To live one’s life free from the undue influence of substance, habits, individuals, groups, or ideologies. This is my new definition of recovery.
Many years ago, that definition was very different; recovery then meant attending meetings, total abstinence from drugs and alcohol, and strict adhérence to the rules of my sponsor and the long-timers ‘in recovery’. Certainly, because I now might have two or three drinks per year, some of these might say I’m no longer sober; others might suggest that I never really had a problem. I, on the other hand, see things s little differently.
In many recovery programs, there is a problem. The problem is one of definition, and one of control. To me, the definition of recovery is “to restore a person to a state of health”. If we are ill, we are unable to do what we could do prior to entering the state of disease. When I was in the throes of drug and alcohol addiction, that is what controlled my life. I needed substance to cope.
Later on, I joined a twelve step recovery community. My first sponsor remains a dear friend, and I credit that community with saving my life. However, I see a fundamental flaw in the way such programs work. The model of most of these programs does not lead people to walk on their own alone; instead, one becomes as dependent upon the group as one was on the substance one had been addicted to. Worse, many groups are utterly cult-like, convincing members that their disease of addiction is growing underneath, and should they leave, it will take hold once again, and with renewed and unrestrained vengeance.
This, to me, is not recovery; it is most certainly not freedom.
And so, I used the twelve step program to rid myself of that addiction. I would never suggest that people try drinking or using drugs again; some people simply cannot do so safely.. but I am saying that replacing drug dependence with meeting dependence isn’t recovery any more than saying one is cured of a lung disorder if the ‘cure’ meant perpetual confinement in a hospital.
Recovery implies freedom. If a solution does not grant us freedom, it does not afford is a legitimate recovery. When the solution to being ensnared in s perpetual cycle of drug or alcohol abuse, habitual gambling, or some other compulsive behavior is perpetual attendance at meetings under threat of relapse, that’s simply neither recovery, nor cure, not freedom; it’s certainly an imposed pause in the unwanted behavior, and that’s admirable, but we long for more.
Chilly South Jersey morning And cold post dawn riders ‘Good morning beautiful’ greeting From one of my fellow passengers
Talk of the cold, of Jersey, of Camden Of people, of New Hampshire, of moving, Talk of the world, history, where we’ve been, Of being, living, and belonging.
Riders on a South Jersey bus Finding refuge from the cold Sharing stories, some of us Finding kinship in memories told.
I am nobody’s Daughter Born of blood, born of water Not respected but rejected I became nobody’s Daughter
I became nobody’s Daughter Fighting through mud and blood and water For the right to be for the right to be me I became nobody’s daughter
I am nobody’s daughter With a heart full of love that is stronger than blood With a heart full of love that is stronger than water. Pity those who made me Nobody’s daughter
When Jesus uttered these words he likely shocked his followers – certainly the proper order was for children to emulate adults, and not the other way around. Adults were the teachers, children were to learn, and to upset that order shouldn’t be done.
Just like a Child
In his book Spotting the Sacred, Bruce Main speaks of being childlike, but he points out one quality that has always meant a great deal to me in chapter 5 when he speaks of “unrehearsed congruence”. In the section where this term is used he is referencing the spontaneous prayer of a child and its effect on a man who heard that prayer.
I have in my own life often wished that I could find that spontaneity. Growing up, spontaneity and improvisation were things I could ill afford lest I show too much of myself. Being myself instead of who I was permitted to be resulted in harsh punishment. I learned to be aware and in control of what I said, how I moved, who I was with, simply so I could avoid beatings or other punishments. What I lost was spontaneity and authenticity. I managed to hold on to my curiosity, but it needed to be restrained to areas that were”acceptable”.
I also avoided children; not because I didn’t like children, but because I was told that people like me – people who struggled to simply be who they were told to be, would grow up to be the sort of people who would abuse children. Even around my own daughters, finding spontaneity was not possible. The fact that the individual who told me this was a serial abuser should have meant something. But in avoiding children, I lost something that has taken me many years to rediscover.
At the same time, being raised in a controlling and abusive environment, and finding recovery afterward has taught me something important; resiliency isn’t something that need be lost forever.
I found that one enemy of resiliency is resignation, while the path to resiliency, and to the Kingdom, as Jesus put it, is to “become like a child”. In my own case, that path involved the most child-like act of finding a friend; of being open to a relationship, of trusting.
For survivors of trauma, trust can be a dangerous word. For many of us, often as children, our trust was, in many cases, betrayed. We are not given as adults to trust easily; it is something we must re-learn. We must “become as children”, not entirely, but at least in part.
I have also found that in “becoming like a child”, at least in learning to trust, I have also learned to feel more deeply. I can feel joy, sorrow, and especially love much more deeply and viscerally than I could before. When I had put aside not childish, but childlike things, I had also walled myself off from being hurt. After all, big girls aren’t supposed to cry over little things, or things that are long past; at least not if we’re “emotionally stable”. But being childlike is a recognition that the “rules” of adulthood, especially our Western, puritanical, capitalist, ‘drag yourself up and get on with it’ attitudes, are mostly bullshit, and terribly harmful to the human condition. Rather than helping us heal and move on, these attitudes leave us with emotionally disfiguring scars and festering wounds as we seek to navigate life pretending that all is well and that we need no help or compassion.
In ‘becoming like a child’, we’re able to reach out when we need help and when we see another in need. We discover, at once, compassion and resiliency because they are both sides of the same coin.
Real healing looks different. Those who heal still carry reminders of past trauma, but it doesn’t leave them broken and disfigured with wide-open wounds. Instead, the stories of past trauma are woven into a rich and colorful tapestry that radiates strength and hope and which is a celebration of life. This isn’t to say that one must experience trauma in order to fully experience life; rather, I’m saying that those who have found a path to healing learn to integrate their previous experiences, even the traumatic ones, into the fabric of their being in such a way as to make that resulting tapestry more beautiful, richer, and stronger that it otherwise would have been.
We need to understand too what real compassion looks like. This is another part of us that has been harmed with our modern, puritanically and capitalistically influenced way of thinking. Too often when we hear of another’s problems we are quick to offer advice or solutions and forget that what many really need, especially early in their struggles, is to simply be heard and understood. When someone is facing, for example, a life altering medical diagnosis, they will certainly hear from many about the benefits of CBD, herbal remedies, and countless people who recommend some specialty treatment. Often though, what someone really needs is someone to simply hear them and to give them the space to come to terms with the change that is taking place in their life. What they need is a compassionate listener. What they need is a friend who will simply be there.
As children, there were many times when our friends could not solve our problems and we could not solve theirs. Often enough, our problems were their problems too. But those problems became easier to bear because those friends were their. When we can regain that childhood trust in each other and make each other’s lives easier, we are discovering part of what it means to “become like a child”.
Recently I was occasioned to take part in an extra-judicial proceeding that dealt with some abuse I experienced as a child. Alone, the experience would have been much more than would have been bearable in a healthy fashion. But I asked my best friend if she would be with me, and she went. What might have been a terribly stressful experience became instead something that was also healing, despite it’s nature, for both of us because the experience was shared. It brought us closer; we learned more about ourselves and about each other.
Perhaps that’s yet another part of both being childlike and resilient – being able to continue to grow and heal, to recognize our weaknesses, to know that there is yet much we can’t do alone. Sometimes we need to be content to wait and find what peace and joy we can in the here and now, despite what seemingly integrate things may otherwise be happening. Earlier in the book of Matthew, Jesus gave his familiar parable of the lilies of the field which neither spin nor sow, yet are dressed in more splendor than Solomon himself. They don’t toil, but God provides for them. Jesus’ point was not that one shouldn’t ever work, but rather that work and effort extended solely for the purpose of vanity was unnecessary. When we look at young children, we don’t see them worried about how they or their friends look; instead, what matters is the quality of the friendships they make, whether they play well together, whether they share, whether they care.
It’s only as we become older that physical beauty begins to take on as much, or in some cases more importance than inner beauty. It seems that we are taught to find distasteful those who do not conform to a particular aesthetic. We can become more like children by worrying less about physical appearance – our own as well as that of others, and more about character – especially our own.
Children are thirsty for knowledge. They are naturally curious about everything. They aren’t satisfied with “just because”, nor should we be. It may seem more grown up to not ask “why”, but perhaps that’s one reason we’re in such a mess right now. Maybe we need to ask “why” more. Why can’t we have something like a National Health Service in the US? Why do we need to rely so heavily on oil and the resulting pollutants? Why can’t we have clean air and water? Why can’t we have equal rights for all? Why must we fear that the rights we do have will be stripped away?
The difference we have was adults is that along with our childlike questioning, we also have adult autonomy. We can change our world, and we can change ourselves. While we may not be able to change our past, we can still correct the deficiencies we may have had in our upbringing. If there were things we didn’t learn, we can still learn them. If we were lacking the love of a family, we can yet find even that – this I can promise you because it happened in my own life.
What I can say about my life is that every truly good thing that happened to me began when I had trust, like that of a child.
I’m sorry for not posting the past few days. I’m in New Hampshire dealing with something that has been particularly difficult emotionally. I was fortunate in that my best friend was with me.
My friend and I are much closer than friends tend to get – we are as close to sisters as two genetically unrelated women can be. What we share is a similar upbringing, and an understanding of each other’s pain, and what growing up in a toxic religious environment can do to somebody – how it can have lifelong consequences. We both suffer from chronic illness including asthma and allergies and autoimmune issues, and we both share a deep love of art and music. We are both divorced with two children; I have two daughters, she has two sons. Her mom worked for two of the same companies that I worked for – one of them in the same building and same floor, albeit quite a few years prior to me. The thing is that we have a great deal in common, and when we talk, we connect on a level that I can’t reach with anybody else, and never have.
Over the years, I’ve been accepted as part of the family, and where my own family rejected me, it is my friend’s family that embraces me. I’m not sure I would have survived the difficulties of the past few years without her. This is the sort of friendship we share, and today’s post was inspired by a conversation we had.
The Sower and the Seed
In the gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and also in the gospel of Thomas, you will be able to find the parable of the sower, or the parable of the soils as it is called by some. It is a story of a farmer who instead of sowing seeds with care, cast them about indiscriminately, giving no care as to whether they landed on good soil, poor soil, among thorns, or among stones.
Have you ever wondered on hearing that parable what sort of soil or seed you might be? (Depending on how it was explained to you.) Or perhaps it was the parable of the ten bridesmaids, and you wondered whether you might be a wise one who would bring enough oil to last until the bridegroom arrived.
The question in either case comes down to one of sufficiency – do we believe in ourselves enough to say unequivocally that we are the fertile ground or the good seed, or that we are the wise bridesmaids with sufficient oil for our lamps. We can say that we are wise, sufficient, loving, and caring, and we know this because of the company we keep, because of those who choose to love us, and who permit us to share our love with them. To deny ourselves is to deny those who love us. To deny ourselves is to call everyone who places faith in us liars.
So what of this beautiful flower growing from a brick and mortar wall?
My friend, my sister, and I saw this and realized that some seeds care not where they are planted. Such as these are my friend and I, who by all odds probably shouldn’t have made it to where we are. We have both survived much, and fate seems to have had a reason for bringing us together. I know that she brought healing to me, and I’ve seen moments of that in her as well. This flower, growing where nature really didn’t intend for flowers to grow, represents both of us perfectly. Sower? Soil? Who really cares. Life threw us both some really unique curve balls, and we did the unexpected with them. It’s as if a pitcher throws his best and the ball just disappears. Nobody got to hear a familiar report of bat striking ball, nobody saw it land in the catcher’s mitt, nor did it go past him; that ball just disappeared somewhere between the pitchers mound and the catcher. Someone had a plan for that ball. But just maybe, the ball, like my sister and I, like that flower in the wall, had plans of it’s own design. Our respective churches had plans for us, they, too, are gone. But we are here together, living our own lives as best we can, making art, making music, writing, and trying to make this world a little bit better for the people we interact with.
You Belong Haddonfield Friends Meetinghouse from the graveyard
I received this message this morning from someone dear to me: “Dee, you certainly belong in this family. We have all been through many fires and have all been Triumphant.” sometime after I was done crying I began to think about the difference between “belonging in”, and “belonging to”; between chattel and partnership, between “one among” and “one of”.
Growing up, I always felt a if I were trying to be, but never succeeding at being “one of”. Not in my family, not in my church, not at school, not by many in the military in which I was compelled to enlist after high school, not even in my own body. My family and my church were constantly telling me that I wasn’t who I knew myself to be, and I was punished, often harshly, for stepping outside the bounds of what was considered acceptable.
We learn who we are when we are accepted, when we discover a sense of belonging with those who love and accept us as we are. We become better versions of ourselves among those with whom we belong when they challenge us to do better, not because they dislike us, or because we embarrass them, but because they know what we are capable of, and what we deserve from life.
Finding a family where I could belong was the first step in healing my very broken soul. Learning that I was worthy of being loved, that I wasn’t an abomination, that I wasn’t evil, helped me to become a more complete, a more whole person. I learned to be better, to do better, to love better, and to accept love.
The photo accompanying today’s post is my Meetinghouse, the Haddonfield Friends Meetinghouse, taken from our graveyard, where I will someday likely be buried. A few montre ago I was walking in this graveyard and thinking of those Friends now buried there, who were part of my meeting, and felt a deep understanding that these are now my people. I’m a part of this community. This is where I belong, and in our graveyard, children play, people walk, and people have been doing so for 300 years. And these people from the beginning remain where they belong, among Friends, with those who remember them, among children playing, and ever close to where they worshipped in silence.
I’ve been a part of this community for about 2 1/2 years,and though it wasn’t exactly what I was looking for, it was and is exactly what I needed. And the larger Quaker community has been even more so. I’m finding myself challenged spiritually – not only to live my beliefs, but to define them. I belong here, and it is in this community, among these people, where I am becoming again, a better version of myself.
Some say that blood is thicker than water, and this once implied that familial bonds were stronger than the bonds of Christian baptism. What I’ve come to understand of late is that the strongest bond isn’t one of blood, or genetics but of commitment, of covenant, it just so happens that our strongest commitments and covenants are usually aligned with our genetics. Sometimes though, this isn’t the case. Sometimes those bonds are stained or broken. Sometimes they are irrevocably shattered. And when that happens those of us who wish not only to survive, but thrive, will find this who are capable of loving us, of being mirrors for us, and of accepting our love.
The worst thing we can do, and many of us might be tempted, is to consider ourselves unworthy, unlovable, too broken, and give up. If you have been tempted to feel this way, please know that you don’t have to. Every one of us is important and worthy and needed. Your story matters, your voice matters.
If you are feeling so troubled that you might harm yourself, please reach out and talk to someone. 988 is the national suicide hotline in the United States. You can find an international list of hotlines here: https://blog.opencounseling.com/suicide-hotlines/
I allowed myself to feel in some of the darkest places imaginable for far too long, because I believed the lies I was told about me, by those who couldn’t, by those who didn’t know how, and by those who never wanted to love me. I let their lies poison me, and it wasn’t until I stopped listening to them that I was able to find myself, to hear my own voice in the midst of the inner chatter my head had been filled with, and to begin the process of healing and becoming.
If you are like I was many years ago, you may be feeling a bit desperate, like you have few options – or no options. You may be tired, exhausted by the struggle, convinced that nothing will change. I’d like to share some thoughts about that.
The first one is this: things definitely can change; the reason we think they won’t is because despite how much of the picture we might think we can see, we don’t see it all. I had huge gaping holes even in my own autobiographical memory. I knew that most of my family didn’t want to know me because I was intersex, and they wanted me to live as male, and I didn’t want that. They see me as trans, rebellious, going against God’s design, and no amount of genetic information will convince them otherwise. For many years I was hopeless and at times, desperate. I saw no way out. But my picture and knowledge were incomplete. Fate and unmet friends, who soon became adopted family, had other, better, plans for me.
Life can change in marvelous and unexpected ways, and it is when we are feeling empty that we can be filled. The challenge, when we find ourselves in that empty state is to let ourselves be filled. We need to be willing to permit the pressure vessel that is holding that vacuum of emptiness to be punctured and allow it to be filled. While it can be an uncomfortable process, the rewards cannot be overstated. We are social beings, and even though we may have been harmed by people, it will be people who will bring us healing. Belonging, not belonging to, but simply belonging, changes us, heals us, in ways that we cannot expect to ever be changed or healed in solitude.
Solitude feels safe, but it’s really not. It isolates us and acts as an incubator for the negativity that we’ve been filled with. We think we’re protecting ourselves from further hurt, but what we’re really doing is preventing ourselves from achieving the healing that we could be experiencing. This isn’t too easy that we should be jumping into relationships just for the sake of having them, but it does mean that if we want the best in life, we will do well to put forth some energy in cultivating healthy and lasting relationships.
After work yesterday I decided to walk to the pharmacy. It’s about 2 miles, but it would connect connect two areas where I’ve done allot of walking. (I keep track of the routes I walk or bicycle and highlight them on maps – it’s just a strange thing I do.)
Lately though, I’ve been finding things on my walks. One day it was $5.00, on another a dollar. One day I found a WW2 era Japanese bayonet still in serviceable condition, with just a tiny amount of surface rust on the blade that was easily cleaned away. It is strange the things one can find, and strange the things that can come into our lives when we have our eyes and our hearts open.
On the walk last night as I was walking from Woodcrest to Ellisburg in Cherry Hill, it should have come as no surprise when I found something interesting on this walk, but this item was unique. Some would argue thst finding a WW2 Japanese bayonet on a street corner in Camden NJ is unique, so I guess that what we are discussing is degrees of uniqueness. But as I was walking on Brace toward Ellisburg I saw a strangely colored object moving on the pavement. When I got to it, I picked it up and recognized that it was a Hermit Crab, and knew that it wouldn’t be able to get up the curb and off the road, so I set it on the grass and walked away.
Then I began to think about a Hermit Crab surviving in the wild with winter approaching – they are tropical creatures. How long has it been since it had food or water? But if I picked it up, what could I safely carry it in? So I had a small nylon bag for my raincoat that I keep in my backpack and I placed the little creature in there and continued my walk – I was going to the pharmacy to pick up some prescription refills, and I was trying to figure out what to feed this tiny creature, as well as how to house it. I didn’t have hermit crab food, and wasn’t near a pet store, and the pharmacy pet section didn’t have anything for hermit crabs. But they did have some dog treats that were made of seafood, chicken, and vegetables. They had a covered aluminum lasagne pan, and some spring water. I purchased those and made my way home. Hermie proved to be an adept climber and nearly climbed out of the bag before I noticed, and on part of the walk home it had got very chilly so I held Hermie close. (Since Hermit crabs can change sex whenever they molt I’ll use gender neutral pronouns borrowed from Marge Piercy here of ‘hir’ and ‘hse’.) Hse seemed to appreciate the warmth of my hand and body in the chill of the night air as Hse was able to remain much calmer.
When
So we made it home though, that calmness abated, or rather, hire unsettled nature was revived. I put hir in the lasagne pan with some small decorative stones and a bowl with water, and placed some of the dog treats inside for food. Hse was quite active until finding the food, and really remained calm through the night. I ordered a habitat with a heater and proper food to insure Hse gets the needed calcium and other nutrients, and shall get a playmate too.
I did post that I found this little one on my Facebook page and on Nextdoor, and if a child lost this little one, I hope we can connect, but I honestly find that unlikely and more than a little sad. So the best I can do is to give this one a home and treat it well and think that perhaps there was some reason that I chose that day to take that particular walk. Maybe the universe isn’t entirely random after all.
So now I’m done my day and heading home from work. I’m looking forward to seeing Hermie and how he’s doing, offering another snack, seeing if hse likes to be held, and hope to offer it a good home while it’s here.
I never saw myself as an adopter of hermit crabs, but then again there are many things I never saw happening in my life. Life gives us what it will. Our choice is what to do with what we are given.
Each year, Friends from Burlington, Haddonfield, and Salem Quarterly Meetings, and beyond, gather together at camp Ockanickon in Medford, New Jersey, as they have done for generations. It’s a time of recreation, spiritual rejuvenation, for meeting old friends, and making new ones.
Tri Quarter 2016
If you grew up Christian, you might have been to retreats; this gathering was something like that. If you went to summer camp, this gathering was something like that too. If you can imagine the best weekend possible with family and friends, old and new, that’s what this weekend was, along with healthy time to encounter self. I’d say it was a perfect weekend, but that would be an exaggeration.
Are Quakers perfect people? By no means! I’m no fan of Paul, and I think that is all of the writers in the Bible his words have caused great harm, but I do agree with what he said in Romans 3;23 “for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God“
Quakers aren’t perfect, but there is one thing that we practice regularly. We practice listening. We try to hear the voice of God. And some of us try to hear that voice of God in the voice of others, knowing that “there is that of God in each of us”. And when there is a gathering of believers joining together for collective recreation, learning, and worship, something special is bound to happen. And it did, as it apparently does reach and every year.
When I was a teenager there was a man whose voice I fell in love with. I hadn’t experienced fine dining, but if I had to compare his gentle and silken baritone voice to something at the time, the closest thing would have been my grandmother’s chocolate and graham cracker ice-box cake. What that dessert did for my palate, his voice did for my ears and my imagination. Listening to him sing and whistle took me from the dark, dangerous, and threatening, to lands of peacefulness and bliss, beauty and mystery.
Roger grew up in Colonial British Kenya where his parents owned a grocery store in Nairobi. With a grandfather who was a club singer, and a father who played violin, music was a part of Roger’s DNA. He learned to sing, and as a boy, sang with the choir at the Nairobi cathedral, he learned to play guitar, and he learned to whistle.
Lots of us learn to whistle, you say. Of course we do. Some of us get to be so good that we can imitate birds. Some of us can whistle tunes. But rare indeed is the whistler whose skill is a concert quality instrument. While his whistling might not have had the same range and color as a flute, he was able to do things that few instrumentalists could achieve.
Roger Whittaker, Mexican Whistle
Despite his successful music career, Whittaker was a disappointment to his father, and his parents never attended a single concert. Whittaker’s father had wished for his son to complete medical school and be a physician, and no amount of success as a musician could mend the rift which continued until Roger’s father lost his life when the store was robbed in 1989.
Whittaker’s first big hit was Durham Town (the Leavin’) which made it into the UK top 20 in 1969. This was probably the first song I heard from Roger, and you can hear me playing it from time to time at open mics. With Durham Town referencing the loss of a mother, and the loss of my own mother a couple of years ago, and especially with the common thread of unresolved rifts and being a disappointment to parents, this song has become more important to me recently.
But I’ve been on a healing journey, and part of that as a Quaker, as a woman who has become much more introspective, recognizing the choices I didn’t have in my youth, and how precious our time is, I think another of his songs needs to become part of my repertoire. So I’ll leave you with this as I bid farewell to my first crush and one of my favorite musicians.
This is the simplest test possible, but the answer may be difficult to accept, proceed with caution.
What is this very simple test? Well, it involves one question only, and that question is: “Was the church or group my family was involved with while I was growing up more important to my parents than I was?”
By this, I don’t mean that your parents believed that your salvation was of primary importance, and that adherence to values expressed by the church was necessary to securing that for you, and that for that reason you may have had to follow some rules you didn’t like. Instead, I mean a situation in which the needs of the church came before your needs. Were you pulled out of school because of church duties? Were vacation or weekend plans dictated or altered because of church needs? Were life choices made for you instead of by you? Did you feel like you wanted to simply wake up one morning in a family that simply loved and accepted you and wanted to hear your dreams for your life instead of hearing what God’s plan for your life already was?
If these things sound all too familiar, if you find yourself struggling with things that “normal” people seem to find easy, maybe it’s time to take a look at your past and consider the childhood you experienced. An interesting question to consider might be too ask what might happen if you were to now leave or disavow that church or group. Would you still be welcome by your family? Would that change your relationship with your family? If your continuous relationship with and access to your family hinges on your belief in, and adherence to values expressed, or membership in a church or group, you’re most likely in a cult.
If you are free to leave without worry of harm to your familial relationships, or friendships, then it’s pretty likely not a cult – cults don’t generally afford that type of freedom.
Still, if you feel there was something off about the religious group you were raised in, not having been raised in a cult doesn’t necessity mean that you didn’t experience religious trauma. In either case, seeing a therapist competent in treating clients who have experienced religious trauma could prove helpful.
I’m slowly building a collection of trusted links on the curated links page of this website. It is a work very much in progress, so feel free to check for updates often.
Morning Musings 