Strange Armour
A sandwich board of mattresses
she felt she had to wear;
each day so full of battle stress
emotions were laid bare.
Was there a sign upon her back
inviting kicks and blows;
inciting others to attack
and multiply her woes?
Thus every day she'd bear the weight
of strange armour she chose,
and though attacks did not abate
she felt numb to the blows.
But at the end of every day,
with arms and shoulders sore,
her tortured muscles had to pay
for all the weight she bore.
Until at length she came to see
the armour she preferred
restricted all her movements free
and pain simply deferred.
At last she stood with armour shed -
and yes, the world was rough -
she would get hurt, and sometimes bled,
but would, at last, grow tough.
Unpadded she was light and quick,
her range of movement free;
at times she could avoid a kick
with some agility.
Still other times she seemed to sense
attacks before they came,
and fled before blows could commence -
and for this felt no shame.
Her padding she no longer missed,
in fact, it seemed to be
that many conflicts did desist
once she was armour-free.
Strange armour many of us choose
in effort to protect
from battles we fear we might lose
and dangers we detect.
But strangely, sometimes armour acts
as something to incite
those who desire to grind an axe
or prove themselves "more right."
Be brave, my friend, and fight without
the padding that you choose -
You will get hurt, without a doubt,
but burden you will lose.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May 2018
I was upset by an online exchange I had with a complete stranger.
"What do you have to do to survive these days? Sometimes I feel like I need to go through life wearing a sandwich board made of mattresses!" I said to my husband.
"Good imagery!" he replied. "I sense a poem in the making!"
That brief exchange got me thinking about the weight of many of the types of armour that we choose to put on. The ways we attempt to self-protect are often only a temporary fix - a way to numb the immediate, but lesser pain that we initially experience. But like the sandwich board made of mattresses in the poem, a lot of our protective armour does us more harm than the attacks it's trying to protect us from.
I spent a lot of years of my life trying desperately to protect myself with all kinds of ineffective armour. I tried on anger and sarcasm. In my insecure youth there were times I wished fervently for the protection of an invisibility cloak. As an adult I hid behind beliefs that often didn't sit right with me, tenaciously hanging on for years, even after I realized that the afterlife promised to me (a woman with an "unbeliever" for a husband) really sucked. But, doggone it - I'd been taught that this was the only way to live, and that leaving would make me a sinner, so I hung on - for decades.
I hung on by my fingernails even when people told me I should leave my husband and find someone "more righteous." I hung on when I was made to feel small; made to feel like I had to live small - all scrunched up inside myself among people who were ready to condemn on a whim. I hung on when I began to see that I'd been fed a false narrative. I hung on while every hymn began to sound like a funeral dirge that was sucking the life out of me. Yup - I excelled as a hanger-on.
Through it all, I donned one kind of strange armour after another. I put on a helmet of denial. I tried on protective eyewear that kept me (for a time) from seeing that I wasn't happy - but it also prevented me from seeing most of the good in life. I suited up every day in the kind of full-on body armour that kept me safe from "outside influences" and from the slings and arrows tossed by what I thought of as "my tribe". I continued to think of them as mine even when it became painfully apparent that I was't really one of them.
And when I took off that armour at night I ached. I hurt everywhere - misery to the bone and the soul. I tossed and turned at night and then suited up again in the morning.
One day I looked around and realized that "my tribe" didn't seem that happy either. I couldn't do anything about what I perceived as their misery and apathy, but I could do something about mine. It was difficult for me to trade false certainty for certain vulnerability, but that's what I did.
Eventually I began to remove the protective layers - one at a time. My anger arrived first, and I'm pretty sure it'll be the last piece I'll divest myself of. But let me tell you, I feel less burdened - in spite of the twenty pounds of stress weight I gained as I learned that I could still be me - and maybe even a better and kinder me - without padding. I don't need to "belong" in any particular group to be accepted. I can accept myself - warts and all - as a contributing member in the larger and more diverse group called humanity. I'm allowed to love the flawed, because I am the flawed. I'm allowed to be ignorant, but happy.
I can doubt all I want, and stop bailing when the boat takes on water. I can take a nosedive into the depths of uncertainty and explore. I'm no longer being dragged under by the weight of all my armour.
Every day might not be a fairy tale filled with unicorns, but at least I can see rainbows after rain and dance without worrying about falling off my pedestal.
I am free - and light. Someday I'll fly.
Friday, 1 June 2018
Saturday, 12 May 2018
My Mother's Hands - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
My Mother's Hands
Love was in those seamlines,
this I've come to know -
through her daily actions,
My mom's love would show.
Hands stirred pots at mealtimes,
fed her hungry brood;
extra bodies didn't
put her in bad mood.
Friends were always welcomed,
guests we'd often see -
truly Mom embodied
hospitality.
Her hands, strong and able,
made the clothes we wore,
swiftly peeled potatoes;
mopped the kitchen floor.
They kept campfires burning,
stoked the wood stove's flames,
dealt cards in the evening;
beat us at board games!
They flipped perfect pancakes
in cast iron pan;
banged upon the outhouse
so the critters ran!
With her hands she showed love;
teaching something true:
While words are important,
love's in what you do.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May 12, 2018
One of my early memories of my mother is watching her stir cake batter in a bowl. I was amazed by how quickly she could beat that batter by hand, and for years tried to emulate her without much success. I was probably thirty by the time I'd mastered "the Power Stir" and I suspect hauling around an infant and a toddler had something to do with acquiring the necessary biceps to do so. This feat invoked the same kind of awe in my young sons as I'd once experienced. Isn't that one of the joys of motherhood? When they're little our children are so sweet and easy to impress!
My mother was never verbally effusive when I was young. She didn't gush over any of us or brag about us to friends, but she showed her love through service. She was a gifted seamstress who made a lot of the clothing my sisters and I wore, sometimes sewing long into the night so that we'd have a new dress for a special occasion. She was a good cook and baker, and she made us hearty and plentiful meals. My parents both had a very open door attitude - everyone's friends were welcome. It wasn't a big deal to ask my mom if a friend could stay for supper - in fact it was really just a formality. I don't remember her ever saying no. In fact, if she realized there was an extra body in the house she'd usually issue the invite herself.
Mom's inner child emerged most often when we were at camp. (That means at our cottage on Lake Superior, for those unfamiliar with Northern Ontario terminology.) She could skip rocks like a pro and taught us all how to row a boat. She loved playing cards and board games in the evenings - by the light of our trusty Coleman lantern. (We didn't get electricity in the cabin until my late teens.) I don't remember her complaining about cooking meals on the wood stove or having no running water out there. She was pretty stoic about boiling cooking water hauled from the lake and accompanying us to the outhouse when somebody reported seeing a snake on the commode. What I do remember is her teaching me how to make hats out of woven leaves, and taking long walks with her up the camp road. Often these walks were motivated by her desire to scout for wild raspberries, and while none of us ever itched to do the picking, we could usually be motivated to fill a bucket or two by the promise of fresh raspberry pie!
Piecrust is still one of my mother's specialties - a home-baked pie from my mother's kitchen is an offer few can refuse - love in a pie plate! My siblings who live further afield will tell you that no visit to see my mother is complete without pie. She was taught at the hands of the best. My grandmother Gardiner was a superb baker, and thinking of visits to her house as a child makes my mouth water. One of the proudest moments of my life was when a sibling tasted a pie I'd baked and proclaimed it "as good as Mom's."
Making holidays special for us was important to my mother. Every birthday she'd ask us how many friends we wanted to invite, what meal we wanted served, and what kind of cake she should make. She didn't gripe if we invited ten kids over and she needed to make an extra cake. She baked like a fiend at Christmastime, not only so that we'd enjoy the seasonal offerings, but so that she'd have plenty to share. Every year she'd share her famous "Swedish Tea Ring" with lucky friends from her church and square dance club. To this day, when she visits me at Christmastime, she'll arrive with a circular foil wrapped bundle under one arm, and I'm sure my siblings can say the same.
My mother is getting older, but she still loves to entertain, and visit friends and family. She still beats me routinely at Rummikub. She's mellowed a bit in some ways, and is maybe more stubborn than ever in others. Still, we seem to laugh together more often than we used to.
Last week I spent a night at her apartment and realized at bedtime that I'd forgotten my toothbrush. She said she probably had one laying around and proceeded to dig - and came up with two options. One was an unused denture brush - HUGE - (esp. for one who's mouth has been likened to "a large barn with a small door"), and the other was passed on, sans package, by a friend of hers. I rejected them both in favour of baking soda and my own finger. She thought I was being ridiculously fussy and told me so.
"When did you become such a pain in the butt?" she asked.
"I've always been, Mom", I assured her. "Thanks for just noticing now!"
"Well," she sighed in a resigned tone, "I still love you, even though you're a pain!"
"Same here!" I replied cheekily.
"Don't be a wise guy!" she laughed. Then we gave each other a kiss good-night and went off to our beds.
I don't know how many more years I'll have my mom. Hopefully we can keep on giving each other the gears for a while, but I know time can't be guaranteed. I hope she knows how much I appreciate all of the things her hands have done to make my life easier, and hope she knows that she taught me the importance of showing love through service.
When we were young she'd sometimes get impatient with us, her children, for lazing about when there were things to be done.
"Be a self-starter", she'd say, "Don't wait for someone to tell you to do something. Just pay attention and do whatever you think needs to be done!"
There have been times when I felt like I was channeling her - and those words echoed in my brain. Sometimes I was the frustrated parent thinking, "Why aren't they helping me?" Other times I was the person standing on the sidelines, feeling guilty for not doing enough, or wondering what needed to be done - then taking a deep breath and just doing something.
My mom taught me that love is a verb. So, in honour of busy maternal hands everywhere, lets strive to be "verb-al" in our appreciation for the women whose hands worked hard to raise us.
Happy Mother's Day to all of us - especially my mom, who tried to teach me well. I love you, Mom!
Love was in those seamlines,
this I've come to know -
through her daily actions,
My mom's love would show.
Hands stirred pots at mealtimes,
fed her hungry brood;
extra bodies didn't
put her in bad mood.
Friends were always welcomed,
guests we'd often see -
truly Mom embodied
hospitality.
Her hands, strong and able,
made the clothes we wore,
swiftly peeled potatoes;
mopped the kitchen floor.
They kept campfires burning,
stoked the wood stove's flames,
dealt cards in the evening;
beat us at board games!
They flipped perfect pancakes
in cast iron pan;
banged upon the outhouse
so the critters ran!
With her hands she showed love;
teaching something true:
While words are important,
love's in what you do.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May 12, 2018
One of my early memories of my mother is watching her stir cake batter in a bowl. I was amazed by how quickly she could beat that batter by hand, and for years tried to emulate her without much success. I was probably thirty by the time I'd mastered "the Power Stir" and I suspect hauling around an infant and a toddler had something to do with acquiring the necessary biceps to do so. This feat invoked the same kind of awe in my young sons as I'd once experienced. Isn't that one of the joys of motherhood? When they're little our children are so sweet and easy to impress!
My mother was never verbally effusive when I was young. She didn't gush over any of us or brag about us to friends, but she showed her love through service. She was a gifted seamstress who made a lot of the clothing my sisters and I wore, sometimes sewing long into the night so that we'd have a new dress for a special occasion. She was a good cook and baker, and she made us hearty and plentiful meals. My parents both had a very open door attitude - everyone's friends were welcome. It wasn't a big deal to ask my mom if a friend could stay for supper - in fact it was really just a formality. I don't remember her ever saying no. In fact, if she realized there was an extra body in the house she'd usually issue the invite herself.
Mom's inner child emerged most often when we were at camp. (That means at our cottage on Lake Superior, for those unfamiliar with Northern Ontario terminology.) She could skip rocks like a pro and taught us all how to row a boat. She loved playing cards and board games in the evenings - by the light of our trusty Coleman lantern. (We didn't get electricity in the cabin until my late teens.) I don't remember her complaining about cooking meals on the wood stove or having no running water out there. She was pretty stoic about boiling cooking water hauled from the lake and accompanying us to the outhouse when somebody reported seeing a snake on the commode. What I do remember is her teaching me how to make hats out of woven leaves, and taking long walks with her up the camp road. Often these walks were motivated by her desire to scout for wild raspberries, and while none of us ever itched to do the picking, we could usually be motivated to fill a bucket or two by the promise of fresh raspberry pie!
Piecrust is still one of my mother's specialties - a home-baked pie from my mother's kitchen is an offer few can refuse - love in a pie plate! My siblings who live further afield will tell you that no visit to see my mother is complete without pie. She was taught at the hands of the best. My grandmother Gardiner was a superb baker, and thinking of visits to her house as a child makes my mouth water. One of the proudest moments of my life was when a sibling tasted a pie I'd baked and proclaimed it "as good as Mom's."
Making holidays special for us was important to my mother. Every birthday she'd ask us how many friends we wanted to invite, what meal we wanted served, and what kind of cake she should make. She didn't gripe if we invited ten kids over and she needed to make an extra cake. She baked like a fiend at Christmastime, not only so that we'd enjoy the seasonal offerings, but so that she'd have plenty to share. Every year she'd share her famous "Swedish Tea Ring" with lucky friends from her church and square dance club. To this day, when she visits me at Christmastime, she'll arrive with a circular foil wrapped bundle under one arm, and I'm sure my siblings can say the same.
My mother is getting older, but she still loves to entertain, and visit friends and family. She still beats me routinely at Rummikub. She's mellowed a bit in some ways, and is maybe more stubborn than ever in others. Still, we seem to laugh together more often than we used to.
Last week I spent a night at her apartment and realized at bedtime that I'd forgotten my toothbrush. She said she probably had one laying around and proceeded to dig - and came up with two options. One was an unused denture brush - HUGE - (esp. for one who's mouth has been likened to "a large barn with a small door"), and the other was passed on, sans package, by a friend of hers. I rejected them both in favour of baking soda and my own finger. She thought I was being ridiculously fussy and told me so.
"When did you become such a pain in the butt?" she asked.
"I've always been, Mom", I assured her. "Thanks for just noticing now!"
"Well," she sighed in a resigned tone, "I still love you, even though you're a pain!"
"Same here!" I replied cheekily.
"Don't be a wise guy!" she laughed. Then we gave each other a kiss good-night and went off to our beds.
I don't know how many more years I'll have my mom. Hopefully we can keep on giving each other the gears for a while, but I know time can't be guaranteed. I hope she knows how much I appreciate all of the things her hands have done to make my life easier, and hope she knows that she taught me the importance of showing love through service.
When we were young she'd sometimes get impatient with us, her children, for lazing about when there were things to be done.
"Be a self-starter", she'd say, "Don't wait for someone to tell you to do something. Just pay attention and do whatever you think needs to be done!"
There have been times when I felt like I was channeling her - and those words echoed in my brain. Sometimes I was the frustrated parent thinking, "Why aren't they helping me?" Other times I was the person standing on the sidelines, feeling guilty for not doing enough, or wondering what needed to be done - then taking a deep breath and just doing something.
My mom taught me that love is a verb. So, in honour of busy maternal hands everywhere, lets strive to be "verb-al" in our appreciation for the women whose hands worked hard to raise us.
Happy Mother's Day to all of us - especially my mom, who tried to teach me well. I love you, Mom!
Thursday, 3 May 2018
When Spring Springs - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Last week I was outside, in my boots and winter coat, chipping away at ice. The temperature was just creeping up above freezing, and the sun was trying to shine. The snow had already melted in most of my yard, but the driveway - shaded most of the day by my looming Victorian house - stubbornly clung to its layer of ice. I decided it had to be gone - pronto.
"Why?" my husband asked - "You know it's going to melt in a day or two anyhow, right?"
"Not soon enough!" I replied. "I refuse to step out my back door onto ice for one more day!"
For the first time in my life I could relate to the middle-aged people I'd always laughed at - the ones who frantically shovel their driveway snow out onto a sunny patch of the road.
It was time for Spring to spring, doggone it!
Canadians get impatient when winter outstays its welcome. About 3% of us suffer from SAD, and just want the cold days to end. The rest of us just get mad. I get antsy when the seasons refuse to align themselves with the neat divisions on the calendar. Back in April of 2010 I penned this untitled ode:
On a frosty Friday morning
when the rain has turned to snow
I have brain freeze and I'm foggy
and my wheels are moving slow.
I'm affected by this weather -
Silly? Yes - but it is true.
I've invited in the grey sky
and it's left me feeling blue.
It has been a rough Spring - a late Spring. An almost non-existent Spring. A Spring that is finally making an appearance now that it's half over. Whenever we have snow in April I tell myself it's an anomaly. Apparently I live in denial when it comes to the crazy seasonal temperature fluctuations that exist in my part of the world.
Still, I know it could be worse.
"Welcome to _______ (insert Northern Ontario city/town of your choice here) where we have ten months of winter and two months of bad ski-dooing!"
Spring in Sault Ste. Marie, where I grew up, was all over the board. Some years we were still ice-skating over our March break, and other years we were riding bicycles in Spring jackets. I always knew the so called season of rejuvenation was fickle in Northern Ontario, but as time goes on it seems that she appears in her own time, and on her own terms, wherever I live.
My attitude toward Spring's arrival is about as capricious as she is. Some years I can't wait for Winter to be gone, and other years I'm capable of amazing forbearance. Apparently 2014 found me feeling more upbeat about Spring's arrival than I'd been four years earlier:
Spring Hopes Eternal
The sky was blue, the sun shone bright
though frigid was the day -
I wore my winter coat and boots
but felt Spring anyway.
Old Winter blew tenaciously;
I didn't really care.
Spring wasn't in the bitter wind,
but she was in the air!
I tromped through mud, I heard a bird -
an optimistic sound!
Snow blanketed the frozen soil,
but Spring was all around.
The calendar announcing Spring
was premature - that's clear.
Perhaps Spring isn't quite here yet -
but I can feel her near!
(Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 23, 2014)
I'm learning that Spring, like anything else, is what we make it. I try not to let the weather upset me too much, but my efforts to remain stoic aren't always successful. Unlike many around me I try not to rush her arrival. This year we got two weeks of warm weather in February, and I was uneasy the whole time. Everywhere around me I saw people getting excited - overly hopeful that winter days were over and warmer days were here to stay. I felt like the lone doomsayer.
"We're going to pay for this in April!" I'd tell people. "Mother Nature has a sick sense of humour."
And (of course) they'd tell me not to be pessimistic. But truly my warnings stemmed from sheer pragmatism, not a desire to burst anyone's bubble. I simply wanted to bring them all down to earth gently before the inevitable April snowstorm sent them all to their beds in misery. Of course we got that storm (rain that turned to hail, that turned to snow, that turned back to rain and froze overnight). Somewhere in there we lost power for thirteen hours and the kids in the area got two consecutive snow days in April - which doesn't happen very darned often, even though Spring messes with us plenty.
But now (knock wood!) the errant winter temperatures are all behind us. Two days ago I put on sandals for the first time and marveled that I'd worn boots just a week earlier. Yesterday I worked in the yard for an hour. The grass is finally looking greener, and before long tulips will be in bloom. Spring comes and goes in a flash, but it sure is pretty while it lasts.
Hey, I've seen snow on Mother's Day...or even Victoria Day. Whatever happens, I'm determined to keep on feeling spring-ish. Gonna try to keep some spring in my step no matter what...
Once Spring finally springs, the heart sings - and I'm not about to stop singing mid-ditty.
"Why?" my husband asked - "You know it's going to melt in a day or two anyhow, right?"
"Not soon enough!" I replied. "I refuse to step out my back door onto ice for one more day!"
For the first time in my life I could relate to the middle-aged people I'd always laughed at - the ones who frantically shovel their driveway snow out onto a sunny patch of the road.
It was time for Spring to spring, doggone it!
Canadians get impatient when winter outstays its welcome. About 3% of us suffer from SAD, and just want the cold days to end. The rest of us just get mad. I get antsy when the seasons refuse to align themselves with the neat divisions on the calendar. Back in April of 2010 I penned this untitled ode:
On a frosty Friday morning
when the rain has turned to snow
I have brain freeze and I'm foggy
and my wheels are moving slow.
I'm affected by this weather -
Silly? Yes - but it is true.
I've invited in the grey sky
and it's left me feeling blue.
It has been a rough Spring - a late Spring. An almost non-existent Spring. A Spring that is finally making an appearance now that it's half over. Whenever we have snow in April I tell myself it's an anomaly. Apparently I live in denial when it comes to the crazy seasonal temperature fluctuations that exist in my part of the world.
Still, I know it could be worse.
"Welcome to _______ (insert Northern Ontario city/town of your choice here) where we have ten months of winter and two months of bad ski-dooing!"
Spring in Sault Ste. Marie, where I grew up, was all over the board. Some years we were still ice-skating over our March break, and other years we were riding bicycles in Spring jackets. I always knew the so called season of rejuvenation was fickle in Northern Ontario, but as time goes on it seems that she appears in her own time, and on her own terms, wherever I live.
My attitude toward Spring's arrival is about as capricious as she is. Some years I can't wait for Winter to be gone, and other years I'm capable of amazing forbearance. Apparently 2014 found me feeling more upbeat about Spring's arrival than I'd been four years earlier:
Spring Hopes Eternal
The sky was blue, the sun shone bright
though frigid was the day -
I wore my winter coat and boots
but felt Spring anyway.
Old Winter blew tenaciously;
I didn't really care.
Spring wasn't in the bitter wind,
but she was in the air!
I tromped through mud, I heard a bird -
an optimistic sound!
Snow blanketed the frozen soil,
but Spring was all around.
The calendar announcing Spring
was premature - that's clear.
Perhaps Spring isn't quite here yet -
but I can feel her near!
(Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 23, 2014)
I'm learning that Spring, like anything else, is what we make it. I try not to let the weather upset me too much, but my efforts to remain stoic aren't always successful. Unlike many around me I try not to rush her arrival. This year we got two weeks of warm weather in February, and I was uneasy the whole time. Everywhere around me I saw people getting excited - overly hopeful that winter days were over and warmer days were here to stay. I felt like the lone doomsayer.
"We're going to pay for this in April!" I'd tell people. "Mother Nature has a sick sense of humour."
And (of course) they'd tell me not to be pessimistic. But truly my warnings stemmed from sheer pragmatism, not a desire to burst anyone's bubble. I simply wanted to bring them all down to earth gently before the inevitable April snowstorm sent them all to their beds in misery. Of course we got that storm (rain that turned to hail, that turned to snow, that turned back to rain and froze overnight). Somewhere in there we lost power for thirteen hours and the kids in the area got two consecutive snow days in April - which doesn't happen very darned often, even though Spring messes with us plenty.
But now (knock wood!) the errant winter temperatures are all behind us. Two days ago I put on sandals for the first time and marveled that I'd worn boots just a week earlier. Yesterday I worked in the yard for an hour. The grass is finally looking greener, and before long tulips will be in bloom. Spring comes and goes in a flash, but it sure is pretty while it lasts.
Hey, I've seen snow on Mother's Day...or even Victoria Day. Whatever happens, I'm determined to keep on feeling spring-ish. Gonna try to keep some spring in my step no matter what...
Once Spring finally springs, the heart sings - and I'm not about to stop singing mid-ditty.
Saturday, 21 April 2018
How to (Sort of) Stay Sane - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
How to (Sort of) Stay Sane:
With witless foe
I won't engage;
by doing so
I fuel my rage.
Reasoned attempt
proves of no use -
the thought exempt
are speech profuse.
They rave and rant
their jabberwock,
and won't recant
on foolish talk.
When I explain
with logic sound -
they show disdain
for facts I've found.
Their blissful state
of ignorance
will agitate
my common sense -
so it is best
by far for me
to just protest
non-verbally.
Thus with this ode
I will explain:
This is my mode
of staying sane.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, April 20, 2018
It's a crazy old world we live in - and sometimes I'm just about driven to distraction by the level of lunacy I see online.
Conspiracy theories abound. Anything or anybody who's made it into the news in the past decade seems to have inspired some kind of nefarious plot of epic proportions. Did Hilary Clinton die, only to replaced by an even more evil doppelganger? Is Michelle Obama actually a man? Is Elvis dead, or is he secreted on some desert island with Michael Jackson and Princess Diana?
A lot of people believe bizarre things - like the earth is actually run by lizard aliens, chemtrails released by jets are gassing us all into submission, the moon-landing was faked, and of course, the world is flat.
I saw an interview with a "flatworlder" recently, wherein he stated that gravity was "only a theory". Science was never my forte, but I'd say gravity seems to be working just fine for me. I mean, if you want to believe the earth is a big old pie plate in the sky that's your problem, but the sad thing is that the guy I saw was pretty rabid in expressing his beliefs. The rest of us are the crazy ones who've bought into a Jewish conspiracy to boot.
Don't even get me started on those sad excuses for humanity that believe the Holocaust never happened.
American political conspiracies run the gamut - 9/11 was an inside job, Obama isn't really American, the US government has alien technology at their compound in Roswell, and JFK might have been shot by a dozen different parties - and heck - he might be on that desert island too!
"Big Pharma" takes a lot of heat. Vaccines are turning our kids autistic, claims a Hollywood blonde and a doctor who was relieved of his medical license decades back - and some still buy it, and do their best to sell it too. Somebody has already cured cancer, but the FDA is withholding the cure just for fun. Pharmaceuticals are killing us all - say the alternative and "natural" medicine crowd. Some of them would have us turn back time and still look to leeches to "bleed us". Others turn to blatant new age quackery, like relying on the healing energy of dolphins. Last week I read a story about a homeopathic practitioner who came under fire for treating a teenager with rabid dog saliva!
I'm not saying that all natural remedies are useless or silly, but a whole lot of people who sell them don't know what they're talking about (thus saith a woman who spent three years working in a health food store), and the customers who buy usually know less. But golly - dolphins and dog saliva? At some point wouldn't a person of average intelligence question these practices?
People adhere to some pretty nutty "religious" beliefs too. (I put that word in quotes, because some of these beliefs are just too over the top to maintain status of "religion". Use Scientology as a comparison, and Tom Cruise and his cohorts begin to look reasonable.) There are multiple groups out there who worship aliens of one sort or another, Jediists who try to emulate Luke Skywalker - or Yoda. At least they have lofty goals, unlike The Church of Euthanasia, which has this catchy motto - "Save Earth - Kill Yourself." On a more amusing note, somewhere in the wilds of Vanuatu there's a tribe who believe that Prince Philip is essentially the great white God. (Apparently he's cool with it, and sends them gifts occasionally.)
Media has introduced me to interesting, but mind-boggling folk who insist on living like dogs, cats or babies. Call me judgmental, but how screwed up would you have to be to go live out your life waiting for someone to change your soiled diaper, or litter box, when you could just get up off all fours and take care of your own business? Yuck.
Sometimes crackpots want you to engage with them so that they can preach the gospel of the inane. These folks are so entrenched in their own variety of lunacy that they can't access any of the common sense they might've arrived with, and I've learned the hard way that you can't talk facts with people who think they're geniuses who've figured out how to debunk all those things we learned in history or science class. No - there's a narcissism at play here that most of us need to back away from - quickly. Sometimes in my mind's eye I can see Will Robinson's robot standing before me with arms flailing - "Danger, Sharon - DANGER!" I speak to both sides of every aforementioned belief here. (And oh - so many more!) Don't waste your breath. I'm really not worthy of your proselytizing efforts - I've got all the crazy I'll ever need. I just can't allow myself to be drawn into your debate.
Nope - not gonna comment. Scroll on by, Sharon.
Simply put - you drive me nuts and I need all the marbles I have left.
With witless foe
I won't engage;
by doing so
I fuel my rage.
Reasoned attempt
proves of no use -
the thought exempt
are speech profuse.
They rave and rant
their jabberwock,
and won't recant
on foolish talk.
When I explain
with logic sound -
they show disdain
for facts I've found.
Their blissful state
of ignorance
will agitate
my common sense -
so it is best
by far for me
to just protest
non-verbally.
Thus with this ode
I will explain:
This is my mode
of staying sane.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, April 20, 2018
It's a crazy old world we live in - and sometimes I'm just about driven to distraction by the level of lunacy I see online.
Conspiracy theories abound. Anything or anybody who's made it into the news in the past decade seems to have inspired some kind of nefarious plot of epic proportions. Did Hilary Clinton die, only to replaced by an even more evil doppelganger? Is Michelle Obama actually a man? Is Elvis dead, or is he secreted on some desert island with Michael Jackson and Princess Diana?
A lot of people believe bizarre things - like the earth is actually run by lizard aliens, chemtrails released by jets are gassing us all into submission, the moon-landing was faked, and of course, the world is flat.
I saw an interview with a "flatworlder" recently, wherein he stated that gravity was "only a theory". Science was never my forte, but I'd say gravity seems to be working just fine for me. I mean, if you want to believe the earth is a big old pie plate in the sky that's your problem, but the sad thing is that the guy I saw was pretty rabid in expressing his beliefs. The rest of us are the crazy ones who've bought into a Jewish conspiracy to boot.
Don't even get me started on those sad excuses for humanity that believe the Holocaust never happened.
American political conspiracies run the gamut - 9/11 was an inside job, Obama isn't really American, the US government has alien technology at their compound in Roswell, and JFK might have been shot by a dozen different parties - and heck - he might be on that desert island too!
"Big Pharma" takes a lot of heat. Vaccines are turning our kids autistic, claims a Hollywood blonde and a doctor who was relieved of his medical license decades back - and some still buy it, and do their best to sell it too. Somebody has already cured cancer, but the FDA is withholding the cure just for fun. Pharmaceuticals are killing us all - say the alternative and "natural" medicine crowd. Some of them would have us turn back time and still look to leeches to "bleed us". Others turn to blatant new age quackery, like relying on the healing energy of dolphins. Last week I read a story about a homeopathic practitioner who came under fire for treating a teenager with rabid dog saliva!
I'm not saying that all natural remedies are useless or silly, but a whole lot of people who sell them don't know what they're talking about (thus saith a woman who spent three years working in a health food store), and the customers who buy usually know less. But golly - dolphins and dog saliva? At some point wouldn't a person of average intelligence question these practices?
People adhere to some pretty nutty "religious" beliefs too. (I put that word in quotes, because some of these beliefs are just too over the top to maintain status of "religion". Use Scientology as a comparison, and Tom Cruise and his cohorts begin to look reasonable.) There are multiple groups out there who worship aliens of one sort or another, Jediists who try to emulate Luke Skywalker - or Yoda. At least they have lofty goals, unlike The Church of Euthanasia, which has this catchy motto - "Save Earth - Kill Yourself." On a more amusing note, somewhere in the wilds of Vanuatu there's a tribe who believe that Prince Philip is essentially the great white God. (Apparently he's cool with it, and sends them gifts occasionally.)
Media has introduced me to interesting, but mind-boggling folk who insist on living like dogs, cats or babies. Call me judgmental, but how screwed up would you have to be to go live out your life waiting for someone to change your soiled diaper, or litter box, when you could just get up off all fours and take care of your own business? Yuck.
Sometimes crackpots want you to engage with them so that they can preach the gospel of the inane. These folks are so entrenched in their own variety of lunacy that they can't access any of the common sense they might've arrived with, and I've learned the hard way that you can't talk facts with people who think they're geniuses who've figured out how to debunk all those things we learned in history or science class. No - there's a narcissism at play here that most of us need to back away from - quickly. Sometimes in my mind's eye I can see Will Robinson's robot standing before me with arms flailing - "Danger, Sharon - DANGER!" I speak to both sides of every aforementioned belief here. (And oh - so many more!) Don't waste your breath. I'm really not worthy of your proselytizing efforts - I've got all the crazy I'll ever need. I just can't allow myself to be drawn into your debate.
Nope - not gonna comment. Scroll on by, Sharon.
Simply put - you drive me nuts and I need all the marbles I have left.
Thursday, 5 April 2018
"Visiting William" - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
William's House
I know nothing about him
except he owned a mill,
and maybe had five children -
a few small facts - but still -
somehow I feel I know him
from living in this place;
I often try to picture
how he lived in my space.
My house, you see, was his dream -
he lived scant decade here.
As I wander through my rooms
one thing seems very clear.
William had a vision once -
for his children and spouse -
William milled some lumber
and built a lovely house.
He built this house I live in,
the place I work and play.
Though I don't really know him,
I thank him ev'ry day.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, April 4, 2018
When we moved to our home in Atwood Ontario we were quite thrilled to be able to glean a few facts about the history of the house we'd bought. Our home was built in 1896, and originally dubbed "Forrest House", after its builder William Forrest. We know very little about William, except that he owned the original mill in town (located at the end of John Street), had five children, and lived in this house ten years before he died at the age of 48. I've always felt badly that William only got to live in his house for a decade.
Last year my husband and I took our first drive to the Atwood cemetery. It was a pleasant spring day - and my husband's birthday - and we found ourselves in the car looking to explore. Seeing the cemetery we decided to stop. It was a peaceful spot to visit on a crisp but sunny spring day. On a whim I said, "Maybe we can find William Forrest's grave."
So we divided up and each searched a separate area of the graveyard. After a few minutes my husband called out to me - and I stood over the grave of the man who'd built my house. At the bottom of the tombstone I read the inscription - He is missed at home.
I don't know exactly why I teared up, but I did. Even before I knew his name I'd felt a connection to the builder of my house. I'd often marveled at what a fabulous house it must have been in its day, and how excited the owner must've felt when he walked into the completed house for the first time. When I found out that it was built by a miller I felt excitement - he had chosen the lovely golden oak trim and had probably checked over each bit surrounding the windows and doors. Perhaps he had been the one to proudly hand carve the year the house was built into the lintel above the pocket doors in my living room, which would've been his front parlour.
"Thank you for building our home, William", I whispered. "We are enjoying it for you."
I like to think that he was a good man - a beloved husband and father who was truly "missed at home" after his death. I'm only certain that if he misses the home that missed him, and stops by for the occasional visit, he does so quietly and unobtrusively. (Which I appreciate!)
I still don't know much about William Forrest, but I know that his "vision" and mine were oddly aligned. When I was a child in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, there was one house across town that always stood out to me - a house with a rounded turret on the left front corner. For a Grade Twelve project I had to fashion a house out of bristol board - and the house I made was modeled on the house on Queen St that I'd always admired - complete with turret.
Odder still, when my current house was first sold in 2011 by the insurance company that was based here for many years, the listing made such an impact on me that I remembered photos of the wood trim (and the pink chairs in the board room) a full five years later when the property came on the market again! I knew I had to see this house, and then I knew we had to buy it. William gave me my turret.
We have decided to make an annual pilgrimage to William's grave. I know it might seem silly, or morbid - or downright weird - but "visiting William" reminds us of our mortality in a pleasant way. My husband has decreed that he wants to go to that cemetery every year on his birthday; to walk past the graves of the men who built our town and the man who built our house. I agree that this annual trek satisfies the soul. I can't speak for him, but it gives me a sense of continuity and puts my life in perspective. Who knows how long I have here? Who knows what I might leave behind as a legacy?
Someday I'll put up a commemorative plaque in my front entrance. It will simply say, Forrest House - established 1896. It will make me happy to give my house back it's original name, and in so doing, pay tribute to the builder. This house is his legacy - a dream that not only came to fruition, but has outlived him by more than a century.
Every day I'm inspired by William's house - not just the building itself, but what it represents for me - hope. William created something beautiful that outlasted him. People may have forgotten the name of the builder, but his house still draws attention. His handiwork is still admired. And when I give the house back its name I'll have opportunity to retell his story - what little I know of it. William's house gives me hope that someday there will be "Sharon's poem" - one verse that outlasts me - something worthy of being quoted a century after my death.
Thank you, William, for giving me a goal as lofty as our turret.
I know nothing about him
except he owned a mill,
and maybe had five children -
a few small facts - but still -
somehow I feel I know him
from living in this place;
I often try to picture
how he lived in my space.
My house, you see, was his dream -
he lived scant decade here.
As I wander through my rooms
one thing seems very clear.
William had a vision once -
for his children and spouse -
William milled some lumber
and built a lovely house.
He built this house I live in,
the place I work and play.
Though I don't really know him,
I thank him ev'ry day.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, April 4, 2018
When we moved to our home in Atwood Ontario we were quite thrilled to be able to glean a few facts about the history of the house we'd bought. Our home was built in 1896, and originally dubbed "Forrest House", after its builder William Forrest. We know very little about William, except that he owned the original mill in town (located at the end of John Street), had five children, and lived in this house ten years before he died at the age of 48. I've always felt badly that William only got to live in his house for a decade.
Last year my husband and I took our first drive to the Atwood cemetery. It was a pleasant spring day - and my husband's birthday - and we found ourselves in the car looking to explore. Seeing the cemetery we decided to stop. It was a peaceful spot to visit on a crisp but sunny spring day. On a whim I said, "Maybe we can find William Forrest's grave."
So we divided up and each searched a separate area of the graveyard. After a few minutes my husband called out to me - and I stood over the grave of the man who'd built my house. At the bottom of the tombstone I read the inscription - He is missed at home.
I don't know exactly why I teared up, but I did. Even before I knew his name I'd felt a connection to the builder of my house. I'd often marveled at what a fabulous house it must have been in its day, and how excited the owner must've felt when he walked into the completed house for the first time. When I found out that it was built by a miller I felt excitement - he had chosen the lovely golden oak trim and had probably checked over each bit surrounding the windows and doors. Perhaps he had been the one to proudly hand carve the year the house was built into the lintel above the pocket doors in my living room, which would've been his front parlour.
"Thank you for building our home, William", I whispered. "We are enjoying it for you."
I like to think that he was a good man - a beloved husband and father who was truly "missed at home" after his death. I'm only certain that if he misses the home that missed him, and stops by for the occasional visit, he does so quietly and unobtrusively. (Which I appreciate!)
I still don't know much about William Forrest, but I know that his "vision" and mine were oddly aligned. When I was a child in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, there was one house across town that always stood out to me - a house with a rounded turret on the left front corner. For a Grade Twelve project I had to fashion a house out of bristol board - and the house I made was modeled on the house on Queen St that I'd always admired - complete with turret.
Odder still, when my current house was first sold in 2011 by the insurance company that was based here for many years, the listing made such an impact on me that I remembered photos of the wood trim (and the pink chairs in the board room) a full five years later when the property came on the market again! I knew I had to see this house, and then I knew we had to buy it. William gave me my turret.
We have decided to make an annual pilgrimage to William's grave. I know it might seem silly, or morbid - or downright weird - but "visiting William" reminds us of our mortality in a pleasant way. My husband has decreed that he wants to go to that cemetery every year on his birthday; to walk past the graves of the men who built our town and the man who built our house. I agree that this annual trek satisfies the soul. I can't speak for him, but it gives me a sense of continuity and puts my life in perspective. Who knows how long I have here? Who knows what I might leave behind as a legacy?
Someday I'll put up a commemorative plaque in my front entrance. It will simply say, Forrest House - established 1896. It will make me happy to give my house back it's original name, and in so doing, pay tribute to the builder. This house is his legacy - a dream that not only came to fruition, but has outlived him by more than a century.
Every day I'm inspired by William's house - not just the building itself, but what it represents for me - hope. William created something beautiful that outlasted him. People may have forgotten the name of the builder, but his house still draws attention. His handiwork is still admired. And when I give the house back its name I'll have opportunity to retell his story - what little I know of it. William's house gives me hope that someday there will be "Sharon's poem" - one verse that outlasts me - something worthy of being quoted a century after my death.
Thank you, William, for giving me a goal as lofty as our turret.
Tuesday, 20 March 2018
Olive Branch - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Olive Branch:
Oh sweet salvation of the soul
that brought me to this place,
remind me of the years I've fought
to see myself with grace.
Remind me that the risks I take
in offering to love
are worth the effort and the pain -
send forth a gentle dove.
When it returns perhaps I'll see
a twig - an olive branch -
some proof that once the tears abate
it's safe to take a chance.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 11, 2018
Sometimes people are too hurt to not hurt in return. I've learned that lesson over the years, when I've tried to befriend people too wounded to trust or accept love. It would be easy to stop making the effort if I didn't have such a highly developed conscience.
You see, I know I've been lucky. For all of my social dysfunction at times, my temper, and my lack of filters when it comes to expressing sometimes unpopular opinions, I love and am loved. I have a family who cares about me, and a few trusted friends who have my back when times are hard. I know a lot of people have far less, and so I'm willing to risk being hurt when the occasional person comes into my life who can't accept my friendship, my concern or my love.
I recently read an interview between a woman who had been abused and her abuser. It shook me to the core, but at the same time it inspired me. At one point the woman tells her abuser that no matter how much he hurt her she'd rather be in her position than his - unable to truly comprehend how much damage he did, and too arrogant in his belief that he didn't need to fully repent of his sins, or seek help to conquer his abusive behavior.
I understand what she was saying because to a far lesser extent I've experienced those feelings too. As often as I've had my hand bitten by those who I attempted to "feed" with a bit of TLC, I feel sorrier for the people who bit me than the fact that my hand (and heart!) needed a bit of bandaging after the encounter.
I'm going to be very frank now - and there may be some who feel that this level of honesty isn't warranted, but I want you (as readers) to understand a vital part of my history. The family I grew up in wasn't perfect, but I never encountered mental illness until I left home. In my twenties, I encountered people who had some serious issues - and a few of them bit me. At that time I was just really hurt, ignorant as I was of the kind of underlying problems that prompt some people to lash out at others.
At the age of 26 I got married, and try as I might I just couldn't seem to win my mother-in-law's love. Nothing I ever did was good enough - I didn't deserve her son, and I didn't deserve to raise her grandsons. For years I'd feel sick every time we visited her. I made it all about me - why couldn't she find it in her heart to love me? I was a good person and I truly loved her son and our children! Why couldn't I win her approval? There were times I thought that I hated her because her disapproval and constant criticism hurt me so much.
It took me years to begin to understand that she suffered from mental illness. And it took decades for me to learn to forgive her, and to understand that what I experienced from her wasn't really her, but a manifestation of problems and issues that began long before I ever met her.
I am ashamed to admit that it took me years to begin to love her.
Now with that experience behind me, I've learned to try harder to be accepting, but part of accepting is knowing when I simply can't be the person to offer help or friendship. Sometimes I'll encounter people who are too damaged to accept my best efforts on their behalf, and I'll just have to admit that there's nothing more I can do.
But despite suffering inevitable bites and heartaches, I'm not ready to stop caring. Once my heart stops hurting for me, it continues to hurt for them. I know I'd rather be hurt by having my clumsy efforts to befriend rejected than suffer the pain they suffer.
I know this: Sooner or later I'll risk a further dose of heartbreak when I open my heart to another vulnerable soul. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't.
Oh sweet salvation of the soul
that brought me to this place,
remind me of the years I've fought
to see myself with grace.
Remind me that the risks I take
in offering to love
are worth the effort and the pain -
send forth a gentle dove.
When it returns perhaps I'll see
a twig - an olive branch -
some proof that once the tears abate
it's safe to take a chance.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 11, 2018
Sometimes people are too hurt to not hurt in return. I've learned that lesson over the years, when I've tried to befriend people too wounded to trust or accept love. It would be easy to stop making the effort if I didn't have such a highly developed conscience.
You see, I know I've been lucky. For all of my social dysfunction at times, my temper, and my lack of filters when it comes to expressing sometimes unpopular opinions, I love and am loved. I have a family who cares about me, and a few trusted friends who have my back when times are hard. I know a lot of people have far less, and so I'm willing to risk being hurt when the occasional person comes into my life who can't accept my friendship, my concern or my love.
I recently read an interview between a woman who had been abused and her abuser. It shook me to the core, but at the same time it inspired me. At one point the woman tells her abuser that no matter how much he hurt her she'd rather be in her position than his - unable to truly comprehend how much damage he did, and too arrogant in his belief that he didn't need to fully repent of his sins, or seek help to conquer his abusive behavior.
I understand what she was saying because to a far lesser extent I've experienced those feelings too. As often as I've had my hand bitten by those who I attempted to "feed" with a bit of TLC, I feel sorrier for the people who bit me than the fact that my hand (and heart!) needed a bit of bandaging after the encounter.
I'm going to be very frank now - and there may be some who feel that this level of honesty isn't warranted, but I want you (as readers) to understand a vital part of my history. The family I grew up in wasn't perfect, but I never encountered mental illness until I left home. In my twenties, I encountered people who had some serious issues - and a few of them bit me. At that time I was just really hurt, ignorant as I was of the kind of underlying problems that prompt some people to lash out at others.
At the age of 26 I got married, and try as I might I just couldn't seem to win my mother-in-law's love. Nothing I ever did was good enough - I didn't deserve her son, and I didn't deserve to raise her grandsons. For years I'd feel sick every time we visited her. I made it all about me - why couldn't she find it in her heart to love me? I was a good person and I truly loved her son and our children! Why couldn't I win her approval? There were times I thought that I hated her because her disapproval and constant criticism hurt me so much.
It took me years to begin to understand that she suffered from mental illness. And it took decades for me to learn to forgive her, and to understand that what I experienced from her wasn't really her, but a manifestation of problems and issues that began long before I ever met her.
I am ashamed to admit that it took me years to begin to love her.
Now with that experience behind me, I've learned to try harder to be accepting, but part of accepting is knowing when I simply can't be the person to offer help or friendship. Sometimes I'll encounter people who are too damaged to accept my best efforts on their behalf, and I'll just have to admit that there's nothing more I can do.
But despite suffering inevitable bites and heartaches, I'm not ready to stop caring. Once my heart stops hurting for me, it continues to hurt for them. I know I'd rather be hurt by having my clumsy efforts to befriend rejected than suffer the pain they suffer.
I know this: Sooner or later I'll risk a further dose of heartbreak when I open my heart to another vulnerable soul. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't.
Thursday, 8 March 2018
Go Ahead and Cry - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Handkerchief
Here's my hanky, dearie -
use it if you will.
I am well accustomed
to tears women spill.
Eyes so very pretty
ought not be so wet;
what's so very awful
that it makes you fret?
Are you not delighted
with your role in life?
Cleaner, cook or consort,
daughter, sister; wife?
Handkerchief I hand back -
tears run down my face.
I don't need to mop up -
tears do not disgrace.
Tears of great frustration,
tears expressing pain;
tears of fear and sorrow.
Tears that fall like rain.
Even if you want to
you can't read my tears.
I was born to sorrow;
I lived there for years.
While you conquered nations,
cleared the land of trees,
and thought you provided
us with lives of ease -
our hands rocked the cradle,
and they planted seeds.
Women offered comfort.
Women met your needs.
See me as your equal -
matched in mind and skill.
Man - here is your hanky.
Use it - if you will.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 8, 2018
This morning my husband and I had a heart to heart talk about a person we both feel concern for. We both shed tears as we discussed what a difficult predicament this person is in - tears of compassion for this person's pain, and frustration because there's not a lot we can do to alleviate it. And as we faced each other with tears leaking out of our eyes I thought about how far we'd each come.
When we married I was the only crier - and my tears made me feel weak and ashamed. I hated feeling that I couldn't neatly contain my emotions. Both he and I had encountered manipulative criers along the way, and I realize that those people influenced the way we both saw tears. So he didn't cry at all, and I felt like a failure every time I dropped a tear.
I never wanted to be seen as someone willing to turn on the waterworks in order to make people do what I wanted, or make them feel sorry for me. I never cried to prove that I was spiritual or sensitive - I just cried because I had to - and I hated every tear I shed.
Today I logged into Facebook to note that it was International Women's Day - and it struck me that this morning's tears symbolize the way my husband and I have each grown - and might be an analogy for the way men and women in general have evolved.
Women can look back on their "journey of tears" with pride and acceptance. In most of the world we're treated as equals. We can choose the lives we want to live - decide whether we marry, and how we want to spend our lives. We can choose to have children or not have children. We can choose where we work, how we dress, and who we vote for.
There are still men who view women with a level of condescension, but thankfully they're fewer. The Me Too movement has made many men rethink the way they look at - and respond to - women. I won't say we've made it free and clear into the realm of true equality - but we're getting there. If we, as women, have passed you the hanky, it isn't because we've stopped crying ourselves. We're just acknowledging that now it's time for men and women to cry together. You've stood by, dry eyed, while encouraging us to mop up our tears with your borrowed handkerchiefs for too long. Use it yourself and we'll both feel better.
When I look back on my own life, I can be grateful that I was free to make my own decisions. Whatever his flaws as a man, my father wanted education for his daughters as well as his sons, and my biggest regret in life is that I didn't believe in myself sufficiently to pursue the educational path that would've suited me best. The reasons behind some of my choices might have been flawed, but I can't deny that I made my own choices.
I've been lucky. I wanted to stay home with my children, unlike many in the religious culture I was raised in, who felt there was no other option available to them. I was fortunate that my husband always saw me as an equal partner in our relationship. There were no heavy-handed tactics or "listen to me because I'm the man" speeches in our home. He made the money and we decided how it would be spent. I looked after our sons during the day, but once he came through the door his first priority was being a father. We were both parents. We had clear divisions of labour, and while I didn't always relish tending kids and keeping house, it was tolerable because it was the life I chose.
I shed a lot of tears while raising my sons - tears of frustration when I couldn't make their lives easier, and fearful tears that I wasn't always up to the task of constantly nurturing with wisdom and patience. I cried when I felt people looking at me with disdain because I was only a housewife. I cried covert tears of self-doubt because I wasn't living my chosen life effortlessly and flawlessly. It took years for me to accept myself as someone who was allowed to cry, and more years still before my husband stopped passing me the figurative hanky and found the courage to shed a few tears of his own.
Remember this - tears don't make you weak. Women sailed on rivers of tears to find a place where they could make the choices that many of us take for granted. Men will sail on that same river until their own tears strengthen the current enough to move us on to a still better place - a place where casting couches don't exist and women are truly seen as more than a sum of their parts, a place where nobody feels shamed for shedding tears of compassion.
Go ahead and cry.
Here's my hanky, dearie -
use it if you will.
I am well accustomed
to tears women spill.
Eyes so very pretty
ought not be so wet;
what's so very awful
that it makes you fret?
Are you not delighted
with your role in life?
Cleaner, cook or consort,
daughter, sister; wife?
Handkerchief I hand back -
tears run down my face.
I don't need to mop up -
tears do not disgrace.
Tears of great frustration,
tears expressing pain;
tears of fear and sorrow.
Tears that fall like rain.
Even if you want to
you can't read my tears.
I was born to sorrow;
I lived there for years.
While you conquered nations,
cleared the land of trees,
and thought you provided
us with lives of ease -
our hands rocked the cradle,
and they planted seeds.
Women offered comfort.
Women met your needs.
See me as your equal -
matched in mind and skill.
Man - here is your hanky.
Use it - if you will.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 8, 2018
This morning my husband and I had a heart to heart talk about a person we both feel concern for. We both shed tears as we discussed what a difficult predicament this person is in - tears of compassion for this person's pain, and frustration because there's not a lot we can do to alleviate it. And as we faced each other with tears leaking out of our eyes I thought about how far we'd each come.
When we married I was the only crier - and my tears made me feel weak and ashamed. I hated feeling that I couldn't neatly contain my emotions. Both he and I had encountered manipulative criers along the way, and I realize that those people influenced the way we both saw tears. So he didn't cry at all, and I felt like a failure every time I dropped a tear.
I never wanted to be seen as someone willing to turn on the waterworks in order to make people do what I wanted, or make them feel sorry for me. I never cried to prove that I was spiritual or sensitive - I just cried because I had to - and I hated every tear I shed.
Today I logged into Facebook to note that it was International Women's Day - and it struck me that this morning's tears symbolize the way my husband and I have each grown - and might be an analogy for the way men and women in general have evolved.
Women can look back on their "journey of tears" with pride and acceptance. In most of the world we're treated as equals. We can choose the lives we want to live - decide whether we marry, and how we want to spend our lives. We can choose to have children or not have children. We can choose where we work, how we dress, and who we vote for.
There are still men who view women with a level of condescension, but thankfully they're fewer. The Me Too movement has made many men rethink the way they look at - and respond to - women. I won't say we've made it free and clear into the realm of true equality - but we're getting there. If we, as women, have passed you the hanky, it isn't because we've stopped crying ourselves. We're just acknowledging that now it's time for men and women to cry together. You've stood by, dry eyed, while encouraging us to mop up our tears with your borrowed handkerchiefs for too long. Use it yourself and we'll both feel better.
When I look back on my own life, I can be grateful that I was free to make my own decisions. Whatever his flaws as a man, my father wanted education for his daughters as well as his sons, and my biggest regret in life is that I didn't believe in myself sufficiently to pursue the educational path that would've suited me best. The reasons behind some of my choices might have been flawed, but I can't deny that I made my own choices.
I've been lucky. I wanted to stay home with my children, unlike many in the religious culture I was raised in, who felt there was no other option available to them. I was fortunate that my husband always saw me as an equal partner in our relationship. There were no heavy-handed tactics or "listen to me because I'm the man" speeches in our home. He made the money and we decided how it would be spent. I looked after our sons during the day, but once he came through the door his first priority was being a father. We were both parents. We had clear divisions of labour, and while I didn't always relish tending kids and keeping house, it was tolerable because it was the life I chose.
I shed a lot of tears while raising my sons - tears of frustration when I couldn't make their lives easier, and fearful tears that I wasn't always up to the task of constantly nurturing with wisdom and patience. I cried when I felt people looking at me with disdain because I was only a housewife. I cried covert tears of self-doubt because I wasn't living my chosen life effortlessly and flawlessly. It took years for me to accept myself as someone who was allowed to cry, and more years still before my husband stopped passing me the figurative hanky and found the courage to shed a few tears of his own.
Remember this - tears don't make you weak. Women sailed on rivers of tears to find a place where they could make the choices that many of us take for granted. Men will sail on that same river until their own tears strengthen the current enough to move us on to a still better place - a place where casting couches don't exist and women are truly seen as more than a sum of their parts, a place where nobody feels shamed for shedding tears of compassion.
Go ahead and cry.
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