NEW YEARS FIGHT FOR LOVE

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I fought my way into this world, as I am a child of rape; my mother not wanting me. She went to a doctor for an abortion, but the doctor refused as she was 5 months pregnant. Then, she went to Tarrytown, ny to an adoption agency; but was convinced to keep me by the man she fell in love with, a patient she took care of on the ship returning from WWII. I cannot be greatfull enough for my daddy-dad fighting to keep me. This IS amazing grace! Not of my mother’s kind.

I fought my mother (all growing up) about the bible’s validity that only “born again” christians would go to heaven, or else go to hell. What kind of love is that?
I fought thru an F in calculus at Cornell University, being put on probation, then one year at a christian college, (to please my mother, and sadden my dad) to return and graduate from Cornell’s Nursing school with a BSN (Best Soul Nurture)

I fought the minister’s and church community’s advice not to permit my coming-out husband to have access to our 2 daughter’s because homosexuality is a “sin.”
I fought against my mother’s belief that Negroes were inferior, having fallen from god’s grace due to the curse of Ham. I hammed it up with black men in the seventies.

I fought my ‘christian’ in-laws dismissal of Tobi, our brown (mulatto) foster baby to the basement of their home; their anger at me for not respecting my Mississppi mother-in-laws belief to be separate from blacks (Negroes can be your friends, but don’t mix with them). I brought Tobi to their home every weekend we visited: my mother-in-law apologized to me 7 years later.

I fought off the guilt I’d learned about dancing being a worldly (ungodly) pursuit, hustling Saturday nights, (like John Travolta) attending church on Sundays, embracing the good fight of my hypocrisy. Now, I dance 4-5 nights a week! With joy!

I fought for natural childbirth; having to cross a state line to a small hospital in Susquehanna, Pa. where my husband would be allowed in the delivery room. Erin was born there, and now has a daughter named Hannah…becoming more aware of the synchronicity of everything, everyONE being connected.

I fought for three amicable divorces, my fourth husband not so willing, fighting with angry lies about me. In this marriage to Gregory, I learned not to fight with anger; I could no longer fight back my many tears, SOBs, (Shortness Of Breath? and/or Son Of Bitch?)
My tears help me fight off my fears of rejection, of not being loved.

I surprisingly rallied from my 65 in Cornell’s freshman English to my bewilderment of writing five books, so far, that fight for acceptance of tears as OPENing hearts (hear hear) to LOVE! (keep crying John BoehnEr! And I am not republican)

“Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth.” – Thoreau
then LOVE will EVOLve…dianea

Rites of passage to LOVE

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There is one rite of passage that I wonder if I will ever pass through….maybe I am not supposed to. But, I was meant to be married four times; each one a right that I will treasure.

Of course, I wished to have one long happy marriage, as a “born again” christian, married as a virgin at age 22. I bore two magnificent daughters by this husband, who is kind and supportive throughout natural childbirth. But, it was unnatural for Chuck to be married to a woman, so he left us for his gay partner now of thirty years, Kimber.

Unconsciously, I had wished to experience other men sexually, so during the grief of losing an intact family, I was having sex with boyfriends, along with my guilt. I would sit on the toilet the next morning, asking god not to punish me. I was also dancing (god forbid, my mother’s voice) during this time of questioning my “faith” that I had been brain-washed into since a toddler.

Seven years later, I married Reid, a space sciences Phd. Candidate at Cornell, where my dad had been a research associate analyzing the first moon dust, as I was challenging and analyzing my need for religion. Although we went to a few sessions of marriage counseling, my spirit would not let me stay married more than two years; I was finally liberated from religion through arguments with Reid; my spirit had to be free to be ME. We parted amicably, and a few years later he was diagnosed with a virulent form of cancer, and died at age 44. I attended his memorial, tears thanking him for being a rite of passage out of religious abuse, as Matthew Fox, ex-catholic priest and well-known author has put it.

My third rite of passage-marriage was-to-be another seven years later to Alain, an owner of an auto repair business. We met roller skating; I’ve always been attracted to the physically fit muscular guys, which he was except he smoked and drank more than was healthy. I thought I could help him. By being a Marriage and Family therapist by then, I learned to pay more attention to my own needs for emotional intimacy. We participated in marital therapy for about 6 months, when Alain, said, ‘If you can’t accept me as I am, then we are done.” Another amicable parting, as I listened more to my heart-spirit.

On to Gregory, only three years later, my soul mate. After 2 months together we were committed in a spiritual marriage, then legally three years later. During this time, he became very depressed over losing his house, and his job, unemployed for 2 years, as I tried to help this sensitive father-worthy man. I gained a stepdaughter, Sara when she was 10, and advocated for father’s rights by writing to newspapers. Gregory’s weekly therapy and medications were not enough as our marriage was suffering from his verbal abuse and great distrust, Gregory thinking I was having affairs. I was crying and stomping like a toddler. Mostly, helpless. Mostly, the greatest rite of passage to my true Being.

A last ditch effort to save our marriage was to travel to the Primal Center in California where I would train and both of us be in intensive therapy. Gregory dropped out of therapy saying, “I am too afraid to feel my pain, I will have to come back another lifetime.” I had shut down my successful therapy practice, moved across the country, and cried like a river, a waterfall of shut-down pain I had buried. I have always loved waterfalls, and at present live as a single chick, (still looking for the rooster) between two gorges where many powerful waterfalls symbolize me as I cry at ‘the drop of a hat? Or is it ‘at the drop of love’….being happy that this rite of passage feels like forever-love.

“Love is eternal; its character may change, but not its essence.” – Van Gogh

SHOES…can you walk in others, as well as your own?

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SHOES

I have been on a budget for many years, mirroring my financial situation changes. So, when I began running, I put on my K-mart tennis shoes. I am 5’9” and believed that size 71/2 fit me well until I began to acquire black great-toe nails. I did not want to buy the next size larger, an 8. I valued my smaller more feminine size at the time. As I grew emotionally, I gave up this insecurity of appearances for REAL running shoes, Adidas size 8…still from a discount store. Running marathons up and down hills continued to blacken my great toes, until I gave up that long-distant need for recognition.

I have substituted running with my love to dance, which was not permitted while growing up due to mom’s strict religious beliefs, until I could become more secure in my own beliefs that dancing is good despite its part in “worldliness.” Then, I provided dance lessons for my daughters, as well as tap dancing for me. Tap shoes were my first REAL dance shoes, but those you do not wear in public. I wanted to dance socially, so began swing dancing in 1992, using saddle shoes from PayLess. And, wore whatever regular street-shoe that I thought was cute.

After 2000, I branched out to salsa and ballroom, and in 2003 met the challenge of argentine tango. I was still wearing street shoes, and couldn’t imagine myself wearing the 3-4” heels that is expected in true Argentian style. After all I would be 6 feet tall…and would my partners want to dance with me? Besides, REAL argentine tango shoes cost over $100 dollars. Yikes! But, as with any love, you breakdown and do what is best for your partner, my feet. I learned of an online store where tango shoes are made special for Tangueros, and credit-carded over $100 to buy 1½ inch tango shoes, black of course. They have served my dancing feet well…but the beautiful look of the higher heels kept calling to me. In 2006, I traveled to Buenos Aires, for the REAL tango milongas, and could not avoid the handmade tango shoes sold there. Still, I was not above a 3” heel.

2010 took me to a higher place, and a higher price, a turquoise and royal blue Gretaflora design with a leather flower attached, 3 and ¾ inch black heel, (I just went upstairs to measure it) near $200 dollars, I am embarrassed to admit. Yet, I have lost my embarrassment while dancing with all heights of men partners, while in our tango embrace with the love of the dance.

(Tomorrow is Halloween, and I am wearing ballet shoes along with a tutu, being the child dancer I was not allowed to BE.)

the beauty of trust

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THE BACK DOOR

I have wondered why my house where I grew up, on a long main road, was the only one where the driveway wound around the back of three houses, ours being in the middle. Therefore the family car was parked by the back door. It was a very rare occasion that our front door was used, as was true of our neighbors.

And, I do not recall our back door ever being locked either. I grew up in the 50s and 60s, where a neighborhood trust was taken for granted, a gift I highly prize especially now as I reside in a renovated chicken coupe, next door to a farm house, where an apartment has been created on its second floor. In this 21st century, people have locks on everything: cars, bikes, helmets, purses, office doors.

I refuse to lock my doors, even when on vacations, loving the freedom to come and go without having to search for my keys. Now, Heavenly Blue Morning Glories grace my back door, arching and stretching, swinging as I open and close. I have planted my favorite flower for 9 years, and they have climbed to the second story roof, but never before over my back door.

I honor them with my attention, counting 22 in full bloom during one September day; then, I recall being in Trumansburg, NY court room last week. I did not stand up when the judge entered from the back door of the court room, because I did not see him enter, my nose being in my journal. When it was my turn to defend my case, the judge gave me instructions, and when he asked if I understood, I answered, “yes sir.” Not, ‘your honor’. I had not planned to avoid “your honor,” although I have thought often that judges should not be addressed with this unequal title. I defended the injustice of my $10 parking ticket that came with a $100 tow of my jeep liberty. I had attended the Grassroots Festival; parking being a premium I ended up with one wheel on the pavement; I turned to see that it was not obstructing traffic on this rural road. My parking ticket was for having wheel(s) on the pavement, a law I had no prior knowledge of. I pointed out that my car had been parked for 9 hours before it was towed, and the officer on the day shift had not chosen to ticket it, but the evening one did. And, that the tow fee is usually $54-$65 for a five mile tow. (I had researched 3 different rural towing companies, even the one who towed me that July night)

The judge said he chose to deliberate and send out the verdict. I said, “thank you sir for hearing me.” Two days later I received the judge’s letter that said, “Not guilty.” I felt the truth was honored with equality, noticing a bloom of a smile on my face.

Then, as I write this I realize that once again I live on a circular driveway that serves three families (homes), only the driveway is in front of the back doors, instead of in back, like it had been in childhood. As I walk to my back door, or drive by, my heart opens to happiness with each look into the center-circle of the Heavenly Blue Morning Glories, speaking “your honor” with each entry and exit.

best birthday gift

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Out of the mouth of babes….
do we see that we are all connected…
like 6-year-old Emily does spontaneously in this essay…

SINGING

Riley, my granddaughter, was three years old, when she sang “Since You’ve Been Gone,” by Kelly Clarkson, as if she was performing on stage. Riley opened her mouth big as a balloon, and wiggled like a worm. No, like a rock star.

Everyone laughed, and loved how much she mimicked Kelly Clarkson, being miniature-sized. I wanted to videotape her, and send it into America’s Funniest Home Videos…but I forgot to bring my video camera from Ithaca to Boston where Riley lives with her younger sister, Emily. By the time I returned to Boston with my video-camera, Riley no longer wanted to sing for me or her family. I was disappointed, and now wonder why I hadn’t remembered earlier, and why it meant so much to me to record my grand-child’s amazing singing.

“EMILY IS DIDI”
Didi (my name as gramma) is very excited that Emily wrote what is above in bold on her own. Emily is sitting on my lap as I type, and she is working the space key. She is 6 years old. She likes to sing Put your hands in the air, “because I know it a lot,” she tells me when I ask why she likes that song. Emily just typed her name and is giggling. I help Emily type mostly her words:

And green is the color of Love. Cats and dogs and bunnies are love.
Riley and Emily are LOVE.

I love didi and mommy and Riley I am dun.

My heart is singing, and not just because it is my birthday, where I sing today with my 2 daughters and 3 granddaughters, “When I’m 64” by the Beatles.

MAKING LOVE with OPENESS

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Isn’t it great to be more open about SEX?

MAKING IT LAST

I’ve been having sex for forty years; bet you’d like to know what age I was when I started? I’ll tell you I was a virgin when married the first time…so it’s obvious I am a slow starter.
I guess I was supposed to make my marriage last by not having pre-marital sex as a “born again” christian. My husband left me because he came out of that repressive religious closet as a gay man, after granting us two beautiful daughters. Then, my sexual curiosity zoomed thru several boyfriends and three more marriages; my second marriage being an OPEN marriage trial.

Still, what was most difficult for me was to be able to talk out loud to my partners about what would bring me more pleasure: where to touch me, how to touch me, why to touch me. Thoughts of me ‘taking too long’ to reach orgasm stymied me, fearing I’d bruise his ego if I instructed my lover. Bottom line: fearful they wouldn’t love me enough, and therefore leave me.

Through psychotherapy, I became more OPEN with myself, I developed more
courage…asking to be touched or licked in certain ways. Most men responded without complaints. As my fears lessened, I noticed that I did not need as much time to come to orgasm, and also that I responded more to a lighter touch. This sensitivity was where men found me to be different…in a good way. They didn’t have to work so hard
Now, I let my tears be seen at orgasm, beautifully connecting us as one.

I’ve experienced men who enjoyed making love without having an orgasm right away or maybe none at all. I found my self saying out loud as I was feeling my pleasure of a building orgasm, my voice in his ear, “I want to make this last.”

natural medicine of the heart

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MEDICINE

April (2010), my daughter Megan drives me and her daughters Riley and Emily to a new wooden-structure playground, where my g-girls beg me to chase them. Although I run fast, they dodge me left and right, and with laughter eventually I tag one. Megan is sitting on the wooden bench watching us streak by, sipping her ice coffee.

As I dash up a few steps after my grand-girls, my sneaker slips, letting my left shin crash into the corner of a stair: I fall, my elbow scrapes and a deep slash pours blood out of my shin. I am surprised that no tears form, all I can do is breath hard and weakly tell Megan I can’t speak between heavy sighs. My nursing background pushes to the fore, asking Megan to give me her coffee plastic cup which still holds ice. I push the V-shaped-skin-tear together, pressing the icy cup to my shin.

After hobbling to the car, I make the decision not to go to the ER for stitches although I need them to create a pretty leg again. I have no health insurance. I direct Megan to buy some butterfly bandages and Telfa pads that do not stick to the wound, and some anti-bacterial ointment, while the girls and I wait in the car with my leg elevated on the dashboard. When we arrive home, my son-in-law Ben helps me arrange the bandages, while Megan prepares for a BBQ for friends arriving for dinner.

Two days later, I am scheduled to volunteer at Ithaca’s Free Clinic as an RN. I ask the doc to look at my slightly oozing butterfly-bandaged leg, and he says, “That probably should have been stitched, but it’s too late now.” And, it wasn’t the best treatment to be on my feet for the next 4 hours…miraculously, another RN shows up; she mistakenly thought it was her day to be there. Gladly, I left, to support my leg’s healing.

Although I am educated first as a Registered Nurse, I have been in private practice as a Marriage and Family Therapist for the past twenty years, avoiding medications for my clients as well as for myself as much as possible. I have encountered many experiences where I have learned that our bodies heal well when our emotional currents are cleared with tears. Still, I am very greatfull for traditional-medicine when I experienced a fractured skull (19 years ago), being hit head-on by a bicyclist. And I’m even more appreciative of my medical knowledge when the plastic surgeon told me I would need a tracheotomy in order to repair my facial fractures and jaw. I was scared to not be able to talk or breathe…I knew how helpless I would feel. I immediately asked for an oral surgeon consult…who thankfully said the tracheotomy was unnecessary. Despite a couple small scars, my head is fully healed (Still working on my mind)

And, my shin has healed as a purple-V-natural-tattoo which for me stands for Vulnerability, Valentine and Victory…I love my scar (that’s a first!) because…
when I returned in May to my daughter Megan’s family who live approximately 6 hours from me…I was asked to go to their friend’s house to pick up the girls. As soon as I entered the front door, Emily, who is 5, ran into my arms, saying “How’s your leg Didi? I want to see it!” (Isn’t this the best medicine?)

Addendum:
Today, (June 26, 2010), I cut rhubarb from my backyard to give to an elderly couple (ex-boyfriend’s parents). Teresa likes to make rhubarb pies and Don loves to eat them, as does their son Daniel. When I arrive at their home, Teresa is still recovering from bronchitis, and finds it difficult to talk, because talking makes her cough. She tells me “I need to get more cough drops: I have run out.”

“Oh, I can bring you some after I get my clothes from the Laundromat.”
Teresa immediately gets up from her kitchen chair to pick up money to pay me. “Absolutely not!” I emphatically reply. She threatens lightly, “Then, I won’t take them when you bring them here.”

As I scurry out the door, avoiding the money in her hand, I hear, “Shame on you!”
Briefly, I hear my mother’s same critical words in my head, then smile to myself, ‘this is the first time I feel good shame.’

Fathers Day meets the summer solstice

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I want to acknowledge all the loving fathers out there…and especially my father, Servy Michel Kohl who is no longer with me on this planet, but whose LOVE is with me always! He died in 1977, and I miss him more and more as my tears flow…loving to plant dianthus (close to my name diane)at his grave yesterday. I visit there once a month just to BE especially acknowledging of his specialness to me.

I encourage every son or daughter to have a special time with their dads…a special talk, walk, and I wish my own daughters to come to their granddad’s grave, whom they can barely remember…yet they have my love and his together whether they are aware of it or not.

For those of you who do not have that loving dad…my hope for you is to find an older man who could serve as a second dad…as I have with Bill Wernsing…now gone also…and Barry Vissell who will be the keynote speaker at the International Primal convention/retreat in August. www.primals.org for more info.

And may the summer sun give you pleasure of the flowers and trees and waterfalls of your life! Take time to notice:)
with more love, dianea

men are like women when it comes to FEELINGS

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Like to SPY?:)

THE OFFICE

I wish everyone could ‘be a spyder on the wall’ of my office where confidentiality is essential.

I tend to disagree with psychotherapists who believe that men are different from women in the emotional realm, even John Gray’s popular book, Men Are from Mars, Women are from Venus gives us this impression. I’ve worked with many couples over the spam of twenty-plus years, and at least half of my clients are male.

Two weeks ago, Steve came in alone for the first time, after attending sessions with his wife for maybe 6 sessions. Originally, Nancy had been seeing me for about four months; Steve was afraid to enter therapy yet saw the changes in her and decided to be courageous. As with all people, trust has to be built, so I was a bit surprised that Steve had agreed to see me alone after expressing much anxiety (fear) to do so. During that session, I asked if there was anything he could not share with his wife. He embarrassingly admitted there were two things. After he told me about two childhood events, he expressed how relieved he felt, because he had never told anyone, and had thought about those sexual events off and on for forty-some years. The following week I was surprised again when Steve and Nancy came in as a couple and told me that Steve had revealed his secrets to Nancy despite feeling great fear. Nancy said she felt afraid as well when Steve said, “We have to talk.”

Steve tells me with wide eyes, “As soon as I began to tell her, this HUGE weight came off my shoulders,” emphasized by his arms lifting up in the air, which he repeated with varying expressions during the session. Nancy said that Steve repeated his relieved feelings at home several times. It is difficult to describe the swell in my heart to hear Steve; it’s as if the mystical ONEness the Buddhists have long time spoken of is felt.

A couple I helped through a near divorce several years ago was initiated by the man who cried most sessions, while his wife rarely sprang tears.

Another man, who has recently returned to therapy after leaving a few months ago, and who had sobbed in sessions with his wife, (who was more angry than tearful), is crying again although I catch him trying to hold back tears. I ask him what makes him hold onto his tears. He replies, “My dad always says things aren’t so bad, just suck it up. But, I know I want to cry. Yet, I just hide in booze. I don’t want to be angry as I am.”

On the other gender, a 26 year old woman came in four months ago full of rage; she had thrown a garbage can over her husband’s head. She is a social worker who knew she needed help. She had been to another therapist the previous year, coming to me saying, “I need someone to challenge me…I didn’t let them put me on Lexapro. The anger and loss of control are getting worse…I’m scared and don’t want to own up to it.” Now, she is crying openly with her husband and her rage has dissipated thru connecting it to her loss of her dad after a divorce.

Yes, we still hear Fregie sing, “Big girls don’t cry,” and parents telling their sons, “Big boys don’t cry.” But, I am encouraged (and surprised again) by a new male client who had never been in therapy before, saying in his first session: “I am used to bawling myself to sleep.”

For the LOVE of my daughter Megan….her birthday today

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TEENAGERS

By the time I was a teenager I was taken into slavery. It seems harsh to say, but looking back on my life 40 years later; it IS a slavery of the heart. It took me years to recognize that I was sexually aroused one morning in my sunlit bedroom, a tingling between my legs that I have a clear memory of at age 16, yet I had no idea what was happening to me. I did not know what masturbation was until I was in nursing school. And, my mother was a nurse, but also a strict “born again” christian.

While growing up, I had a strong desire to dance, trying it out in seventh grade, but my feeling guilty of going against my mother’s christian rules not to dance, “or be of this world” put chains on my wish-to-be dancing ankles. Although I fought with my mother often, my rebellious spirit was conquered by wanting and needing my parents’ loving approval more than the teenage need to be her self. To this day, I wish I could have danced with my father at my wedding.

Sixteen was also the monumental year for learning the shocking truth of my origins by my mother yelling at me, “He’s not your father!” Later, that same year I also remember myself walking up our cellar stairs experiencing an epiphany: ‘I am an individual in my own right’ a feeling of amazement that I could BE; I was conscious of my consciousness: immediately sharing thIS with my father. I wish I could remember his response, yet I feel he approved and supported me like how he wrote to me in college when I was 18, “That you make comments and ask questions in Bible class and are not afraid to think and ask and how happy I am about that.” It was dad’s openness that fundamentally led me to leave the religious ropes I wore until age 38 in 1984!

In my twenties, I delivered 2 beautiful daughters, and began living a double life, of dancing while still attending church every Sunday. It was when my eldest daughter was 12 that I told her I was leaving my christian faith while she cried in her top bunk, saying “But mom you will go to hell.” Even though my daughters enjoyed dance lessons, they were still indoctrinated like I had been, but with less rigid rules. It shakes me to my toes how easily children are molded by their parents as I watch a documentary on TV where a 16 year old tells the interviewer that he has his own choice to follow the mennonite religion he has been brought up in…teenagers may think they have the independence to choose, but they are still dependant on their parents, and I strongly wanted to call that teen up at that moment; to free him. And, I wanted to call the TV station and ask them to hear my heart!

My daughters no longer believe what they were brought up to believe, thank god, and it gives me pleasure to remember when my oldest, Erin, snuck out one night when she was nearly 16, after I had gone out myself to dance somewhere in Ithaca’s college town scene…and whom did I see crossing College Avenue? Erin in her short skirt dolled up to roam where the boys are. Promptly, I walked her toward home.

Now my 17 year old granddaughter Denali is spending her junior year as an exchange student in Paraguay, becoming fluent in Spanish and recently took an extended tour of Uruguay and Buenos Aires, Argentina. She emails me: (she knows I argentine tango usually two nights a week, and dance four nights a week) “Buenos Aires is amazing! I thought of you lots! I saw a tango show in the street, and danced for like 30 seconds with an old man “king of tango” and also went to a fancy dinner and tango show which was soo great! The whole time I was there I wanted to be tangoing…haha”