I M Perfect lady

Category: Imperfect Grandma

  • Who loved with Courage

    Mother’s Day has me looking upward to my mother, looking at myself, and then – looking at the mothers of my grandchildren.

    I sit between my mother and my grandchildren’s mothers.

    I am part of my mother and the seeds of the next generations.

    I mothered poorly, and I mothered with courage.

    I feel like I am the bridge between mothers on polar opposite sides.

    The valley between is endless and without common denominators.

    I am not sure I can articulate the courage it took to look upwards to my mother and see what wasn’t there – and realize the length and breadth It would take to undo the damage within me – to mother me into being a different mother.

    As the bridge between two vastly different sides, I could no longer do what I had done and I had to learn how to be different.

    There was no road map – only the hope that if I could be different, that my children would feel different and be different parents to their children.

    I was a mother who had been mothered poorly striving to mother in foreign ways.

    I didn’t know what love was.

    I never had a boundary.

    In the middle of motherhood – I changed.

    The courage it took to leave behind the family and its pattern – seemed impossible – the space between too far to navigate.

    What I do know – is we are not responsible for what was done to us, but we are responsible for who we are and our legacy.

    Once you see, you can’t unsee.  When I saw my mother and her lack of values and morals – the only way to go was up.

    I am not writing this to hurt her history – but to instead inspire others.  Family patterns and legacies are breakable. 

    There is pride to be the bridge to offer my children a different way.

    I know I am not seen as a family person – being estranged from so many.  However I am the biggest fan of a loving family. 

    I know that the contents of who a mother is – bleeds into her children.  The best thing we can do for our kids is to do our life well.

    To be the woman that honors her soul.

    When a woman can’t see the worth of her child, she isn’t seeing her own self-worth.  And, without that, she will fall for anything.

    As the bridge between good and evil – I don’t celebrate my mother, but I do celebrate the generations below me.  I am hopeful that the seeds I planted from this bridge will flower in to the bests moms a child can have.

    It is my hope that my children don’t feel what it is like to parent poorly – but to be a parent with courage to live a life that a child can look up to. 

    What joy it would feel like to have a parent who sees you as a child who is treasured beyond all else. That no matter what, the parent will do the right thing to protect the child. To live in an environment of love, peace, joy and trust.

    That is the bridge I hope I have stood upon.

    Love,

    A mother who has loved poorly and one who loved with courage.

  • Remained true.

    In the basement on the bottom shelf were piles of photo albums – dating back to the 1970's  - 55 years ago – parts of my life caught in a photo.

     

    In the mix are friends, family and now estranged family members.

     

    I have steered clear of this pile for a few decades – knowing the ghosts that lingered there.

     

    While doing some major decluttering in our home – I knew it was time to go through the albums and to separate what I love and what will be tossed.  

     

    Many emotions flowed through me – as I sat by the hour leafing through the pages of my past.

     

    My heart melted as I was brought back to the early years of dating my husband and the early years of our marriage.  It is amazing how photos are like time machines – and some in the best way. I love us. Our solo trips and how we camped with the El Camino and Tent. Moments of love.

     

    Many, many photos of my children – during the seasons of their childhoods.  I love them – and how quickly the years have passed. Recalling their natures and the different personalities and fun times I captured.

     

    Photos of my friends during high school  - and old church friends – some I haven't seen or spoken to in what seems like a lifetime.

     

    And the ones I dreaded to sort through were photos of my family of origin.  Photos that now seemed fake upon the backdrop of learning new truths.

     

    It is hard to articulate how familiar pictures take on a stranger tone. 

    And even worse the emotions that are now attached to these awkward moments.

    The photos do not accurately portray the contents of our family.

    But abuse is not photographed – instead it is the act of  'normal' or putting on a good front.

    Perhaps we even tried harder to make sure our cover – was covered.

     

    You don't see the real story in pictures – instead you see the cover up – or denial.  The normal going on – in the abnormal home.

    I don't even know how to classify my feelings of these.  The people I thought I knew – I didn't know – so who am I looking at?  The moments we capture as a family – in my mind – didn't have the undertow of abuse.  The memories of those day abuse didn't live there – but it did. 

    It is like seeing your denial in living color.

     

    The true nature of our family isn't in the pictures.

    It feels like we were all playing on the stage of life – in a play about a regular large family – instead of who we really were.

    I wonder how many families are play acting over truths and secrets.

    Surely we can't be the only one.

     

    I recall seeing our childhood pictures and the poverty and inability to have nicer things and feeling ashamed.  Even the shame at being poor in a large family – where more kids were added to an already poor home. IF only that was the only seed of shame.

     

    The deeper and more impactful shame is that of sexual abuse within the family – and even more so – the denial and the way our family marched on – portraying normal. Abused and trying to be normal.

     

    Those pictures are awkward at best now. 

    Yet they depict my childhood and most of my life.

    They do not feel like treasures I want to hold on to.

    My heart feels sad or alone or empty – with those pictures.

    My memories and the truth were miles apart.

    The space where denial lived.

     

    I can't deny my family of origin.

    I can choose what pictures and memories I take forward as heart moments.

     

    These were fun ones to happen on.

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    Clowns I made in my early 20's.  I forgot all about them.  I love them – and maybe have to make a few!

     

    I loved seeing my old projects – all the wonders my hands have made.

     

    The parts of me that holds no shame.

    A true part of me was creating even way back then.

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    And today's creations.  

    While my past holds much denial – my art has remained true.

     

     

  • Imperfect Grandma

    "Imperfect Grandma" – is the only book I can write.

    I M Perfect and it is impossible not to be.  

     

    I wanted to leave my grandchildren an idea of who I am, perhaps impart some wisdom – and since I have nothing to pass on from the generation before me – words and who I am are what I can give.

     

    In the family ways, I am imperfect – I left my family.

    And its beliefs.

     

    Who I am and where I come from are not topics of most family holidays.

    My childhood family traditions – feel unworthy – or perhaps it feels like cheating to carry forth pieces of what I left behind. And they are flavored by the dysfunction and estrangement.

     

    As a grandma – I am seen differently – vastly different depending upon who you ask.

    I am piece of my family that broke free – and there are many still being family without me.

    My family tree is mainly – a limb – the branch who is estranged.

     

    I am not the perfect grandma who is attached to a long string of women – well I am – but not ones I can celebrate.  The perfect strings hold love, trust, peace, hope, joy, caring, wisdom…  The strands and strings of my tapestry show the legacy of abuse.

     

    In order to write about me, those stands are tangled into me – I am unable to separate them – they are a part – an integral part of me.

     

    My history is part of me – and without that truth – you won't understand why I stepped away from family.  And, you won't know how I became the grandma I am today.

     

    I have been pondering a book to write so my grandchildren have my story spoken from me.  I want them to know me – for there is much of my family I no longer know.  

     

    More than me, I want them to know the history they come from on my side.

    It is important to me that there isn't silence.

    I want to find a way to share my story, my art and what I stand for – in a way that isn't too dark; but one I hope will inspire them to be themselves, to own their feelings, to speak their truth, to dare to stand alone, and to be okay being imperfect.

     

    I want them to know, you can be at your darkest and still find a way back to joy.  To be broken and feel love.  To dance with the spectrum of opposites.

     

    What is funny, is that I thought I could write the perfect grandma book – only to realize that once again, my team of grandmas are imperfect.

     

    I can't write a perfect grandma book, for I am not perfect.

    But it seems to me there will lots I can say about Imperfect Grandma.

     

    I feel inspired by "Imperfect Grandma".

    I feel relief being in alignment with imperfections.

    I had to go look up imperfect – to make sure it will suit this grandma.

    "not perfect; faulty or incomplete."

    And I feel it does.  I was a faulty daughter, sister and even Aunt.

    I do feel incomplete or whole – as in part of something. I am missing my family of origin.

     

    While I am not broken – I am not whole.

    Imperfect Grandma – is willing to go there and speak what isn't spoken.

     

    The writings of Imperfect Grandma – feel right for me.

    Perhaps I have the image

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    This is me – Proudly Failing at who they wanted me to be.  

    Imperfect Grandma