Category Archives: shame

Sep2

I don’t clean up for less.

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Okay, I admit, I am easily entertained. Although I’ve become increasingly pickier with age. Want my money, my time, my attention? That bar is high these days; it will remain so. My standards have been raised. Some people have the gall to tell me that my standards are too high. Others might say they had nowhere to go but up. However, I don’t much care what some might say anymore…

My criteria for acceptable entertainment (as well as information) has been refined, taste aside. I expect high quality in everything I take in, whether that be news, movies, television, music…or our relationship. And by quality, I mean on every level. My senses are going to be bombarded with the culture of sensationalism every day, so bring it. If I am going to watch, I want high quality cinematography. Listening? Crisp high quality sound while I’m weeding out the crap. No more perfumey candles to smell or scratchy fabrics against my skin. I’ve had to improve the quality of the food I eat if I want to be healthy – and isn’t that work these days?! Read the labels, research – and then pay more to have them leave the chemicals and the seed oils out. Even my cat deserves nothing less than the best quality food I can possibly afford.

Now in my 70’s, I’ve survived more than most people can imagine. A lifetime of narcissistic abuse and neglect, sexual abuse, physical abuse, financial abuse. I have walked through hell. I’ve watched – and felt – almost every person I’ve ever loved suffer through cancer and addiction. Now I watch my beloved child struggle from decades of absent adults, never present enough to protect him from the same ravages. My gorgeous, brilliant nieces and nephews – and their children now; living out the 4th generation of trauma. To say I have paid my dues is an understatement. The only thing I’m sorry for are all the years I wasted making compromises. Repeat after me: “All my debts are paid, seen and unseen.” And be absolutely certain of it.

Now – just now!, am I really getting to the good stuff of life. Droppin’ off the shame. I’m not made for that. Neither are you. So, no more apologies. No more begging to belong. We are everything we are meant to be.

“Be kind to me, or treat me mean. I’ll make the most of it; I’m an extraordinary machine.” – Fiona Apple

Aug24

the reframing

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“Enough is abundance to the wise.” – Euripides

Money has been tight for too long. We’re starting to atrophy over here. Not just physically (the house is falling apart,) but spiritually. Horse and cart issues…so, back to the old drawing board as the saying goes. As I want to practice living curiously, I am exploring what appears to be my poverty. It brings up paralyzing fear, especially in tandem with age and health issues. Talk about scary, wow. As I said to my physician recently: “if you are likely to become old and poor at the same time, you’d better hope you are smart.” I am certainly not alone in this conundrum. Family and friends are all coming to terms with it. It’s a reality of our time and culture now; the elimination of the middle class is almost complete. And make no mistake, the poor will not be welcomed here.

A conversation has opened among us about the shame we are feeling. Because this feels like failure. HOW did I get here? This was not the plan. And it is not for lack of working hard, or giving life and my relationships everything I possibly had to give. I want to be generous and kind; I have never wanted to give up on anyone, no matter how damaged or dysfunctional. While I’ve grown to understand it was not meant to work as I was taught to believe, I appreciate that I had to learn to be selfish. It did not come naturally. I was my codependent Mother’s child, after all. The repressed shame that came with her poverty would eventually kill her – but I loved every molecule of her just the way she was. As she used to say to me, “we’re alright, Sue – the world’s all wrong.”

And so, I will face my shame monster, look her dead in the eye, and open my heart to her. I will give her a seat at the table. We will keep the conversation going as long as need be. Meanwhile, these conversations serve to remind me that money does not define me. There is no denial here – no pretending it wouldn’t help. But my difficulties will never define me. And certainly not the difficulties of someone else’s invention.

“I decided that the most subversive, revolutionary thing I could do was to show up for my life and not be ashamed.” – Anne Lamott

What is wealth, really? What is it for? What would you do with it? What is luxury? Isn’t it all relative? As I age, I am beginning to redefine priorities that I once accepted as given. They aren’t given – they are taught. Now I question everything, and if I accept it as part of me, I accept it unconditionally.

As but one example, throughout my life many have suggested that my obsession with interior design is superficial. Oh, but it isn’t at all. It’s an art form, a genre. Your home is your altar, your inner sanctum; meant to be revered. Done as an honest expression of your spirit, it nourishes health and well being on every level.

I’m particularly drawn to the homes of artists. They are messy, like life is messy. And if you know where to look, and more importantly, how to look – homes are remarkably rich with the beauty of life. They are an endless source of color and inspiration. I used to joke that I am so grateful to have been born in the time of shelter magazines. And many magazines are now online. What a magnificent and endless resource we have at our fingertips.

And here I am, reminded that I would actually rather sit in my comfortable home and watch videos than suffer the hassle that travel has become. It seldom interests me anymore. I love my age. I love the times I live in. I love my life. It doesn’t require money to be healthy and happy. It requires attention.

“Ninety percent of success is showing up and smelling good.” – Cary Grant