Be Kind to Yourself
Make peace with yourself -
who you are; who you were -
think of the hardships
you've had to endure.
You might have regrets
about things that you did,
and choices you made
that you hoped would stay hid -
we've all made mistakes
that we'd like to undo -
be kind to yourself
and forgive the old you.
You've turned out quite well;
your opinion is sought.
Your wisdom increasing -
it was quite dearly bought.
You've earned some respect
since you've started to be
a person who cares,
and who lives decently.
Be kind to yourself
and just live as you should.
You've shed who you were
and become someone good.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, July 30, 2018
A friend recently recently talked about how much he enjoys adopting the persona of a character he once portrayed in a play. It got me thinking about the different roles we take on in life - the roles we're forced into and the ones we willingly take on. I think that most of us embody different personas along the way as different aspects of our personality come to the forefront under different circumstances.
To state that I lacked confidence as a youth would be putting it mildly. I never saw myself as pretty enough, smart enough or good enough. I had a few good friends, but never considered myself overly popular. In my own eyes, I always fell short of what I thought I should be.
It often felt like I was harbouring a couple of different people inside. What I considered "real me" was somewhere between the person who manifested herself at school, and the person my family knew. My closest friends caught occasional glimpses of that fun, wacky person, but "she" didn't emerge as often as she should have - I was far too worried that if I cut loose, people would ridicule me. A lot of the time I would've been happy to be just about anyone but me.
When I got married (at 26) I was beginning to come into my own, but motherhood set me back a bit. Having two sons in rapid succession left me tired, cranky and impatient far too often. Once again I seemed to spend too many days disliking the person who I seemed to be at the time. Money was perpetually tight in those days, and my husband was still in Grad school until our younger son was a year old. My parents lived three hours away, so I didn't have a lot of family support. We scrimped and saved to pay for a babysitter every few weekends so that we could get out without the boys, and I could escape needy toddlers for a few hours.
At the time it felt like a lot of my friends were acing motherhood - doing it so much better than I was. Now that I look back with my increased life experience, it's dawned on me that I've always been more open about my struggles than many. In retrospect, I can also see how one friend had less financial stress, and another had a mom nearby who took her kids fairly often, and others simply had the ability to appear confident - even when they may have been as uncertain as I was. It took me a lot of years to see that I did pretty well most of the time.
Hindsight has taught me that forgiving the flaws of your past self finally comes once you've fully acknowledged everything you were up against in those worst moments.
It took me a long time to realize that I was critical of myself - and others - because I'd been raised around too much criticism. I aimed for perfection, and felt that I couldn't allow myself to be happy about making incremental improvements in myself. For most of my life, I was far too judgmental. In my mid-forties, not liking the way my "inner critic" was taking over my internal monologue (and far too often my external dialogue as well), I began to rethink the way I lived and the things I professed to believe. Oddly, the things I really believed at my core never came into question. I knew that I'd always had a deep sense of morality - I knew good from bad, and had a huge capacity for kindness. I'd just never figured out how to be kind to myself.
I began to actively search for the positives in my life - not just taking time to enjoy great moments in the present, but to rethink my past in a kinder light. I searched for the best parts of myself - aspects that had consistently been part of me - even throughout the less than stellar parts of my life - and I found them.
It's easy to look back at who we used to be and chastise that person with all kinds of advice about what we shoulda/woulda/coulda done differently, but I've come to the conclusion that those types of recriminations aren't fair or kind. Most of us tried to do the best we could, and when we erred we paid the price. The mistakes we've already made are behind us, and craning our necks to keep looking at them only bends us out of shape.
Now in my fifties, I've finally managed to (mostly) forgive the less than flattering aspects of my old selves. By making peace with "them", I've became a lot more comfortable with the person I am now. I can throw myself into a role when I'm participating in a murder mystery or telling a tall tale at Toastmasters - and have a great time doing it - but I don't want to be anyone other than who I am. I can claim ownership of the creativity that temporarily brings these characters to life - and that's enough for me.
I love knowing that I can still play and create. I can cut loose without worrying that anyone (or at least anyone who matters) will ever think less of me for letting out my inner goofball. Yesterday, I posted video of myself telling my prize-winning "Tall Tale." The second I saw myself onscreen I started to think negative thoughts about how physically unflattering the video is - I look fat, I should have fixed my hair, put on more makeup... I almost didn't post it. Then I caught myself and posted it - with only one small disclaimer about not being quite as fat as I look. (Hey - it's progress!) I think it's a funny video - who cares if anyone criticizes the way I look? It's not an audition tape for a beauty pageant, just a spur of the moment recording I did to make people laugh. A lot of people have watched it now, and I'm not going to feel badly about the fact that I don't look awesome in it. I've finally figured out that I have other ways of shining.
It is hugely satisfying to know that I'm making progress - and that I'll have opportunities to learn and grow for as long as I live. At last I can say that I like who I'm becoming. So here is my advice to you:
Be kind to yourself - you' re still evolving too.
Tuesday 21 August 2018
Friday 3 August 2018
One Stone - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
One Stone
One stone gently tossed
into a stream is lost.
Many, heaved with force,
can make a stream change course.
One voice barely heard -
wind swallows every word.
But when voices blend,
the silent air we rend.
I think I'm alone -
one solitary stone.
One small, timid voice
with no cause to rejoice.
But I am so wrong -
full choirs sing my song!
And a stream is stopped
when many stones are dropped.
by Sharon Flood Kasenberg, February 19, 2018
I wrote this poem in February for a friend who was planning to stage a protest. I couldn't physically be with him to support a cause we both believe in, but I could send him a poem. He read it to some who had gathered with him, and so, although not present myself, I played a small part in his efforts.
Now - while that same friend stages a hunger strike - I've been waging a war on the weeds in downtown Atwood.
My husband has been meeting a lot of people since he decided to run for municipal office. One of the people he met noted that Todd was married to "an activist", mentioning my "Weeding Wednesdays".
At this point I need to mention that in spite of this post containing a poem about stones and discussing weeds, it isn't a commentary on the legalization of the other kind of weed. (Frankly, that isn't my thing at all. My imagination needs no assistance, and I get the munchies far too often already!)
My frustration with the weeds along my town's main drag started as soon as we'd moved here. As I recall, I'd spent a morning pulling gargantuan thistles out of my lawn and garden beds, and decided to take a break by running to the post office to see if our mail had caught up with us yet. And on my short walk, I noted towering weeds on Main St - a.k.a the highway that runs straight through town - and I thought, "Why doesn't somebody pull these weeds?"
When we'd lived here for almost a year, our town did its big Canada 150 celebration. The worst of the weeds got whacked - but they grew back taller than ever. This year, the Canada Day parade went past a few mighty impressive specimens, and on the way to view said parade with a friend, I said, "I swear one day I'm going to come out here and dig up these weeds!"
And so I did. I'd been itching to pull those weeds for almost two years, but I'd been afraid to. Then my husband decided to run for mayor, and I figured that if he was brave enough to run for office - in spite of critics and naysayers - then I could be brave enough to not care if people thought I looked like a nutter pulling weeds along the main drag!
I put out a call for helpers on Facebook, and a few ladies got out to help me pull weeds. Nobody laughed at us - in fact, a whole lot of people complimented us for taking the time to do something for the town. The next week was more of the same. The third week my previous helpers were all tied up helping elsewhere, and so I went out and finished the first (and worst) block on my own. I could've allowed myself to feel really discouraged, but I didn't. "Weeding Wednesday" never took off to the extent that I'd hoped; I'd envisioned a team of volunteers working efficiently for an hour and then maybe doing lunch at the diner...and instead had two helpers both times, and worked three hours... However, a few really encouraging things had happened along the way:
1) People were encouraging and appreciative. They thanked us for our efforts. One woman came and brought us cold water bottles.
2) The town heard what we were up to and came out with a weed whacker to cut down the worst of the weeds. A few of the property owners got out and sprayed their weeds. We had initiated a movement of sorts!
3) I learned that I really would rather be pulling the weeds than walking by them and complaining about them. I have time to pull them, and it feels good to be actively doing something to beautify a wonderful community that could use a little spiffing up.
Am I an "activist"? That's a tough question. According to the dictionary, an activist is "a person who campaigns to bring about political or social change." I didn't really campaign, and I've yet to see if any change - political or social - has occurred as a result of my efforts. All I know is that (weather permitting) I'll be the somebody who continues to pull weeds downtown on Wednesday mornings, and I'll keep holding out hope that a few others will join me in the effort. It isn't much, but it's a contribution I can make.
Consider rocks and streams for a moment. When my boys were young, they loved nothing more than tossing rocks into bodies of water. They might have loved that satisfying thunk, or maybe it was a simple way of asserting power over the world around them - "You - rock - shall now dwell in this pond!" When they got older, they tried to skip stones in the lake when we visited the family cottage. (Grandma had to coach them - I can't skip stones to save my soul.) But like my sons, I like the sound of a stone hitting the water. I like seeing the ripples one stone makes as it sinks into the depths.
When I was young, there was a stream at the edge of the lot that our cabin sat on. That stream was the bane of my father's existence - and every spring he hauled stones to divert its course so that it wouldn't erode our much coveted stretch of sandy beach. As a result, the stream was a minor inconvenience to us. If it was too wide to step over, we'd merely plunk in a few strategically placed large stones and cross without getting our feet wet.
My husband is dropping the big rocks to ford a stream. My friend (the protester) is hauling stones to divert a stream. I'm not situated to do either of those things - and activist seems like too much of a stretch to describe what I'm attempting.
For now, I'll settle for making ripples.
One stone gently tossed
into a stream is lost.
Many, heaved with force,
can make a stream change course.
One voice barely heard -
wind swallows every word.
But when voices blend,
the silent air we rend.
I think I'm alone -
one solitary stone.
One small, timid voice
with no cause to rejoice.
But I am so wrong -
full choirs sing my song!
And a stream is stopped
when many stones are dropped.
by Sharon Flood Kasenberg, February 19, 2018
I wrote this poem in February for a friend who was planning to stage a protest. I couldn't physically be with him to support a cause we both believe in, but I could send him a poem. He read it to some who had gathered with him, and so, although not present myself, I played a small part in his efforts.
Now - while that same friend stages a hunger strike - I've been waging a war on the weeds in downtown Atwood.
My husband has been meeting a lot of people since he decided to run for municipal office. One of the people he met noted that Todd was married to "an activist", mentioning my "Weeding Wednesdays".
At this point I need to mention that in spite of this post containing a poem about stones and discussing weeds, it isn't a commentary on the legalization of the other kind of weed. (Frankly, that isn't my thing at all. My imagination needs no assistance, and I get the munchies far too often already!)
My frustration with the weeds along my town's main drag started as soon as we'd moved here. As I recall, I'd spent a morning pulling gargantuan thistles out of my lawn and garden beds, and decided to take a break by running to the post office to see if our mail had caught up with us yet. And on my short walk, I noted towering weeds on Main St - a.k.a the highway that runs straight through town - and I thought, "Why doesn't somebody pull these weeds?"
When we'd lived here for almost a year, our town did its big Canada 150 celebration. The worst of the weeds got whacked - but they grew back taller than ever. This year, the Canada Day parade went past a few mighty impressive specimens, and on the way to view said parade with a friend, I said, "I swear one day I'm going to come out here and dig up these weeds!"
And so I did. I'd been itching to pull those weeds for almost two years, but I'd been afraid to. Then my husband decided to run for mayor, and I figured that if he was brave enough to run for office - in spite of critics and naysayers - then I could be brave enough to not care if people thought I looked like a nutter pulling weeds along the main drag!
I put out a call for helpers on Facebook, and a few ladies got out to help me pull weeds. Nobody laughed at us - in fact, a whole lot of people complimented us for taking the time to do something for the town. The next week was more of the same. The third week my previous helpers were all tied up helping elsewhere, and so I went out and finished the first (and worst) block on my own. I could've allowed myself to feel really discouraged, but I didn't. "Weeding Wednesday" never took off to the extent that I'd hoped; I'd envisioned a team of volunteers working efficiently for an hour and then maybe doing lunch at the diner...and instead had two helpers both times, and worked three hours... However, a few really encouraging things had happened along the way:
1) People were encouraging and appreciative. They thanked us for our efforts. One woman came and brought us cold water bottles.
2) The town heard what we were up to and came out with a weed whacker to cut down the worst of the weeds. A few of the property owners got out and sprayed their weeds. We had initiated a movement of sorts!
3) I learned that I really would rather be pulling the weeds than walking by them and complaining about them. I have time to pull them, and it feels good to be actively doing something to beautify a wonderful community that could use a little spiffing up.
Am I an "activist"? That's a tough question. According to the dictionary, an activist is "a person who campaigns to bring about political or social change." I didn't really campaign, and I've yet to see if any change - political or social - has occurred as a result of my efforts. All I know is that (weather permitting) I'll be the somebody who continues to pull weeds downtown on Wednesday mornings, and I'll keep holding out hope that a few others will join me in the effort. It isn't much, but it's a contribution I can make.
Consider rocks and streams for a moment. When my boys were young, they loved nothing more than tossing rocks into bodies of water. They might have loved that satisfying thunk, or maybe it was a simple way of asserting power over the world around them - "You - rock - shall now dwell in this pond!" When they got older, they tried to skip stones in the lake when we visited the family cottage. (Grandma had to coach them - I can't skip stones to save my soul.) But like my sons, I like the sound of a stone hitting the water. I like seeing the ripples one stone makes as it sinks into the depths.
When I was young, there was a stream at the edge of the lot that our cabin sat on. That stream was the bane of my father's existence - and every spring he hauled stones to divert its course so that it wouldn't erode our much coveted stretch of sandy beach. As a result, the stream was a minor inconvenience to us. If it was too wide to step over, we'd merely plunk in a few strategically placed large stones and cross without getting our feet wet.
My husband is dropping the big rocks to ford a stream. My friend (the protester) is hauling stones to divert a stream. I'm not situated to do either of those things - and activist seems like too much of a stretch to describe what I'm attempting.
For now, I'll settle for making ripples.
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