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Dear Prudence: Meet My Hidden Personality

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DEAR PRUDENCE: MEET MY HIDDEN PERSONALITY

You haven’t met Prudence. A few years ago, I introduced you to my multiple personalities — the confused and frightened kids who live inside me and with whom I have largely made peace. Occasionally, their fears still knock me off-center and cause me to lose my inner calm. My therapist has taught me to ask myself, “What part of me is afraid?” and then I can soothe that particular aspect of my being.

I won’t tell you all of my coping skills because I suspect you already think I’m flaky enough, but for instance, if “Sport” is afraid, I can work in the garden. She likes to be outside and get dirty. She likes earthworms and roly-poly bugs. She’s seven.

If “Whisper” is afraid, I can play the piano or sit down and listen to classical music. She learned to play the piano loud when dysfunctional family chaos upset my eleven year-old self.

My teenage self, “Cat,” is the hardest to soothe because she is tough and she’d rather die than admit she is afraid and you can’t teach her anything anyway. Driving really fast makes her feel better, but this is not ideal. She likes banging on the drum.

Careful of the cat

At the time I revealed my inner children to you, I was not aware of Prudence. That’s the thing about her. She is secretive. She is mistrustful and extraordinarily protective of “ourselves.” I think that she directs some of the other kids, though I’m not certain. She’s very strong.

I’ll never forget when I discovered Prudence. I was with my therapist, who asked,

“What part of you is driving that behavior?”

That’s usually fairly simple to figure out, but after a long while, I was still baffled. “I’m not sure who it is. It’s different energy.”

And she said, “Is there another one?” I nodded. She said, “Does she have secrets?” I nodded again. “What’s her name?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

But the moment I walked out of the office and into the flowering courtyard, the song “Dear Prudence” came to me in its entirety, and I knew that was her name.

Dear Prudence, won’t you come out to play

Dear Prudence, greet the brand new day

The sun is up, the sky is blue

It’s beautiful and so are you

Dear Prudence won’t you come out to play

♥ ♥ ♥ 

Dear Prudence open up your eyes

Dear Prudence see the sunny skies

The wind is low the birds will sing

That you are part of everything

Dear Prudence won’t you open up your eyes?

♥ ♥ ♥

Dear Prudence let me see you smile

Dear Prudence like a little child

The clouds will be a daisy chain

So let me see you smile again

Dear Prudence won’t you let me see you smile?

Prudence doesn’t smile. She doesn’t come out to play. She mistrusts sun and birdsong and daisy chains. She doesn’t want to be “part of everything.” Life is a serious, treacherous business for Prudence because someone has to be the cautious, watchful one. The prudent one.

Prudence knows that at any moment your perfectly loving father can have one too many glasses of brown stuff and turn into a monster. One day your mother will defend you, one day she will not.

Stay hidden. Trust no one.

The election of President Tweet traumatized all of my inner children. It caught the whole world off-guard. But not Prudence. She could have told you. She always knew a mentally unstable, dangerous man might become president and threaten the future of our country and the planet.

Prudence doesn’t want to be comforted. She has work to do.

♦ ♦ ♦

** Please read this disclaimer about Dissociative Personality Disorder (DID) which I do not have.

** Thanks for the writing prompt: prudent.

The Continuing Adventures of a New Substitute Teacher

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THE CONTINUING ADVENTURES OF A NEW SUBSTITUTE TEACHER

“Your Amazon order of Setting Limits in the Classroom, 3rd Edition has shipped!”

I barely remember rush-ordering the book last night, but apparently I’m not ready to quit yet — I’m investing.

If you’ve been following my latest adventures as a substitute teacher, you will know that yesterday, my first day, I barely made it out alive. At least that’s how it felt after seven hours with a pack of first and second graders. My stomach was drowning in stress hormones, reminding me of when I suffered from anxiety as a teenager and had to be put on meds.

After writing a Facebook note and a blog post last night basically screeching, “Help, I’m going down!” I got tons of excellent advice from Moms and Dads and teachers. Even my eighteen-year-old grand niece told me that things would be OK; she remembers loving her second grade sub but doing her best to torture her all the same.

Everyone tried to encourage me. A few people told me that things would be better the second day. But they hadn’t met these kids. A friend in New Hampshire nailed it (and she should know, raising three small boys): “In my experience,” she wrote, “they’re one good meal or one good night’s rest away from feral animals. That said, every interaction you have is an opportunity to make a difference.”

Another friend told me to “pull up your big girl panties and get back in the ring!”

So as I marched determinedly down the hall this morning, I repeated those words to myself like a mantra. “I’ve got my big girl panties on and I’m getting back in the ring!”  The theme from Rocky played in my head.

Day Two in the Classroom

Amazingly enough, my friends were right. Today was way better.

Things that worked: I raised my voice unexpectedly. With me, any time I raise my voice it’s unexpected, and I was surprised how immediately this worked (at first).

I stopped smiling. This was really hard; I am such a natural smiler. But I was a little angry after yesterday, and I think that helped.

Instead of letting the children get “just a little” out-of-hand because “they’re only being kids,” I immediately stopped the production of paper airplanes, crumpled them up, and put them in the recycling bin. As soon as I heard the words, “Guess what I made? It’s a scissors launcher!!” I was on it.

I had more fun today. I made the class a little bit mine. It’s a Quaker school, so we start with a few minutes of “morning worship,” which means sitting in a silent circle with a candle in the center. At the end of the time, I had them recite the “Saint Patrick’s Prayer” with me, complete with body movements. (I changed the word “Christ” to “Light.”) They liked it!

After that, we all took a break and went to the windows to watch three deer in the woods outside the classroom. (Thanks, God!)

Later I read the story about Saint Patrick that I wrote for them, and we talked about respecting immigrants and people of different religions.

I’m in the right place. Next week is “diversity week” at school. There are quotes on the bulletin boards like Shirley Chisolm’s “Tremendous amounts of talent are lost to our society just because that talent wears a skirt,” and Angela Davis’s “I am no longer accepting the things I cannot change. I am changing the things I cannot accept.” In the older girl’s bathroom, there isn’t much graffiti, but what I saw said things like “Hope” and “I love you!”

I’m going to stick this out. We’ll see how the other ages in K-8 pan out.

I’ve got my big girl panties on now, and this evening I am experiencing one of my favorite feelings. I am dang proud of myself.

Abstract Children

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ABSTRACT CHILDREN

I don’t have children, which is usually fine with me. Every once in a while, I think it might have been nice. Once a long time ago I had a dream of my daughter. She was freckle-faced with wispy blonde hair and we were standing on a cliff in the wind. My heart nearly burst with love for her. Sometimes I wonder if she exists in an alternate universe.

But most of the time I’m quite happy to be in this universe, psychically and emotionally independent. I greatly value my freedom, and I am just as glad not to have large pieces of my heart galavanting around the world getting hurt or getting into trouble. I have way less to worry about than parents do, and I’m grateful for that.

I joke about not liking children in general — they can be noisy and they are often covered in jelly or chocolate — but every time I get to know one as an individual, I fall in love. The love affairs started with the birth of my nephew and niece, continued as the children of my friends grew into beautiful, fascinating beings, and is now in full blossom as the oldest of my six grand nieces and nephews start their college days.

Children in the abstract I can take or leave, but children in the flesh make my heart sing. Not much makes me happier than watching little ones dance around our church sanctuary each Sunday, “making a joyful noise to the Lord” on tambourines and cymbals and drums. Even if they are covered with raspberry jelly and bits of doughnut.

A New Direction

So although it has come as a great surprise to me, I suppose an observer might not be at all surprised that I have chosen substitute teaching as the next step in my circuitous journey toward becoming my best self. It makes sense that I would eventually be drawn to spending more time with real, actual children, even though I am intimidated when packs of the older ones stampede down the hall, jostling each other and causing lockers to vibrate with their riotous laughter.

Yesterday, I began my new career at a nearby Quaker school by joining a class of 1st and 2nd graders that I’ll be subbing for next Thursday and Friday. Never having done the classroom thing before, I wanted to watch a real teacher in action. Ms. S was impressed that I volunteered my time to get to know the kids, and she was generous with her time in preparing me. I ended up spending the whole day with her fourteen students, rather than the three hours I had planned.

Stay tuned for further adventures in the life of a CIA clerk turned Sierra Club lobbyist turned freelance writer turned pastor turned teacher.

As Dr. Seuss says, “You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose!”

On the Journey

Politics, Prayer, Tiny Pee, and a Poll!

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Here’s something I’ve never done before. Since the voyeurs among you seem to enjoy my occasional “journal snippets,” how about a peek into my Facebook page?

“Spare us!” you cry. I know, it sounds dull, doesn’t it? It most certainly will be for my FB friends, but for those of you not fortunate enough to receive my daily gems of wisdom, humor, and insight, witness a week in the life:

↓        ↓          ↓            ↓              ↓

Sad to leave the Bernie Fan Facebook page that I’ve been a part of for so long. But the vitriol and conspiracy nonsense has gotten to be too much. At first there was a good back & forth after Bernie stepped out of the race, but now they won’t approve my posts anymore – only one opinion welcome there, and it ain’t a vote for Clinton.


Oh my, trapped in the gym for forty minutes with a woman who does not believe that humans have anything to do with climate change. And she knows cause she’s a high school history teacher. I will say two things:

One — I have grown up A LOT (though my tongue hurts from biting and my throat hurts from choking back the passive-aggressive bile.)

Two: I hope our gym schedules coincide again. My heart rate was two points higher than it usually is when I do the same workout.


I was trying to remember the name of an author who wrote a little book on prayer many moons ago, so I googled it. Mistake. Now I’m getting all kinds of ads for tacky prayer books. May favorite so far is: The Battle Plan for Prayer: From Basic Training to Targeted Strategies.

And — would this be praying to the Prince of Peace?


The Most Hippie Towns in All Fifty States: This article calls for a long road trip!


Somehow I never pictured myself sitting at home on a Friday night reading The New International Commentary on the New Testament. And my guess is, neither did any of my friends! At least there’s cabernet involved.


An amateur photographer catches a bee peeing in mid-air. Cutest pee ever!

Bee Pee

Bee Pee


I shared quotes from two of my favorite authors:

“How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.”

Annie Dillard

“To be open to the world is a dangerous way to live. It threatens us with learning things we’ve always been taught to reject.”

Joan Chittester


One hundred years ago today, August 20, 1916, one of the kindest, big hearted gentlemen of all time came into the world: Balous Frederick Griffin. Happy birthday, Daddy. I look forward to celebrating on the other side!

photo (79)


Now, so my blog readers don’t feel left out of my exciting Facebook life, I’ve designed a special poll just for you! And, like my Facebook page, it’s all about ME! Join the fun, how do you feel about ME and my Facebook page? (Actually, I’ve just discovered this polling function, so I’m playing around. Expect to see more polls, until I get bored with them.)

Carefree

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I’m sitting on the weathered wooden deck behind my cottage in rural New Hampshire watching an orange butterfly flit among orange day lilies and admiring my orange toenail polish. Presidential candidates not withstanding, orange can be a nice color. This deck is my “safe place,” the place I bring to mind when I’m working with my therapist and need to get centered and calm.

I’m supposed to be working on a sermon, but let’s be real. I am not. Instead I am in that sought-after but rarely found state of mind referred to as “mindfulness,” “being in the present moment,” or “abiding” in pastor-speak. A human being rather than a human doing. Care-free.

Usually the soundtrack in this safe place is the chiming of the grandfather clock through the open window, the chittering of goldfinch and chickadees at the feeder, and the ssshhhush of leaves being caressed by the wind. Today though, I also hear my nephew’s kids chatting over board games and reading each other comics — at least one is engaging in that fave teenage pastime of rifling through the fridge to see if there might be different snacks than there were five minutes ago.

Choosing to Be Childlike

This week marks the beginning of my annual month of hosting Jeff and his four kids here at Quiet Hills, just as my aunt hosted me all my growing-up years. Being with kids reminds me of how glorious it is to be a child, and I grow younger when I’m with them. I feel carefree.

Budding Archaeologist

Budding Archaeologist

 

Field trip to a local quartz-mica mine

Field trip to a local quartz-mica mine

Of course there are cares I could entertain, such as two un-done sermons, my cluttered home and overgrown yard at home, an upcoming meeting with my new financial planner who thinks I am insane for keeping this old house and would no doubt disapprove of the ice cream budget this month — or even the fact that a narcissistic orange megalomaniac might become president. But today right here, right now, I choose to set aside those grown-up cares and be carefree.

I’ll Save the World Next Month

I have yet to process or write much about the Wild Goose Festival that I attended just before coming here, filling my head and heart with the cares of the world: poverty and hunger, oppression and injustice, racism and white privilege, homophobia. I have pages of notes from workshops and dialogues, and the margins are full of scribbled ideas for next steps I can take to nourish my soul and save the world. There is no shortage of work for those of us trying to bring hope and healing to a hurting world — “plotting goodness” as my friend Brian calls life with Jesus.

But this month is about peanut butter & jelly sandwiches and maple walnut ice cream, day trips to the swimming hole and late-night story times, evening walks to the beaver pond and midnight-marathon board games.

Story Time

Story Time

Thanks for the carefree word prompt, WordPress Gods of the Blogosphere.

Digging Up and Looking Up

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I haven’t told you about the rosebush. Well, it’s more like a rose sprig at the moment, but it’s shooting up like a gangly adolescent, having grown almost a foot in the five weeks since I prayerfully dug up the three tiny leaves and as much root as I could get.

I had planned to dig up a number of Mom’s plants before I sold her house — three heritage roses, a quince, an azalea given to her by my late friend in honor of my father, a bleeding heart given to her by my best friend in honor of Mom’s sister, a hydrangea from her best friend, mounds of snowdrops and daffodils.

But the house sold fast, I had a broken arm, and it was too emotionally painful to go over there. Life happened, and when I next drove by, the garden had been done away with and nothing remained but a few trees and a smooth expanse of grass.

There!

I was invited to a party at the house in June, my first time back in a year. It was haunting and strange to walk through my childhood home, completely renovated and all but unrecognizable. Late in the afternoon, I wandered over to where the roses had been for sixty-plus years and ran my fingers through the young grass, hoping against hope.

At first I found nothing, but then . . . there! Three miniature rose leaves, so small they might have belonged to a fairy-gardener.

I asked the new owners if I could come by with a shovel and dig it up and they agreed. I hurried over the next morning, fearful that another lawn mowing would be the end of it. I talked to the tender sprout as I dug around it. Please live. I talked to my mom’s spirit and asked her help. Why not, right? She loved those roses.

I have never seen a plant respond the way this one has. Deciding it was too risky to plant it mid-summer, I put it in a pot and have been watering and spritzing it daily. I’ve even hauled the heavy container with me on a few road trips. Tomorrow we head back to New Hampshire.

Here’s the rose on its first trip to New Hampshire in June, just a week after I dug it up.

Life Force

Life Force

This week’s blogging photo challenge is Look Up. So I thought I’d share my rose’s resurrection story and a photo looking up into the glorious blooms of my mother’s magnolia tree, which, thank heavens, the new owners have seen fit to keep.

Glory

Glory

The Safe Time

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My Dad would sit in the kitchen chair, the one with the ripped blue plastic seat cover, and read the newspaper to my Mom while she made dinner: meat loaf or tuna casserole or fish sticks and some kind of frozen veggie — if they were lima beans, they would be burned. He’d turn one page with his good arm and shake it out straight, while holding the other page stationary on the table with his crippled arm.

“Oh for Pete’s sake,” he would mumble, and my mother would say, “What?” Pause. “Frederick, what?” He would finish the story, grunting, and then summarize the latest outrage for her, reading the choice bits out loud. Usually something to do with Democrats.

“Oh for God’s sake,” she would agree, the fresh indignity fueling energetic attacks with the carrot peeler. “I don’t know what this country’s coming to.” (She really did say that, and not infrequently.)

“It’s the communists,” Daddy would say, unless he had finished a glass or two of sherry in which case he would say, “It’s those damn communists,” and mother would say, “Frederick!”

He would lick the thumb of his good hand to get it sticky, turn the next page, shake it smooth, and begin to read the latest from the Sports page.

“Mmmm,” Mom would say, and “Oh my.” But she would be humming and not really listening anymore.

When he got to the comics, he would laugh till he wheezed.

I loved the rustle of the newspaper, the predictable banter, that safe time each evening before the sherry kicked in and “the unpleasantness” started.

I loved to hear my Dad read

I loved to hear my Dad read

Thanks to WordPress for the word prompt: Newspaper

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