Monday, December 31, 2012

Family Matters


Family Matters...

A lot.

Travelin’, travelin’, travelin...

Worth every mile

Just to catch the smile

Of a gran’pa watching his daughter’s daughter shine.

“No, Gra’Moose, HE does the talking; we just laugh,” says Miss D at 3.5 years. She’s got us down. She knows I like my toast as hard as a brick and that turquoise is my favorite color.

She knows that her Auntie Sid is the best reader of our bunch, and asks her regularly to read every book she’s ever received - especially the ones her auntie has written!

She knows Uncle Mr. Grady Pants is silly, but not as silly as Gran’Pun who is also "goofy."

Mostly, she knows she is loved and safe and going to be kept safe by the larger net of family that extends through many states and involves many hearts beating out a steady rhythm of hope and earnest effort to make things better for children in a world where wicked ways proliferate faster than winter rye under heaps of manure.

She also knows how to pretend and play and put on performances.

Our daughter Mosa invited us to attend one of her MOTH parties Saturday night. The only rules are that the story has to be about you, and that you tell it without notes. You may not read it. The theme was Dark and Light / Beginnings and Endings. She told a story about beginnings and endings that wowed us all. Younger daughter Megan told a story of moving from Chicago to the East Bay that illustrated persevernce and spunk. My husband told a story about the first time he celebrated Christmas with any heart in it - when he bought a tree for my grieving Grandmother Maxwell shortly after her husband died. I was in tears remembering his generosity of spirit and courage to overcome what had been a life-long hatred of all things related to Christmas.

I told a story that is only skin deep... about my freckled dark/light skin and my complex about my complexion. More or less, it's the blog I wrote for December 9, but telling it live is a very different experience! Well... here’s the link:


Others (nineteen of us in all) told funny, poignant, purposeful if sometimes meandering stories. Can’t think of a better way to ring in the New Year than through story-telling.

Barry Lopez observed, “Sometimes people need a good story more than we need food.”

Sunday, December 23, 2012

Now What?


We made it! We’re still here! Yay, Earth! You held on and now hold us at your bosom for yet another day.

How glad I am that the Mayans simply ran out of stone; that the alignment of our dear solar system with the Galactic Center of our beloved Milky Way does not signal the end of time.

What makes us concoct terror-filled stories of doom and gloom? Are we simply externalizing our deepest interior fears to give them a shape to hate or blame?

I remember how satisfying it was, when I was in the throes of my healing process, to bash my fist against the (empty) passenger seat in my car. I was railing against the injustices dished out on little kids who have no power. I was demonizing my father and other authority figures who did me dirty and I was smackin’ ‘em up side the imaginary head. It was good to have a target for that free-floating anxiety, angst and anger. It was goood to ka-pow, ka-boom, ka-vaporize them with my fist while driving the freeways on my way to pick up children from school. It helped me to be a better mom - to get that rage out of me in my alone time. It helped me to be there for my daughters without so many trigger-buttons shining brightly on my shirt for them to push.

It’s the JOB of our children (or spouses) to push our buttons! How else would we ever clean up our act, do our healing work or unburden ourselves of the baggage of the past? Our offspring and significant others are here as helping guides; to point out the smelly left-over bits of our own childhood and beg us to please chuck ‘em, digest ‘em, HEAL them!

So, here we are - post predicted Mayan Apocalypse. NOW WHAT?? Same ol’, same ol’? Or is it time for re-evaluation and truly chucking what isn’t working and adopting some new strategies for surviving together on the planet?

The movie, Life of Pi is a good metaphor for our age. We’re sharing a small life boat with some pretty voracious (internal) beasts. If the world were about to end, how do we envision ourselves making the most of it? Do I want to buy a gun? Do I want to buy some flowers? Or not to buy anything at all, but rather give away all I possibly can, as quickly as I can to those in need of something?

As Solstice yields to Christmas, the list I made of seeds to nurture in the coming year is a growing list. It does include more time to socialize with those I love, and to play on the planet with fearless joy.

All the trite (and true) phrases make sense to me: Dance like nobody’s watching, love like you’ve never been hurt before, sing as though no one can hear you, and live as if heaven is on earth. Friday night, I sang to some friends. I pretended they couldn’t hear me and I was singing for myself. It wasn’t the best I’ve ever sung, but I didn’t die.

Thanks, mama earth, for continuing to spin through space and proving to the universe at LARGE how limited we humans are in our understanding of it all. I’m enjoying  "humilitude" with Deep Gratitude!

May all your celebrations be filled with JOY, light, love, lots of laughter and GRATITUDE!
Humilitude Optional.

Solstice Song  Words and music by Melinda Maxwell-Smith 1989


Solstice, a time when the sun stands still

Four days it seems to rise in place.

At the southern most point on its yearly journey

It stops to fill us with grace

Winter Solstice, a time of dark and cold

At rest, the womb, the tomb of Earth

She holds on to life and She waits for the Sun

And promises all re-birth.


Chorus: Solstice, bring the sunlight back again

Solstice, bring the spring and return and return


So, we celebrate with warmth and joy

And await the return of the sun, our jewel

We kindle our love and our hope with inner light 

As we plant a seed for our renewal.


Chorus…


The Earth, the Water, the Fire, the Air return, return…

Sunday, December 16, 2012

Solstice


Wishing hibernation were an option.

Christmas blues of different hues

not wanting to participate in the gimme, gimme gotchas

not wanting to buy buy, black bird

desiring flames. bonfires. torches. 
candles fighting the dark

wax dripping-hot, stinging me awake from this nightmare of buy buy black bird.

Hating the deadline 

December 25... you’re a dead-ringer for the death knell. You don’t meet the date; you don’t make the grade.

At 20 I cried the mellowdramatic tears of youth convinced the poignant purple flowers of spring signaled the last spring we’d ever have... heart-broken by love, I thought the entire WORLD must be ending.

At 20 I cried mellowdramatic tears - believing that if I didn’t finish all the hand-made gifts I’d set out to complete by 12-25, the world would open and swallow me whole and belch at the aftertaste of unsavory me... poor wretched me. As if Rumplestilskin had set me the task... the urgency felt REAL.

At 60 something I balk at being told to buy, buy more, buy now, buy for later, buy for your uncles, aunties and cousins twice removed. Buy all the Chi in China. Buy for the good of the economy. (Whose?) Just BUY for no damned reason.

What if the Mayans were right? What if there’s no December 22 - or any other date beyond Friday’s Solstice?

I think I’ll wait to shop 'til after the 25th and simply enjoy the “real weather” we’re having in Los Angeles today. Rain, cold (for us -spoiled by fair-weather 350 days a year - it’s C-O-L-D!) and naked trees make me want to curl up and cover up and read by the fire... with lots of candles lit and twinkle lights on. No buy-buy-gimme-gotchas can deter me from hot tea and sympathy for the sorry state of the world and it’s AK-47 frenzies.

Rest in peace, little ones. Rest and heal, mamas and papas, brothers, sisters, grand mothers and grand fathers, aunties, uncles, sons and daughters, friends of the fallen.

There is no sense. There is non-sense, and the scents of fear and terror on the wind. Let’s not let the terrorists win tonight, shall we?

Celebrate what ever makes sense to you and enjoy the light as best you can.

There is a promise to be heard in the sun’s return past this Friday’s longest night.

“I will return. I will warm the Earth and help your seeds grow. I will warm your heart and light your way.”

That’s the promise - simple and true.

Sunday, December 9, 2012

Dark and Light


Dark and Light

Ever since I was a kid I wanted to have an olive complexion. When I was seven, my dad  used make-up prosthetics from one of the movies he was working on to build up my cheekbones and change the shape of my nose. He used pancake #7 to give me a smooth and swarthy complexion with one strategically placed beauty spot just like Marilyn Monroe. I was a gypsy for Halloween with a tight scarf covering my red hair.  I thought, “NO one will recognize me!” When I walked into second grade, every one said, “Hi Melinda.” How did they know it was I? Oh, yeah... I was the skinniest kid in the school.

When I was ten, I prayed every night to have flat-against-my-head ears, straight teeth, to be a little bit fatter, and to have tan skin. Blue-white skin with freckles was NOT the "IN" thing in 1958.

By 1960, transistor radios came on the market and they were IN. I had a turquoise one with a battery that smelled funny and knobs that turned to the stations - almost, and a spindly telescoping antenna. One Saturday, Sharon Cordova, Vicky Garcia and I talked our parents into letting us take three busses to get from Echo Park (basically, downtown L.A.) to Santa Monica Beach. We were twelve. They agreed!

We packed bologna sandwiches, chocolate chip cookies, NeHi Orange soda and celery.  I LOVE celery. Of course, we took the turquoise plastic transistor radio and some money for chips and bus fare home. Two hours and three busses later we were near enough Santa Monica Beach that we could taste the salt air and feel the salt fog on our skin. The sun played hide and peek all day, by always hiding, never peeking. We had a wonderful day talking about boys, eating our lunch and listening to the radio, but I never did put on the Sea ‘n’ Ski suntan lotion my mom made me swear I’d use. I wanted to turn dark like my friends.

It wasn’t until we were part way home that I began to feel the burn. Vicky and Sharon felt glowing. I felt like a smelter full of molten steel. I was radiating heat but felt shivery and cold. Evidently, I looked a bit pink, because a guy on the bus said, “Ouch, honey... you look like a lobster. You THAT red!” I learned that you can get sun-burned even on a cloudy day - maybe even MORE sunburned on a cloudy day. Curse of white skin.

In Junior HIgh School I used to cheer my freckles on, “Get together, get together, give me a tan!” By seventh grade, boobs were on my prayer list. Obviously, prayer wasn’t working. Cheering was now added to the list of things that didn’t work - right after prayer.

At the end of eleventh grade, though, I tried out for cheer leader at Belmont High School for the following year. Belmont is an inner-city school just west of downtown L.A. I think the only reason I was selected as cheer-leader was because of my dancing background. I could do the splits and kick really high.

All the other gals on the squad were really beautiful and quite dark of skin. Even Eileen Roehlke, who was a blonde, had that perfect golden toasty marshmallow - before it turns black and blisters - colored skin.

I was white - but completely WHITE. I had a complex about my complexion. Before our first real game of the season, I begged my mom to drive me to Pioneer Market at the corner of Echo Park and Sunset so I could buy a bottle of Coppertone Quick Tanning Lotion. I heard all about it on my turquoise transistor radio - that QT lotion could give you a tan overnight.

Before the first foot ball game, my mom had to sew the yell-leader’s outfit for me from white duck material on the outside with green and black polka-dot pleats and lining. She was sewing well into the night that fateful Thursday before the big game on Friday afternoon. I was stressing about my white legs.  

The bottle of Quick Tanning Lotion said, “apply evenly and let dry.” I was in the bathroom smoothing it on my freshly shaved alabaster legs - well, actually, they looked more like uncooked chicken legs - you know, with blue-white bumpy skin? There were a few bloody knicks along the shin bones with pieces of toilet paper stuck-on to staunch the bleed.

Oddly, the QT lotion smelled like pop-corn. After it had totally dried, I carefully put on my pajamas checked my mom’s status and went to bed. I worried about the outfit. I worried about my “tan” being even.

I must’ve sweat during the night because in the morning, I ripped off my pajamas to admire my handiwork and was horrified to find my legs now looked like a cross between a zebra and a 50/50 Bar - those orange sherbert and vanilla ice cream bars. I was striped orange and white. I smelled of pop-corn with rancid butter. It wouldn’t wash off. It was a disaster. 

To make it worse, Mom’s sewing skills... well.... they say that some skills skip a generation. All the other girl’s outfits were perfect. Tina de Peralta’s mom was a seamstress by trade. Cheryl’s mom was top-notch in the sewing department. Cheryl could’ve made her own, but she was busy with student government, etc. All the other gals' dresses were neatly lined with the school’s colors of green and black. MY MOM let the raw white seams show which was a problem with those high kicks. Threads were hanging. My stomach sank. Tearful and fearful after confronting my mother that morning about her terrible sewing, I declared I wasn’t going to school. They’d just have to play the bleepin’ game without me. I couldn’t be seen in this condition.

“Nonsense,” my mother said. “You’ll go to school and it will all be OK. From up in the stands, no one is going to be watching your legs or the lining of your damn outfit with binoculars, Melinda. It’s not all about you.” 

I pouted all the way to school. I swaggered and swore all the way to Algebra class after shoving my outfit in my locker.  I hoped the lockers would catch on fire and I wouldn’t have to wear the damned outfit. I pulled my knee socks up and my skirt down to its lowest point on my hips to cover my orange zebra legs. I still smelled of pop corn.

Classes over, we cheer leaders were getting dressed in the girl’s gym before heading out to the field. My sweater, which at least covered my skinny white arms, was short waisted. After being measured carefully at the end of the school year in 1965 for our sweaters to be custom made, that summer the Watts Riots broke out.  Albion Knitting Mills burned to the ground.  Because I was in Ohio when it happened, Cheryl became the model for my new sweater at another mill. She is quite a bit shorter of waist than I am. 

I had an ill-fitting outfit, orange and white striped legs, and smelled of pop-corn. I was miserable.

Then, the game began. I didn’t know the difference between a First Down and a Penalty. I only knew when the ball hit the end zone and every one cheered, we were supposed to cheer too. I kicked and jumped and yelled my throat sore.

Miraculously, Belmont won our first home game against John Marshall High School. Mom was right. The dark day yielded to the light of victory. No one gave a hoot about my mottled legs or the ragged seams or short-waisted sweater. The dark truth is that it wasn’t all about me. I felt lighter for learning that... and just a teeny bit disappointed.

Monday, December 3, 2012

What I learned at the Resilient Child Workshop



A lot.

I spent three days in company with two wonderful teachers, Kathy Kain and Stephen Terrell. The workshop was experiential and didactic.

Something that stuck to my ribs is WHY my avoidant behavior comes to the fore when given the opportunity to heal the deepest layers of my own disorganized system. Why would I try to stay out of that briar patch?

Turns out that when we are gestating or newly born into the world in all its wild, wacky, wierd wonderfulness - when we are at our smallest and most vulnerable, if something goes awry, our physiology develops coping strategies to be with what feels like imminent death. It's not a cognitive choice, but rather a direct brainstem command.

For premature babies, or those young ones who require surgery or separation from mom, coping with these major stressors at the core level of our little beings is a physiological event. We don't yet have the tools to cope. It's like asking us to drain a lake with a spoon full of holes.  

While an adult who sees someone at a party, across the room, say, someone with whom she’d rather not interact can step outside for a while in order to avoid that person, a baby so young that she requires intrusive and extremely painful medical interventions to keep her breathing and alive doesn’t yet HAVE the executive function of the neo cortex on line. (Even if she could choose to run away or fight-off the intrusion - she's too little to do so.) She is in survival mode. She cannot concoct an evasive tactic in her thinking brain. All blood is shunted to the brain stem (where Fight, Flight and Freeze are housed). This is pro-survival; it provides the best chance of living through the threatening situation. 

The only coping strategy available in that precarious state, and before the neocortex and right brain are on line, is a physiological strategy. That means: If someone comes near the isolette (that’s what those clear plastic ‘incubator boxes’ are called these days) with yet another poking/proding device for the wee babe inside the box, all she may be able to do is to shut down one or more of her body systems to send her nervous system into a dorsal dive (deeply parasympathetic or Freeze) state where she will feel less pain. 

Simply approaching the baby in the NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) may cause her alarm because, within 12 hours out of the womb, she’s already become conditioned to expect that human contact hurts. When there’s that much alarm in her little nervous system and she cannot move away from a painful stimulus, all she can do to trigger the dorsal dive (merciful disociation) is to shut down another system that tips her into the dive response - an all system shut-down. Circulatory, digestive, endocrine and respiratory are all systems up for grabs to shut down and so, drop her into the sea of non-feeling numbness. Eventually this habit of shutting down - let’s say digestion - takes its toll and ends up costing the tissue a great deal.

Fast forward this movie called life, and now the grown-up baby has compensated and adapted and adopted ways of being in the world that produced the best outcome of which she was capable. She navigates pretty well until there’s something that feels the least bit threatening and suddenly she’s got another bout of IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome), or her Crohn’s Disease acts up, or a migraine comes on or an asthma attack or an inflammatory episode... or... or... or. 

These are the physiological coping mechanisms and they’re tricky to un-wire or de-detonate. As Kathy Kain says, it takes the delicacy of a veteran bomb-squad pro to do this work. It's not a casual shoulder rub at a dinner party, but rather precise, attuned work - done after perhaps years of building resilience in the nervous system.

The trickier part is that, because the survival states are so terribly uncomfortable, that grown-up human baby with so much pain at her core will do anything and everything to keep herself from feeling that existential angst ever again!

On the healing cot in my office, the way those evasive tactics show up is so subtle, I have to keep dropping down to different levels of awareness to find the survival physiology and hold it gently but firmly and say to it: “Brilliant! Right impulse; wrong experssion and out-come." And say to the client, "In order for you to heal from this syndrome (Crohn’s, Colitis, IBS, Migraine, Asthma, Depression, ADHD, etc.) we have to stabilize your nervous system so you can stand to be with these powerfully uncomfortable states - near death states - and ride through them to the other side. Your amazing life-force already got you through. That early threat didn't kill you. You survived! Let's celebrate tenacity and put into place some cognitive strategies for navigating life that won’t cost your physiology its tissue.”

Hugh Milne, in his book, The Heart of Listening a Visionary Approach to Cranio Sacral Work talks of Peewit Behavior. 
"Peewit is the Scottish name for a lapwing or plover, a dramatically colored bird that makes its nest in open fields and moor land. When a predator approaches, the peewit runs away from its nest and its defenseless eggs, dragging a "broken" wing and crying out plaintively. The predator naturally takes off in pursuit of this "injured" prize, which, once it is far enough away from the nest to have completed its diversion, promptly takes off and flies away." 

This wild and colorful dance of diversion is what shows up in my healing space - in a very muted and subtle way - even in clients who are truly dedicated to healing their archaic wounds. Who would want to revisit those near death states? Who, in her right mind, would be OK with that awful whole-body experience of terror and pain washing over her? I am not. My defensive responses to accessing my own core material are strong and tenacious. I'm grateful for the diligent practitioners with whom I got to exchange practice sessions this weekend.

Mercifully, the path to freedom lies just at the border of the pain. We don’t need to feel it all over again; we simply have to come to the edge and skate along it to the end of the pathway back to wholeness. Slowly we build capacity for holding these big survival states, hang on and ride the waves. Beyond the breakers is where freedom from the syndrome(s) lies.

One of Kathy's stories that stuck to my ribs had to do with a small plane in a big storm. Twenty minutes into a puddle-jumper flight from Vancouver into Calgary, the pilot came on the loud-speaker saying, "We're in for some major turbulence." Seasoned travelers knew that was bad. Before one of the stewardesses could get back to her seat the first bump hit. Every passenger, many of them children, screamed. This stewardess wedged herself in between a seat and a wall and in standing position threw her arms up and said, "Wheeeee! THAT was a BIG one!" Everyone laughed and for the next twenty minutes, the passengers did what she modeled. With every bump and dip, they threw their arms up and squealed like they were on a roller coaster. When the plane landed, these passengers were jovial and boisterous and bantering amongst themselves. Passengers disembarking from other planes, which had also gone through the storm, were ashen and rigid with fear. This singular stewardess helped all the passengers on her flight find self-regulation.

So, my job is: 1) to find a colleague with whom I can explore my own earliest traumas and dismantle the peewit strategies for avoiding them; and 2) to continue to hold these huge survival energies in others who are ready to do this work - normalizing that they are HUGE energies and that it's OK not to like doing this work... but it WORKS! With titration and regulation of the nervous system... Somatic Experiencing helps heal our attachment wounds; helps clear the disorganization from our system - making us more effective and efficient in what we came into life to DO.

Writing about what I'm learning is helping me integrate it.
Thanks for reading. Let me know if anything sticks to your ribs or if it feels too dense to digest.

Resources: In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts by Gabor Maté
Scared Sick by Robin Karrs
Trauma Spectrum by Robert Scaer