” I have many feelings about that time period. It’s hard for me to imagine growing up in a home where you were supported and encouraged, maybe guided instead of dictated. I guess I learned at a very early age that life cost money and that you would need to be able to support oneself. I think, growing up in a working class household, college was not about finding yourself, it was about being able to support yourself.
I relished that year away from my home, hanging out with housemates, feeling safe. Life happens too. One choice leading to another down a long, winding road.
I also grew up in a working class family. Neither of my parents had attended college but my brothers and I got the clear message that we were going to college. There was no money but there was a state college w/i driving distance of school. My parents were clear: they could not afford to pay tuition (there were nine children) but they would provide us with room and board. Funny thing is, we all graduated from college (though not necessarily that one close to home) and eight out of nine went on for advanced degrees of one kind or another. For us, it was about having parents who valued education and who supported us in our paths to educational success.
I left the family home at the age of 19 and ultimately ended up at a college 500 miles away from the home where I grew up. My last two years of undergrad and my grad school years were all about finding myself. I worked to pay my way and found all sorts of ways to make ends meet. That was a powerful education in and of itself.
I am in awe of you at 18 years young deciding to use your every last penny to leave and go away to college. And your year of freedom, of feeling safe... it brought me tears. Thank you for sharing, Elaine.
I was in college, 19 years old, and one night, playing with light and shadow, I took photographs of myself in a mirror, and later submitted them for publication in our students of color art and poetry anthology, along with some writing, that had a recurring sentence, “learning to love my body.” That year, they were published. The photos were of parts of me, more specifically, my breasts, unrestricted, unencumbered, unbound by the veil of clothing. I was free. (Well... sort of!).
How did I feel? At the time I felt fierce and free! It was a bit of a “fuck you” to a laundry list of ideologies I felt I needed to fight against, most especially on the inside, in order to come to love my body. It felt like a way of saying to myself, “you are beautiful” and to “the world, “I am more than who you think I am.” I felt sneaky and bold.
How do I see it now? “You go, girl!” I am glad I did it! Proud of my younger self. The “learning to love my body” that I wrote about back then is unfortunately an ongoing process, nearly three decades later!
How do I see it now? One morning, about a year ago, after waking, I was folding forward to release the now familiar crimps and creaks in my back, and I saw my bare body and became acutely aware of gravity and thought, “I am so glad I took those photos!”
How do I see it now? I see that what would have been even more fierce, more free, would have been to have photographed the parts of my body I felt particularly uncomfortable with - the persistent belly, the zebra striped thighs, the asymmetries, the blemished skin, the unwelcome hair.... and now I could add more to that list! But she did good; it was important for her. For me. And I hear her now saying, “So you wanna get more free? That belly? What are you waiting for? Get to the mirror, girl.”
Oh, Mona!! I love this particular story of yours. I see a little bit of myself in it. I am over 50 and I have, certainly, taken erotic photos of myself before now but I am taking them even more in the last 5 years or so than I ever have before. I DO love this body of mine. It is not perfect (of course!), but I am able to get up every day and do my work and play and satisfy myself. That is everything. And every line, every wrinkle, every bulge, every stretch mark has a story. I AM a warrior. I am a woman. Not ashamed of it at all, very proud of my age and my body, and learning to love what it can do instead of focusing on what it can't or what it isn't. And knowing those things helps my light shine a lot brighter to other women. Women are beautiful creatures and beings and we should be celebrating that and each other!! Thanks for sharing!!! XO
Ohhh, thank you for this, Danielle! I was shocked when year ago in a meditation, i began to apologize to all the parts of my body I had spoken about, or even thought about disparagingly, and rather than the parts of my body that are linked to pain or dysfunction, that affect my day to day, I found myself thinking of all these parts that have kept me at a distance from thinking of this body as beautiful. So this is my ongoing work! Even when it can’t do what it once did (so much grief over this), or look as it once did, (take a breath, Chopra, now let it go...), can I accept, and beyond that, really truly see beauty in it, in all of it? Thanks so much for reading and sharing. :)
It is ongoing work for ALL of us! Please let me reassure you about that. True beauty is within and THAT never fades or changes. I like to believe it expands. I think of it as our beauty sinking deeper into us as we age. Our appearance might change on the outside, but inside? We are pure light and Soul! I find this to be true as I have aged. And, yes, there are some things my body can't do any more (such as create a life), but there are other trade offs. Any time I can encourage another woman, that is a good day in my book!! We need to lean on and encourage each other! XO
The title is hilarious!! And I recently discovered one (?) of my archetypes is a cat. Which is interesting...because I am allergic to them. LOL. I'll check that book out. Thanks for the recommendation! XO
I am a forty something year old male and my body is awkward just like myself. I've written some erotic poetry which only a few of my peers have read. It's an exposure of a dark soul. I don't feel comfortable with exhibitionists as lovers. Dominique definitely pressed some severe moral buttons. I find myself seeking a change, an alteration of a different future. My poetry is a bit of a treasure chest hiding secrets & other temptations. I envy those who can feel secure in their own private, sensual skin.
I understand this!! I haven't always been so accepting and there are still days or moments where I have to remind myself that I can't compare how I look to the Photoshopped images that are everywhere. We are all beautifully imperfect!! Acceptance of that is a way of overcoming those imperfections.
I also started writing erotic poetry and prose within the last 5 years or so, and I think that has helped, actually. Because when I read it to myself, I think, "Wow! That is gorgeous!" I've taken it out of the dark and brought it into the light and it has been amazing. Now, I know it's not for everyone and that's cool. The people who have read it, have enjoyed it.
Oh, he was a beautiful boy, and he had a motorcycle! I was 16, he was 20. We had one summer. We'd ride that motorcycle -- flip flops, no helmets-- to the river. No protection in any way, no thought for the future. By fall I was pregnant. We both dropped out of school and got married. That was over 50 years ago. In some ways I had to grow up way too fast, in other ways it's taken me years and years to grow up, to forgive that young, heedless girl that I was.
I think of several adventures and challenges when I broke out of the box and asserted my independence - from my parents, the conventions I was brought up to maintain, the expectations of others that stifled me. But it occurs to me that some times I've declared independence when I should have declared vulnerability and the need for comfort and support. I marched off to Europe the summer I turned 22 and hitchhiked alone across the continent, England and Scotland. I was extraordinarily lucky that I didn't experience any mishaps, and I encountered people and situations that would have been denied to me if I'd been with friends or in a group. I was tough. I did it! But deep inside I knew something was wrong. I was a naive, emotionally lost soul who jumped off a cliff. Thank goodness I landed safely, and there was victory in that. But oh, there were so many times when I longed for a parachute and some gentle hands to lead the way. The experience strengthened my belief that I had to be independent. Only now am I learning the strengths in being fragile.
This so resonated. I also marched off to hitchhike England and Scotland -- at 18-- and was a "naive emotionally lost soul who jumped off a cliff." I loved the insight - "some times I've declared independence when I should have declared vulnerability." Only now, at 69, am I starting to learn how to be fragile. (Takes a long time for some of us, I think.). Thank you for your insights.
I was always a high achiever but very near the fence of what was permissible in my family and church. Now in my 60s I'm tired of trying so hard to be excellent and brave, and working on admitting when I'm fragile. That's hard too. Looks like I'm in good company here
I’m racking my brain at the moment, torturing it toward any recollection of asserting my own independence—maybe that’s because I’m thinking of childhood. I was such a good girl and adolescent. Looking at the present day, then, I feel delighted to have broken away from long-held notions. Take tea and coffee for instance. As of last year I’m drinking tea and coffee (!) for the first time in my life, which the church forbid if I was to enter their temple ‘worthy.’ Now we have a tea station in our home, a little tray with an electric kettle, a collection of assams and coffees, and we feel rebellious every morning—and worthy—in our sixties.
Now that I think of it, when I was twelve I did almost go ‘toilet papering’ with other girls in the middle of the night at a slumber party (i.e. tossing the rolls up and over trees to cover the branches with toilet paper), but my twin and I fell asleep in our sleeping bags and missed it. // Dear Pádraig, enjoy the wedding and London!
It’s so interesting the mirrors we sometimes walk in front of without ever knowing. And the world has a way of reflecting back to you...to remind you, in truth, you’re never alone.
Like you Pádraig, I’m number 3 of 6 kids. And number 4 of 6 is a sister. And number 6 of 6 is a brother. The Irish resemblances sometimes render me speechless. But we’ve the gift of the gab.
15 years ago tomorrow, I came out to my family. It wasn’t so much an assertion of independence as it was the taking down of one man’s Berlin Wall. “Brick by boring brick” as Paramore reminded us, I divided myself from those who loved me and my secret lover. And holding up that wall became and exhausting emotional checkpoint every day reminding me “you are now leaving the safe sector.” Weapons drawn, barbed wire snaked, constricting access to my soul.
I was a month shy of starting my third decade on this planet and Saturn was getting ready to mark one heck of a return.
I wrote this poem that day, my only source of power to proceed beyond the checkpoint came in a poem. And then I went to meet sibling number 1 of 6. And the world changed. A brick fell. And Saturn winked.
“I will tell you I am happy” - a poem
Today, finally my everywhen
I will tell you...I am happy
Stumbling upon happiness
Has been quite a journey
You may read it by paragraphs
Or even line by line
But look in between
You see them as gaps...to me they shine
The world feels a little lighter today
And I can ask Atlas, “Is this how it feels to shrug?”
One more hour
One short drive
Across the river to the mild, mild west
I take one more breath, I can do this
Here I go...
3-2-1...
...CTRL+ALT+DEL
Looking back at it now, I can still feel that release of tension when one drops his arm after decades of unconsciously holding up the barriers to his heart. I’d grown tired of leveling up to where no ladder could reach for onlookers and loved ones to look beyond and within a man’s heart. Being number 3 of six taught me well.
I guess, it was a gift I was never really proud of and exceptionally good at, the one that kept me alive. Only now, it was time to start living, not merely postwar loving.
And not all that different, we mirror the innocence in lying to your parents about where you’re staying for a night...or perhaps the rest of your nights.
I talked about poems, and pain, and purpose, and parents did freak out, until anger had no direction. And now, what’s left is love.
And everyday I think of that act of independence, which all started with a poem, fearlessly and fearfully typed into a Wordpress titled “I will, I am.” And I, William, sought shelter when I hit “Save & Publish” while finding a home in the world.
What struck me, as I read of your courageous act of dropping your arms, and letting the wall fall, was this: "Welcome to your life!!" It sometimes takes such courage to be who we really are.
I love this: It’s so interesting the mirrors we sometimes walk in front of without ever knowing. And the world has a way of reflecting back to you...to remind you, in truth, you’re never alone.
That makes me cry.
Your entire contribution here is beautiful. Thank you for posting.
Your description of moving between your original two sectors is heart wrenching and I feel the weight creeping into it in your description. ... So thankful you chose to free yourself of the bulk of it. You needed more rest!
At 23 I realized I working in a job I didn't love, in a town I didn't want to be in, because I had listened to what my parents and friends thought I should do. I joined the Army to make a clean break and flew helicopters for many years. When I decided to have kids and left the service I knew this independence would also end. But that was ok, because it was on my terms.
After my sophomore year in high school, I decided that I wanted to graduate a year early. I had all but one of the needed credits and I was itching to get out on my own a bit. My parents wouldn't have anything to do with it. So I told them I wanted to go to summer school. They gave me the check for tuition and specifically said NOT to sign up for English (the one credit I would have been lacking). Well, I signed up for English. I told them that very same day. They could have called the school and changed it or cancelled the registration but they didn't. I was grounded for the summer so I read lots of literature. I was also required to make dinner every other night, which I came to love and still love cooking. I finished high school, went to college, and started a life on my own. I don't regret missing a year of high school. Considering that I spent my careers in writing and education, I think it is funny that I was punished for signing up for an English class in summer school.
I got a cat. I was thirty, not yet married, living in an apartment by myself, working. I had friends and I dated, but I was lonely at a soul-deep level. I was the "lost child" of Adult Child of Alcoholics literature -- a kind of bit player in everyone else's story. Getting the cat was an assertion that I was the author of my own life.
I am the first woman on both sides of my family to go to college but it almost didn’t happen. My parents were divorced so my siblings and I were immediately impoverished. My dad was overprotective and didn’t want me (the oldest and only girl) venturing out on my own. My mom never got her high school diploma and worked long days as a cafeteria worker at a private college. In her eyes, a place where rich people sent their children was no place for me.
So I applied to as many colleges as I could afford to pay the application fee. (I even got accepted into Brown!) But when it came time to apply for financial aid, my mother refused to give me her tax information or social security card. Some way I figured out how to obtain her tax transcript, and I was thrilled when it arrived in the mail.
I have never once regretted the risk I took. I now also have a masters degree and am considering (even at age 50) pursuing my PhD in anthropology. Maybe what I did was “illegal” (I don’t remember the rules at that time) but because of my bravery my own children can be proud of the life I have created for them.
Good for you, Asiyah. That took great tenacity. I encourage you to pursue your PhD, even at 50. I started my program when I was 52 and I don't regret a minute of it. For me, it was a spiritual journey. I am retired now so I didn't see a lot of monetary gain in getting the degree but the process opened me up to all kinds of wonderful relationships, ideas, and focus. Go for it girl!
Thank you for the encouragement!
I am glad to hear that you were able to overcome your mother's withholding needed information and that that risk was worthwhile. And congrats on your Masters degree. I have been lucky to be able to advise and supervise Masters work for many older adults though I myself had only a Masters degree. But having done that work for over 20 years and having done over 20 years of social justice activism and adult education before that, I am now doing a PhD (begun after i turned 60) which is proving a powerful way to revisit and reflect upon all that I have done and continue to do. And (anthropology being my favoured discipline aside) I encourage you to pursue that PhD.
I am cheering you on from afar, Chris! Thanks for your kind note.
I love that you see your own bravery in all this. I wish you the continuing bravery to tackle that PhD. And I suspect that you know you already have it.
It is a deep desire and I am excited about applying to programs.
I so admire your determination, Asiyah! Thank you for sharing this with us.
Beautiful!!! How courageous and what determination. Amazing, Asiyah. Thank you for sharing.
Ha! I got married! At the ripe old age of barely 19....Although I didn't realize it at the time, I think it was my ticket out of a big Irish Catholic family (#5 out of 9) - a very rigid and narrow upbringing. I was conflicted about getting married but also, very oddly, felt like I needed to take this offer of marriage because likely no one else would ever want to marry me. How sad. The marriage became violent within a couple of years. I turned to the Woman's Center on my college campus for support and my whole world expanded. It was a rough transition to genuine independence but, by the age of 23, I was grateful that I had gotten married. I recognized that my life had opened up as a result but not in the way that I expected. The truth that I took away was to listen to my own voice instead of the voices around me. For the most part, I have been able to do that.
So true... how our lives open up in ways that we never expected. So many roads not taken, but the ones that were always lead to something... I love your seeing that. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you for reading!
A couple decades ago, in my mid-20s and going through a health crisis for which no one had answers, I used nearly every cent I owned to buy a last-minute plane ticket from Washington, D.C., to Mongolia. I knew nothing about Mongolia. I told no one where I was going. I at once declared sovereignty and leapt into a safety net of earth and sky.
beautiful, and beautifully expressed: "I am once declared sovereignty and leapt into a safety net of earth and sky." thank you for that, Dana.
Thank you, Mona! Blessings to you!
There are few things better for the spirit than travel! Life is both precarious and precious; good for you opening your heart to it!!
Indeed! And thank you, Leanna!
Self-preservation was somehow etched into my mind from a very young age. I knew myself when I wasn't to know myself. Reading poetry and autobiographies were my sustenance. My father is an angry, violent soul who terrorized us with a rage so red everyday felt like possibly the last. On the day I turned 18 (legal age) I packed up my friend's VW bug with my books, journals, cassette tapes and player, and left. I moved a few miles away but it was an act of independence that rattled my family. My mother was tearful and worried; my father expressed concern for my financial well-being. I told them both I knew how to care for myself in every way, said good-bye. A desire to truly know myself became a commitment. Soon after, for the first time in my life, I said I love you to my parents, and for the first time I heard them say it to me. My freedom was born of a self-love seeded in me from multiple sources and I wanted to grow gardens of love everywhere I could. 31 years later, I look back and see how that courageous 18 year old lead with love and I am grateful for her example. I hold her close when I feel unsure and she reminds me of the way.
Wow! In awe.
To truly know oneself..thank you for your extraordinary tale of courage and determination to open to an inner freedom in order to sow your gardens of love. 🌱🎋🪷🌾🪻
So brave!
I was the perfect child to my parents, who fought constantly and terrified me. I wanted to be calm, loving, reliable, in contrast to the constant chaos. When I was about 8 years old, Mom would tell me to take my bath. I'd enter that '50s pink-tiled bathroom, run run run the water, splash it with my hands a bit, just sit there with my clothes off, on the side of the tub. After an appropriate amount of time, I'd exit with a towel around me, still dirty, but devilishly proud of my self- defiance.
Many years later, after my 2nd child was born, I took a walk during a staff retreat. I was overwhelmed with the pressing needs of my children, of everything. Having no space for me. I saw a pond off the country road path, walked down it. Took off all my clothes and skinny- dipped for the first time in my 33 years of life. I still remember the clouds drifting above me, how I was released into their sky. To freedom.
Beautiful thread running thru this story of learning internal trust toward greater freedom! Love the age gap and how you identify with your need for SPACE as sanity. 👍🏽💨❣️
I love this image, I have also found skinny dipping to be so freeing!
Asserting my independence outwardly wasn't a possibility for me as a younger person. My way was to go inward. Plumbing the depths of your own psyche is as much of an initiating experience, and it can be just as dangerous if you go too far. But it was my rebellion.
This line in Pàdraig’s writing today (She gave a sad smile, and asked what we talked about all night.) so touched me. The quiet grief of his friend’s mother wanting to connect with a younger version of her son.
When I was 18, I was accepted at a university but my parents, particularly my father, thought I should go to the local community college as three of my older siblings had done. At the time, it felt like if I did not get out of that toxic place called home, I would not see 19. I went only for one year. I used every penny I had saved and worked a job making donuts for the dorms for that year of freedom. After one year, not knowing what I wanted to study, I made the decision to drop out. I couldn’t see going into debt until I knew what “I wanted to be when I grew up.” I have many feelings about that time period. It’s hard for me to imagine growing up in a home where you were supported and encouraged, maybe guided instead of dictated. I guess I learned at a very early age that life cost money and that you would need to be able to support oneself. I think, growing up in a working class household, college was not about finding yourself, it was about being able to support yourself.
I relished that year away from my home, hanging out with housemates, feeling safe. Life happens too. One choice leading to another down a long, winding road.
I also grew up in a working class family. Neither of my parents had attended college but my brothers and I got the clear message that we were going to college. There was no money but there was a state college w/i driving distance of school. My parents were clear: they could not afford to pay tuition (there were nine children) but they would provide us with room and board. Funny thing is, we all graduated from college (though not necessarily that one close to home) and eight out of nine went on for advanced degrees of one kind or another. For us, it was about having parents who valued education and who supported us in our paths to educational success.
I left the family home at the age of 19 and ultimately ended up at a college 500 miles away from the home where I grew up. My last two years of undergrad and my grad school years were all about finding myself. I worked to pay my way and found all sorts of ways to make ends meet. That was a powerful education in and of itself.
W/i driving distance of home*
"...college was not about finding yourself, it was about being able to support yourself." My experience as well...
I am in awe of you at 18 years young deciding to use your every last penny to leave and go away to college. And your year of freedom, of feeling safe... it brought me tears. Thank you for sharing, Elaine.
Congratulations to number 6!!!
I was in college, 19 years old, and one night, playing with light and shadow, I took photographs of myself in a mirror, and later submitted them for publication in our students of color art and poetry anthology, along with some writing, that had a recurring sentence, “learning to love my body.” That year, they were published. The photos were of parts of me, more specifically, my breasts, unrestricted, unencumbered, unbound by the veil of clothing. I was free. (Well... sort of!).
How did I feel? At the time I felt fierce and free! It was a bit of a “fuck you” to a laundry list of ideologies I felt I needed to fight against, most especially on the inside, in order to come to love my body. It felt like a way of saying to myself, “you are beautiful” and to “the world, “I am more than who you think I am.” I felt sneaky and bold.
How do I see it now? “You go, girl!” I am glad I did it! Proud of my younger self. The “learning to love my body” that I wrote about back then is unfortunately an ongoing process, nearly three decades later!
How do I see it now? One morning, about a year ago, after waking, I was folding forward to release the now familiar crimps and creaks in my back, and I saw my bare body and became acutely aware of gravity and thought, “I am so glad I took those photos!”
How do I see it now? I see that what would have been even more fierce, more free, would have been to have photographed the parts of my body I felt particularly uncomfortable with - the persistent belly, the zebra striped thighs, the asymmetries, the blemished skin, the unwelcome hair.... and now I could add more to that list! But she did good; it was important for her. For me. And I hear her now saying, “So you wanna get more free? That belly? What are you waiting for? Get to the mirror, girl.”
Oh, Mona!! I love this particular story of yours. I see a little bit of myself in it. I am over 50 and I have, certainly, taken erotic photos of myself before now but I am taking them even more in the last 5 years or so than I ever have before. I DO love this body of mine. It is not perfect (of course!), but I am able to get up every day and do my work and play and satisfy myself. That is everything. And every line, every wrinkle, every bulge, every stretch mark has a story. I AM a warrior. I am a woman. Not ashamed of it at all, very proud of my age and my body, and learning to love what it can do instead of focusing on what it can't or what it isn't. And knowing those things helps my light shine a lot brighter to other women. Women are beautiful creatures and beings and we should be celebrating that and each other!! Thanks for sharing!!! XO
Ohhh, thank you for this, Danielle! I was shocked when year ago in a meditation, i began to apologize to all the parts of my body I had spoken about, or even thought about disparagingly, and rather than the parts of my body that are linked to pain or dysfunction, that affect my day to day, I found myself thinking of all these parts that have kept me at a distance from thinking of this body as beautiful. So this is my ongoing work! Even when it can’t do what it once did (so much grief over this), or look as it once did, (take a breath, Chopra, now let it go...), can I accept, and beyond that, really truly see beauty in it, in all of it? Thanks so much for reading and sharing. :)
It is ongoing work for ALL of us! Please let me reassure you about that. True beauty is within and THAT never fades or changes. I like to believe it expands. I think of it as our beauty sinking deeper into us as we age. Our appearance might change on the outside, but inside? We are pure light and Soul! I find this to be true as I have aged. And, yes, there are some things my body can't do any more (such as create a life), but there are other trade offs. Any time I can encourage another woman, that is a good day in my book!! We need to lean on and encourage each other! XO
Thank you, Danielle! There is a book called Menopaws: The Silent Meow, that I absolutely adore! :-) Reminded of it now….
The title is hilarious!! And I recently discovered one (?) of my archetypes is a cat. Which is interesting...because I am allergic to them. LOL. I'll check that book out. Thanks for the recommendation! XO
Do check it out! It makes me smile every time I pick it up. :)
I am a forty something year old male and my body is awkward just like myself. I've written some erotic poetry which only a few of my peers have read. It's an exposure of a dark soul. I don't feel comfortable with exhibitionists as lovers. Dominique definitely pressed some severe moral buttons. I find myself seeking a change, an alteration of a different future. My poetry is a bit of a treasure chest hiding secrets & other temptations. I envy those who can feel secure in their own private, sensual skin.
I understand this!! I haven't always been so accepting and there are still days or moments where I have to remind myself that I can't compare how I look to the Photoshopped images that are everywhere. We are all beautifully imperfect!! Acceptance of that is a way of overcoming those imperfections.
I also started writing erotic poetry and prose within the last 5 years or so, and I think that has helped, actually. Because when I read it to myself, I think, "Wow! That is gorgeous!" I've taken it out of the dark and brought it into the light and it has been amazing. Now, I know it's not for everyone and that's cool. The people who have read it, have enjoyed it.
XO
You go, girl! Go , especially, to that mirror today and honor that beautiful bell!
Thank you Graciewilde! That bell!! :-)
Bell, belly, same thing, amirite? 🤣
Hahaha! ;) I was appreciating the reframe. It’s my bell.. on this belle ;)
Oh, he was a beautiful boy, and he had a motorcycle! I was 16, he was 20. We had one summer. We'd ride that motorcycle -- flip flops, no helmets-- to the river. No protection in any way, no thought for the future. By fall I was pregnant. We both dropped out of school and got married. That was over 50 years ago. In some ways I had to grow up way too fast, in other ways it's taken me years and years to grow up, to forgive that young, heedless girl that I was.
Thanks for sharing!
That was beautiful. Do you think we ever really grow up? And learn to embrace that heedless young girl we were.
Oh, I hope so. But it seems to take a lifetime. Thank you for your kind words.
What else is life for?
I think of several adventures and challenges when I broke out of the box and asserted my independence - from my parents, the conventions I was brought up to maintain, the expectations of others that stifled me. But it occurs to me that some times I've declared independence when I should have declared vulnerability and the need for comfort and support. I marched off to Europe the summer I turned 22 and hitchhiked alone across the continent, England and Scotland. I was extraordinarily lucky that I didn't experience any mishaps, and I encountered people and situations that would have been denied to me if I'd been with friends or in a group. I was tough. I did it! But deep inside I knew something was wrong. I was a naive, emotionally lost soul who jumped off a cliff. Thank goodness I landed safely, and there was victory in that. But oh, there were so many times when I longed for a parachute and some gentle hands to lead the way. The experience strengthened my belief that I had to be independent. Only now am I learning the strengths in being fragile.
I like that language Thayer of breaking out of the box. I wrote about that here. https://pocketfulofprose.substack.com/p/a-rainbow-is-an-internal-reflection I think you might like it. I also really like what you say about choosing vulnerability over independence. I too have learned this as I age.
This so resonated. I also marched off to hitchhike England and Scotland -- at 18-- and was a "naive emotionally lost soul who jumped off a cliff." I loved the insight - "some times I've declared independence when I should have declared vulnerability." Only now, at 69, am I starting to learn how to be fragile. (Takes a long time for some of us, I think.). Thank you for your insights.
I was always a high achiever but very near the fence of what was permissible in my family and church. Now in my 60s I'm tired of trying so hard to be excellent and brave, and working on admitting when I'm fragile. That's hard too. Looks like I'm in good company here
I’m racking my brain at the moment, torturing it toward any recollection of asserting my own independence—maybe that’s because I’m thinking of childhood. I was such a good girl and adolescent. Looking at the present day, then, I feel delighted to have broken away from long-held notions. Take tea and coffee for instance. As of last year I’m drinking tea and coffee (!) for the first time in my life, which the church forbid if I was to enter their temple ‘worthy.’ Now we have a tea station in our home, a little tray with an electric kettle, a collection of assams and coffees, and we feel rebellious every morning—and worthy—in our sixties.
Now that I think of it, when I was twelve I did almost go ‘toilet papering’ with other girls in the middle of the night at a slumber party (i.e. tossing the rolls up and over trees to cover the branches with toilet paper), but my twin and I fell asleep in our sleeping bags and missed it. // Dear Pádraig, enjoy the wedding and London!
It’s so interesting the mirrors we sometimes walk in front of without ever knowing. And the world has a way of reflecting back to you...to remind you, in truth, you’re never alone.
Like you Pádraig, I’m number 3 of 6 kids. And number 4 of 6 is a sister. And number 6 of 6 is a brother. The Irish resemblances sometimes render me speechless. But we’ve the gift of the gab.
15 years ago tomorrow, I came out to my family. It wasn’t so much an assertion of independence as it was the taking down of one man’s Berlin Wall. “Brick by boring brick” as Paramore reminded us, I divided myself from those who loved me and my secret lover. And holding up that wall became and exhausting emotional checkpoint every day reminding me “you are now leaving the safe sector.” Weapons drawn, barbed wire snaked, constricting access to my soul.
I was a month shy of starting my third decade on this planet and Saturn was getting ready to mark one heck of a return.
I wrote this poem that day, my only source of power to proceed beyond the checkpoint came in a poem. And then I went to meet sibling number 1 of 6. And the world changed. A brick fell. And Saturn winked.
“I will tell you I am happy” - a poem
Today, finally my everywhen
I will tell you...I am happy
Stumbling upon happiness
Has been quite a journey
You may read it by paragraphs
Or even line by line
But look in between
You see them as gaps...to me they shine
The world feels a little lighter today
And I can ask Atlas, “Is this how it feels to shrug?”
One more hour
One short drive
Across the river to the mild, mild west
I take one more breath, I can do this
Here I go...
3-2-1...
...CTRL+ALT+DEL
Looking back at it now, I can still feel that release of tension when one drops his arm after decades of unconsciously holding up the barriers to his heart. I’d grown tired of leveling up to where no ladder could reach for onlookers and loved ones to look beyond and within a man’s heart. Being number 3 of six taught me well.
I guess, it was a gift I was never really proud of and exceptionally good at, the one that kept me alive. Only now, it was time to start living, not merely postwar loving.
And not all that different, we mirror the innocence in lying to your parents about where you’re staying for a night...or perhaps the rest of your nights.
I talked about poems, and pain, and purpose, and parents did freak out, until anger had no direction. And now, what’s left is love.
And everyday I think of that act of independence, which all started with a poem, fearlessly and fearfully typed into a Wordpress titled “I will, I am.” And I, William, sought shelter when I hit “Save & Publish” while finding a home in the world.
🙏🏻❤️🩹🏳️🌈☘️🇮🇪
Yes, yes, and yes 👏🏼 Continue on🌱
What struck me, as I read of your courageous act of dropping your arms, and letting the wall fall, was this: "Welcome to your life!!" It sometimes takes such courage to be who we really are.
Deeply moving. "finding a home in the world." I am glad to be a small part of that world, that home today. Thank you.
I love this: It’s so interesting the mirrors we sometimes walk in front of without ever knowing. And the world has a way of reflecting back to you...to remind you, in truth, you’re never alone.
That makes me cry.
Your entire contribution here is beautiful. Thank you for posting.
🙏🏻 Thank you, Graciewilde. 😢❤️🩹 It flowed, and from that feeling of flow, freedom and healing happened.
Your description of moving between your original two sectors is heart wrenching and I feel the weight creeping into it in your description. ... So thankful you chose to free yourself of the bulk of it. You needed more rest!
🙏🏻❤️🩹 Thank you, Shelly.
At 23 I realized I working in a job I didn't love, in a town I didn't want to be in, because I had listened to what my parents and friends thought I should do. I joined the Army to make a clean break and flew helicopters for many years. When I decided to have kids and left the service I knew this independence would also end. But that was ok, because it was on my terms.
On your own terms - so important to real independence, yes?
Absolutely.
After my sophomore year in high school, I decided that I wanted to graduate a year early. I had all but one of the needed credits and I was itching to get out on my own a bit. My parents wouldn't have anything to do with it. So I told them I wanted to go to summer school. They gave me the check for tuition and specifically said NOT to sign up for English (the one credit I would have been lacking). Well, I signed up for English. I told them that very same day. They could have called the school and changed it or cancelled the registration but they didn't. I was grounded for the summer so I read lots of literature. I was also required to make dinner every other night, which I came to love and still love cooking. I finished high school, went to college, and started a life on my own. I don't regret missing a year of high school. Considering that I spent my careers in writing and education, I think it is funny that I was punished for signing up for an English class in summer school.
Bravo for taking that English class. :-)
I got a cat. I was thirty, not yet married, living in an apartment by myself, working. I had friends and I dated, but I was lonely at a soul-deep level. I was the "lost child" of Adult Child of Alcoholics literature -- a kind of bit player in everyone else's story. Getting the cat was an assertion that I was the author of my own life.
And it was the cat's lucky day!