What do we know for sure? I find myself wondering, lately, if we mostly hold the beliefs that suit our ease.
For some, self-contempt can provide a kind of familiarity which becomes belief. For others, there is ease in what’s left after all the anger—which is really a mutation of pain—gets bored and leaves, or burns away. Some find their peace in caring for others. Some may see truth in the days that offer little resistance to their status quo. Most of us may host a little of each of these.
Here’s a piece of what I know.
The dresser in my bedroom chafes at being called mine, or ours. It doesn’t relate to our words bureau, chest of drawers, or, for that matter, dresser. It prefers to be called proprietor. For this I hold deep respect, just as this proprietor holds my property.
I suspect the clothing and jewelry held therein does not necessarily enjoy being called those words we use for them. I’ve no way of knowing this, for I don’t have a conversational relationship with them. Well, except for the pyramid pendant that belonged to my mother.
Everything is sentient, but everything doesn’t always choose to be perceived that way. That is my experience, and therefore it is fact in my world. I feel no urge to lay that belief on you, though.
My daughter’s ways of being defy most norms. Manners are a great challenge for her. If anxiety and compulsion press her towards your nose, looking for the relief that a single light touch seems to bring, your negative reaction can send her spiraling into a small terror. She will remember you and that moment forever. Years from now she may be able to recite the day and date that you recoiled from her attempted touch. She will be repeating any comments you made, in a pretty good approximation of your volume and tone, into her tape recorder and into the air. She will scrawl about this in many a scribbly journal. She will not like you. Progress means she didn’t vomit when you said NO.
My daughter, a grown woman by any age standard, remains delightfully child-like in the ways she reacts to the world around her. She knows the colors of every song you could play for her. She struggles to understand that you don’t have such a skill. She sings when the urge strikes her, audience or no.
In the past few years, she is increasingly able to relate the experiences of her past. This can be…
On 4/7/16 you started having gooey oyster. (Her words for my soft hair).
The reason I cried on the bagnadahl grass girl Teletubby Wednesday is because the rice had cold texture. (No, I can’t tell you exactly what this means, but she clearly did not like the rice on that day!)
“Mommy XYZ dragged me and pushed me and screamed at me.” XYZ was a teacher she had when she was under 10 years old.
“Mommy why XYZ said I hate you?” Daughter does not know how to lie, so I have no doubt this happened to her. “I didn’t have the words to tell you back then.” These particular deeply upsetting revelations led to my first two dozen attempts to introduce the word *abuse* into the teaching moments about how others should treat us.
I do not question what my daughter knows for sure, just as I wouldn’t second guess your right to name your own knowing. You don’t need to hear the proprietor speak in order to believe that I do. It’s the free sharing of our individual lived experiences—which includes deep listening—the alchemy of honesty and curiosity and respect, that seems to prod the important conversations. Rich fodder for growth.
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