The Mystery of Parenting

Future counselor or not, I don’t think I could begin to give parenting advice. Parents learn quickly: What in the heck do we know? But it helps to share the moments that go well. Still, just when we get a little cocky and think we have something figured out, it either backfires or something new springs up out of nowhere. It’s like some persistent virus or the brooms in Disney’s "Sorcerer’s Apprentice." Disney’s version in Fantasia was based on Goethe’s poem "Der Zauberlehrling."

Essentially, the apprentice (played by Mickey Mouse in Disney’s version) grows tired of hauling water and when the sorcerer leaves, Mickey dons his boss’ hat and uses the wand to enchant a broom to help carry water. But when the broom goes out of control flooding the room, Mickey cuts it in two, but then both halves come alive, turning into full brooms like planarians and carrying more buckets of water. The more he axes the brooms, the more brooms there are running around until chaos reigns and water is pouring from the house until the sorcerer returns.

Parenting isn’t quite so bad, and there are plenty of resources to consult, but in a way, it is that bad, especially if we don’t take responsibility for our stuff, and as a result perpetuate unhealthy patterns. But, no resources can tell you exactly what’s right for your kid. It’s an intuitive process of educating ourselves, listening, remembering how we felt as children and applying the combined knowledge creatively (on our best days). On our worst days we say to Hell with the books and intuition, and we set all our best efforts back ten paces and flood the house with stress hormones. If we are to parent well, our contract should guarantee hot meals made for us, at least seven consecutive hours of sleep, and an annual trip to Hawaii (kid free)! Taking care of ourselves so that we can take care of others is so important.

I am surprised at how many people do not remember their childhood, or don’t remember how they felt. I am a day dreamer and my short term memory has never been that great, but I remember what it was like to be three like it was yesterday. My main beef as a kid (and I had plenty for which to be grateful) and a large part of why I have become a counselor had to do with being taught to stuff my feelings. In general, kids that didn’t were ostracized and criticized by adults. There didn’t seem to be a happy medium – there were either good, quiet kind children or raging, unruly children. No one knew how to walk in the gray area. That's not anyone's fault - it was cultural.

As counselors we are supposed to be up on the latest innovations, discoveries and decisions about diagnosis. Fortunately, while we are required to have an awareness of diagnosis, we can refer to a psychiatrist for that. Ultimately, after all of the reading and classes, it comes down to using experience, smarts and intuition – like parenting: reading, listening, remembering, being creative and holding unconditional positive regard.

“Unconditional positive regard” was coined by humanist Carl Rogers. It would be a great concept to also apply to our children who are trying to stay afloat and swim forward in a sea of technology and hormones. It’s no wonder so many of them disappear into a bedroom and close the door! We are their guardians, which means while they despair and flounder, we are asked to remain centered so that they can stand on our foundation until they build one of their own. We are discovering now that brains don’t develop until much later than we once thought. Being their guardians doesn’t mean pandering to every desire, but it does mean we are asked to deal with our own stuff and face our personal shadows. The better we are at clear communication and boundaries, authenticity and compassion, the better models we are for healthy living. So, I guess I can’t proclaim: “Do as I say and not as I do.” Lord knows I have resorted to that a few times. This sweating, breathing, parenting, eating, loving thing called life is messy, but more now than ever there are techniques and support to get healthy and mindful. We don’t have the excuses our grandparents had. The Sorcerer always comes home.

Life and Death

My dad, Jerry, wrote to me about a conversation he had with a friend of his who is dying. Dad said that the conversation felt “unsatisfying,” that he may have made his friend feel worse. The trouble with death is we can’t fix it. I remember when the family guinea pig died. My mom and stepdad were out of town and I was taking care of my much younger half siblings. They watched as I dug a hole in the front yard to lay the little furry squealer. My sister (about age 4) was crying as I lowered it into the hole, but my brother (age 2) was angry. “Don’t put it in there. Wait until Daddy gets home. He’ll fix it!”

In my reply to my Dad, I wrote that I can't imagine what it's like to be losing a friend and trying to find the right words. But, I continued, in my minimal experience with death, it seems like people always want to find the right things to say when the best thing we can do is to listen and be present with what they are telling us. I remember when my dad’s mother, Margo (or Nonnie as we all called her), was nearing the end of her life. She said: "Everyone seems to want to tell me what I'm going through when I'm the one dying." Maybe I was afraid to hear what she'd say. Fear gets in our way. Death is a solitary, often lonely, process it seems, but we can learn from each other's experience of it. So maybe just my dad taking the time to be on the phone with his friend was enough.

When my stepdad, Phil, was facing death, deteriorating from Multisystem Atrophy (MSA), he seemed so resigned and lost in a way. One day I was sitting next to him on the bed watching TV and he said that he had dreamed he died the night before. I asked him what it was like and he said: "It wasn't so bad!" and then he laughed. I couldn’t believe we were laughing about something so grave. But, I learned that to keep our senses of humor even in the face of death is the way to go.

I am fascinated by death and how people die in peace - or not. For an assignment for my Masters in counseling program, I interviewed a chaplain at our local hospice. He said that he helps people find meaning, which helps regrets take a back seat. He said he listens to their stories and then points out how they contributed to the world and to others' lives. As a counselor, though, we primarily work with the grieving families so I’m not sure I will move in that direction. I want the chaplain's job!

One of my favorite books is A Year to Live by Stephen Levine. He says: “In whatever condition and conditioning we find ourselves, whether we have just won the lottery or discovered we have only a year to live, there is a basic, even essential, gratitude contemplation that is always appropriate…It acknowledges the enormous opportunity of being alive and awakening to our true nature.” Every page of that book is precious and I am moved no matter how many times I read it. Essentially, when loved ones around us are dying we are given, again, the gift of life and an opportunity to deepen our relationships to self and others and to appreciate this day, this moment in these dear bodies. And when it comes to their experience of transitioning from this planet, all we can do is listen and bravely follow their cues.

The Doing and Being of Fame

Yesterday an author told me that when he interviews family members of a famous individual, they are considered “sources” and it is not “kosher” to pay sources for interviews and access to all of the tapes, letters, records and photos. I countered that family members are the people responsible for preserving the memory and name of the renowned individual. Is it “kosher” to feed off of another individual's fame? Ethics always trumps technicalities, no matter the field. Family members know that person intimately and would be happy to "collaborate." Any other information from a distant source is hearsay. If the family has limited resources – or even if they don’t – it is honorable and customary to compensate them for collaboration on a project that creates history. On the other hand, as a writer, I know that authors don't devote years to a project unless they have a sincere interest in a story. And if they want to make big bucks, they probably wouldn't have chosen writing as a career.

My stepfather, Phil Hill, was famous. I remember acting as his “protector” (hardly a body guard) at an event at Laguna Seca where he was signing autographs. He had not yet been diagnosed with MSA (Multisystem Atrophy), but likely was ill because he tired easily and needed breaks. My job was to cut off the line when he needed an extended break. I let one guy cut in line because he was an enthusiastic and educated fan who was about to cry. Good Lord, man, pull it together! Another man asked if I would be so kind as to sign his program instead. He was thrilled and left me at the back of the line scratching my head in wonder. Another man became belligerent and refused to leave. He glared at me and pushed out his chest. He was joined by the vulture I witnessed at every event who collected as many signatures as possible and made his living feeding off the fame of others. Someday he would cash in on the posters and photos. Repeat visitors were welcomed if they had a sincere interest in Phil’s history, but objectification is disgusting no matter what form it takes. But who am I to judge? Maybe the guy waits in long lines for signatures because he enjoys the others around him. Maybe he educates fans about the history of the racers he doggedly pursues.

What does this have to do Doing and Being? Fame is a burden, but the passion that made Phil famous was not. Emotionally, he supported my bliss (dance) 100% because he could see that it lit me up and gave me meaning and a reason for being. Regrettably, Phil never wrote an autobiography – to tell his story as close to the truth as possible, but to him what mattered was the intensity of the moment: telling a great story and telling it well. He knew how to masterfully dole out details that led to a climax that had everyone in awe or stitches (depending) by the end. He loved music and Christmas and the smell of a garage. He loved Planet Earth, Animal Planet, his cats and Formula 1 at 3 a.m. He loved caviar, Italian proscuitto (anything Italian or English) and George Latour’s private reserve cabernet. The reason people enjoyed basking in Phil's presence is because he knew not only how to DO but how to BE. He lived moments fully and deeply as if they were his last. He was one of the most authentic people you would ever have met. Whereas many famous folk master a “Scheiss Freundlich” attitude, Phil had no interest in wearing a persona. What you saw was what you got.

Why is it that someone who knew how to tell a great story never told his own? I think he trusted the visually gripping and aesthetically appealing photos he took and later published in collections, which includes a book he was in the midst of finishing when he died. He trusted his friends from Road and Track to recount memories. He trusted his son, Derek, who is making a documentary, and his daughter, Vanessa, who has a far broader involvement in the car world than I do. He knows that they will tell the truth because they understood the private, classy while INTENSE man he was. I knew Phil not as a racer or car collector, but as a father figure. He was deeply kind, tender, generous, intelligent and terribly, wonderfully funny. While he understood the underbelly of humankind, he chose to focus on the light – especially in his last years. It will be interesting to see what is written about him, but based on how he lived, I think he decided that the only real truth we will ever have is in the moment. The rest is a result of confabulation, imagination and longing.

Double Bambi

I was running with my daughter’s dog when I heard “click, click, clippity-click” behind me. Could it be a woman in spikes? A jogging tap dancer? I turned to see a deer trotting behind us. Where did it come from? Although near the foothills, I was in a neighborhood where the homes are built close to one another. I stopped and she stopped. (For purposes of the tale, I am going to call the deer female, although – being that it is springtime, it could have been a male who had shed his antlers.) I had never been so close to a deer. Her ears were huge and oblong, and her eyes exceptionally large, round and doleful.

“Oh sweetie,” I said, thinking I was talking to Bambi. “You must have lost your pack! Follow us and we’ll take you to a park.” This was so city-chick meets wildlife. What can I say? I grew up in Phoenix and L.A. and watched way too many cartoons. I began to walk and the deer suddenly snorted and pawed the ground with her front hooves, which sounded like swords hitting the pavement. Suddenly lambykins didn’t seem so docile. Actually deer expressions don’t change like they do in the Disney films. She pretty much looked the same, except that she was staring directly at my daughter’s dog, Oliver, who was looking up at me for direction.

“Get her!” I said to the dog and the dog barked at the deer, but the deer stood her ground, snorting harder. This could escalate matters, so I stood between deer and Oliver and indicated for the dog to stay behind me, which he did like a good pooch. If I let my daughter’s dog get hurt, she would do a lot worse to me than any deer. But what was I going to do?

I thought of our horses and whipped a grocery baggie that I carried for poop from my fanny pack and waved it wildly at the deer who only snorted and pawed again. Evidently, deer are more closely related to bulls than horses. I unbuckled my fanny pack and began to swing it just close enough to watch the deer’s fur whooshing up slightly as the buckled passed by. I tried backing away, but the deer followed, so the speed of the fanny pack increased and now I added a savage dance that included sounds made by martial artists. I was worried that someone would look out from their window and call to their partner, “Honey, come look at this idiot mauling a deer.”

Finally the deer let us back up and when it was out of sight, Oliver and I bolted. I think Oliver’s compliance was a mix of good training and serious intimidation by my primitive dance. Thanks to Facebook, I learned that deer can do serious damage to dogs. Friends had spent $400 - $1000 in vet bills on dogs who had been attacked by deer, so it’s a good thing we got away unscathed.

But the story doesn’t stop here. I have been using the Medicine Cards by Jamie Sams and David Carson with illustrations by Angela Werneke for 15 years, pulling a card when I was dealing with a particularly challenging situation, which usually averaged a couple of times a month. I am deeply connected to animals and they have been messengers throughout my life. But I didn’t think to pick up the deer card and read what it said when I encountered the real deer. However, the day following the incident, I decided to pull a card related to one of my daughters and a difficult situation she was enduring. It had been a couple of weeks since I consulted the cards. And, yes, I pulled DEER! There are no accidents.

In summary, the story of deer goes like this: she meets a disgusting and frightening demon who blocks the way to Great Spirit’s lodge. Demon wants all others to feel like Great Spirit does not want to be disturbed, but fawn is not afraid. Her fearless love and compassion astound the demon and “her love…penetrated his hardened, ugly heart”(53). He shrinks, like the Wicked Witch of the West and deer passes unharmed. The moral of the story is that deer proves the “power of gentleness to touch the hearts and minds of wounded beings.” But the personal key for me in this reading was: “Stop pushing so hard to get others to change and love them as they are. Apply gentleness to your present situation and become like the summer breeze: warm and caring”(54).

As a mother, I often think I’m supposed to DO something to HELP my children or I will be a failure as a mother. But sometimes they have to go through the given experience for a reason. All I could do was BE! So I released all judgment, expectation and worry, and instead offered love, acceptance and support when necessary. How simple was that? Next time when an animal appears out of nowhere I will realize she’s probably a messenger.

The Gravity of Regret

Sometimes emotions sneak up when I least expect them, and when they do they throw me off balance. I stumble inside, and inevitably the emotions show up on my face. My kids tell me I’m a terrible liar.

Daniel Charon, former dancer with Doug Varone dancers, is in town teaching master classes at University of Colorado for two weeks. Modern dance has a group of early founders, all of whom developed their own movement language. Each artist informed and shaped the art form. I did the “Jose Limon thing,” and so did Daniel, so his movement phrases were gratifying for my body to learn and execute.

Daniel lives in New York City and is planning on getting his MFA in dance. I brought up names from the past – to see if he knew teachers/artists with whom I studied and whose work I performed there back in the ‘80’s – Clay Taliaferro, Ruth Currier… But, suddenly, time stood still. I was having a “sliding doors” moment. Why hadn’t I gotten my MFA in dance? I could be teaching at a university! I was good at choreography – I could have bodies to work with and be paid for doing it. What had prevented me from making a career of it? Why had I given up modern dance to pursue musical theater? Who was I kidding? I can’t even sing! I did it because I thought going commercial would make me more money, which would justify to my parents that it had been worth paying for me to get a dance degree. I was under society’s spell: money = value.

I always tell myself I have no regrets, but while I was standing there talking to this wonderful artist, I felt like throwing myself on the ground and having a tantrum. I don’t spend a lot of time in the land of regret, so as I moved into the first set of dance exercises (which, thankfully and ironically, were on the floor), I let regret eat at me for a while. After all, our shadow feelings will reemerge if we don’t give them some attention. Regret feels icky like jealousy, but not nearly as intense. (The last time I was jealous I turned into a fire-breathing dragon and nearly seared all the trees in my backyard!) If jealousy had a visual it would be the Biblical gnashing of teeth or eating wild animals raw, blood dripping through teeth. In light of that, I could handle regret.

Gravity is part of the dynamic that creates what movement will follow next. If the arm is swinging down, we see how far it will swing back up… we use the weight to create the next “organic” move. Modern dancers were using that term way before the farmers! So, choreography grows not out of a defined vocabulary but out of momentum and conflict between forces, such as coming into contact with another body. Regret feels like too much gravity sucking at my heart. I had to come up for air.

There was a reason I didn’t follow that path. It’s easy to forget the how and why we chose a particular road, because memory is fickle and reality is an illusion. Back then I was tired of dancing, and I quit altogether. I focused, instead, on raising two beautiful daughters I wanted more than anything in the world, and during what little free time I found, I wrote. When I returned to dance in 2005, it was like meeting an old lover and realizing that we were meant to meet again. I have been head over heels ever since. Had Terpsichore and I married all those years ago it may have ended badly.

Sometimes we do things because it makes sense, and sometimes we follow our gut and it makes sense later. Our ego voice (if you haven’t met mine, I’ll tell you now her name is Nasty) tends to want to judge… all the time, as if she has nothing better to do. Nasty judges the way I talk to my children, the food I eat, the way I wash the dishes and the choices I’ve made. The key is to ask her to go back to her dark corner and then step right back into the moment, into the blessing of BEING, because this is where joy is living without illusion and complication of too much thinking.