“Deconstruction” was just a literary or philosophical concept- until it happened to me!  Migrating to Australia was to have resulted in a better life.  Instead, it took mine away – at least for a time.  Between the “removalists” and the “garage sales,” strangers had examined the “artifacts” of my life and seemed to decide what was “disposable”.    Next were the seemingly endless ‘goodbyes’ to friends, family, beloved pets.    I took my last drive in my little red sports car and, for the last time, I walked out the front door of my home knowing that, in just a couple of hours, it would be occupied by another family.   One by one, every aspect of my old self was stripped from me. 

At least where material things were concerned, I knew what I was giving up.   What was most unexpected, and what hurt most of all, was the loss of identity.   Determined not to live my mother’s life, I had made it my mission in life to be more than just somebody’s wife.   But my visa said “no entry” unless accompanied by my husband.   I had worked damned hard to earn my credentials and to establish a career I was proud of.   But, as far as Australia was concerned, if it didn’t happen there, I had no experience.    (Canada does this to immigrants too, by the way!)

And so it was that suddenly I found myself in crisis: identity crisis, career crisis, mid-life crisis, cross-cultural crisis, “empty-nest” crisis?   Yes, I was still coming to terms with the fact that we would never have children!  Suddenly my life seemed to have no meaning at all!   And, in the midst of it all, I was alone – my usual support system on the other side of the world!  Well, of course, I did have access to friends and family via the internet.  But none seemed able to understand my situation.  I was in Australia, for heaven’s sake!  How could I not be happy!?  I had never felt so alone!   

It was a confusing time, when there were many influences pushing and pulling me this way and that.  What seemed quite clear and obvious one day was out of the question the next.  How could I make sense of any of it?   I had to get these circular thoughts out of my head and down on the page.   So I took up my pen, and my journal; and I wrote my way through it!   

My journal entries record how I made sense of that time.  Their sheer volume reflects how overwhelmed I was by my emotions:  Excitement!  Sadness!  Fear!  Sorrow!  Confusion!   Then I remembered William Bridges’ work on “transitions” vs. “change”.  I recognized that I had entered “the neutral zone” and that it would be very “messy” for awhile.  My journal served as a wonderful receptacle for all of that “messiness”.   And so I learned, through the process, to live the questions, and to write my way through them.  

As I wrote through the grief and confusion, I began the process of re-examining each fragment of my old “self”.  What must I give up?  Should I fight for it, or let it go?  What shall I keep?  What is it worth?  Now that the lacquer has worn off a little, was it really what I thought it was anyway?  It was a little like putting together a jig-saw puzzle.  First you put all the pieces out on the table.  Then you look for the colours and patterns to see how they fit together.  How do these pieces fit together?  What are the spaces that now need filling?  And how will the new configuration work?  Will it be somehow better than the old?  Will reassembly somehow result in finding the contentment that, admittedly, had always seemed just out of reach?  Gradually the questions themselves became clearer and more specific.  And ultimately, that process led to a new career and to a new and very exciting phase of my life!   

Are you feeling overwhelmed by problems?  Questions?  Concerns?
Get it out of your head, and get it down on paper!

We’re so clever when we’re young.  We have it all figured out.  I did, or so I thought.  You see, my Mother was one of eight children; so was my Dad.  And together they had eight children, of which I was third.  The problem was they had neither the financial, nor the emotional resources to cope with such a brood.   In my youthful wisdom, seeing how miserable my Mother was, it seemed a “no-brainer” to me.  In order to be happy, I must: (1) avoid relationships; (2) never have children; and (3) get as far away from home as I possibly could.   Sadly, I achieved two out of three; and it did not bring happiness. 

So career-focused was I that I did not re-examine the logic of those conclusions until my late thirties – when I realized just how lonely and empty my life had become.  Eventually, at age 39, I did marry – a man who had come to my country from the other side of the globe.  And suddenly, we wanted children too.  But that was not to be.  Oh we tried!  For two years, I rose in the dark, drove to the fertility clinic, and subjected myself to the poking, the prodding, and the injections.  There were a lot of other women there, and you had to be early if you wanted to get it all done and still get to work on time.   Finally I did get pregnant.   We were over the moon!  But at 3 months I miscarried.  Of course I’d try again.  The doctors were committed to successful outcomes.  They wanted their numbers high!   But never once did any one of them ask me how I was doing emotionally.   And I was not doing well.   

Nevertheless, after a couple of years of the agony of failed fertility treatments, I told my husband, and the doctors, that it was time I stopped focusing on something I could not do, and focused on what I could.   It was not an easy decision.  I worked in an office where there were a lot of young women; and they were all having babies.   Of course, all of my siblings had children too.   To be a part of such a large family and not to have a child of my own was devastating.   But there were two things my husband had absolutely ruled out:  donor sperm, and adoption.  And so the focus then went back to my career, and then to my husband’s.  It was his career that took us to live on the other side of the world (my third wish). 

Another decade passes.  We are a childless couple; but we are living our dream life in Australia.  Meanwhile, back in Canada, I have 60-some nieces, nephews, great-nieces, and great-nephews whom I never see.  I had thought the pain would stop when family, friends and colleagues stopped having babies.  But no, then they have grandkids!  And now my husband often wonders aloud, “Is it too late to adopt?”  “Yes,” I tell him, “It is.” 

What is my point?  It is just this: What you think you want when you’re young may not bring you the happiness you’re looking for in the years ahead.  Something to think about?  

Here's more support from one who admits he once scoffed at the "touch-feely": 

http://www.artofstorytellingshow.com/2008/01/12/steve-denning-the-knowledge-based-organization/

Enter August 

I’m a “right-brainer”. In the language of Myers-Brigg’s typology, I am an extreme INFP, an introverted feeling type (heart vs. head), with strong leanings towards intuition (vs. sensing), and perceiving (vs. judgment). As an “intuitive”, I make all sorts of connections, linking ideas, and often jumping from one thought to another. Trying to keep up with me in conversation, people sometimes say that I am “all over the place.”   This typology has not always served me well in my career, particularly since I spent most of it in the midst of “left-brain” engineers who are logical, analytical, and decisive. It sometimes seemed we spoke different languages; and though I could understand theirs, they couldn’t understand mine. Consequently, in that environment, my contributions were often derided and dismissed as “warm and fuzzy” or “airy-fairy.”   Well, finally there is a respectful name for the all-over-the-place way I think.  I am a "Cultural Creative".   And, not only is there a place in today’s advanced world for the way my mind works; according to Pink, there is a need for more of it!   Thank you, Daniel H. Pink!   

Note:  I haven’t seen the movie yet!  No spoilers please!

Time travel!  As a citizen of two countries, on opposite sides of the world, I have often wished for it.  But it’s not so much fun for Henry De Tamble, the “Time Traveler” in this story.  A Chicago librarian with a science-fiction disease called “Chrono Displacement” disorder, he has no control over it.  Without warning he disappears and finds himself in the past or future, naked and vulnerable to whatever conditions or circumstances he suddenly drops into.  And, of course, he has little hope of satisfying the people around him by his explanation.  This being such a fascinating premise, and Henry’s adventures so engrossing, I wondered initially why this book is entitled “The Time Traveler’s Wife”.

The story is told, alternately, from the perspectives of both Henry and Clare.  And, because of the time travel, backward and forward, it requires that the reader always pay close attention to details of the date and the ages of the protagonists.  And yet, because it follows the chronology of Clare’s life, it is easier to follow than you might imagine.  That explains the title. And it’s a very touching love story.

The story covers Clare’s life from the age of 6 to 82, and explores all the themes of a woman’s life at each and every stage.  (Of course, that’s something that interests me, as you will know if you’ve looked at my “Programs” page.)  We follow Clare from the dreamy child in a hurry to grow up, anxiously anticipating the future, to the young woman longing for love, leaving home and family, waiting impatiently for her partner, finding him, and occasionally losing him.  Along the way it explores the themes of love, friendship, parenting, loss, destiny and, of course time.  

Each of us so often lives in the past, or looks to the future.  But “Time is nothing”, says Henry.  We may not be able to choose our destiny.  The past is done, and the future beyond our reach.  The best we can do is make the very most of each and every moment.

Time and time again I have learned, and been reminded again, not to judge others.  When you pass them on the street, meet them in the supermarket, or even socially, you can never know just what trials or horrors the people around you may have experienced.   Because I work in expressive writing, I know this: “Research has demonstrated that the inhibition or avoidance of negative emotions (Gross & Levenson, 1997) and the suppression of thoughts (Wenzlaff & Wegner, 2000) lead to heightened physiological arousal, negative mood, and impaired cognition.”  In other words, it ain’t healthy!   Expressive writing has been found to provide therapeutic benefits for those in distress.  

In “talk therapy” therapists ask a lot of questions and do a lot of listening.  But not everyone can access or afford that sort of help.  Besides, it takes years!  But most people can afford a notebook, and a library card.   Through expressive writing, and “bibliotherapy”, we can initiate the conversations that count.  These methods allow my clients to open up what the brilliant poetry therapist, Peggy Osna Heller, lovingly calls their “shpinalzos” (that’s where we store all our “stuff”), and give them an opportunity to express themselves, and to talk about what’s eating them.  We can “make the invisible visible”, she says, by providing “words for what is known only in images and images for what is not known yet”.

I’ve been thinking along these lines for some time now, using movies, music, archetype, heroic myth, fairy tales, poems, short stories, women’s literature (both “classic” and “chick-lit”).  It’s fun for me; it’s fun for my clients; it allows them to express a lot of “angst”; and it’s healing!

I didn’t blog last week.  The Olympics were on, and so much of my time was given to watching my favourite Olympic events.  For me, it wasn’t about the colour of the medals won.  I was inspired by the heroics of all the athletes.   It was about being willing to invest themselves so fully in achieving their goals, taking the risks, putting it all on the line, and doing their very best.  What more can you ask of anyone?  For that, I hope they all feel proud!

But today I want to talk about another kind of “heroics”.  Yesterday I saw Tim Burton’s “Alice in Wonderland” in 3D.  It is an amazing movie!!!!   And for me, who had not seen a 3D movie since “13 Ghosts”, it was quite a trip!  WOW!!!   I had NO IDEA!!!!   I would probably see anything Johnny Depp appears in, of course, and he gives us a wonderful Mad Hatter.  Helena Bonham Carter and Anne Hathaway are fun too, as the Red Queen and White Queen respectively.  And I enjoyed hearing Alan Rickman’s voice with just the perfect tone as the blue caterpillar.  But this is Mia Wasikowska’s movie.  She is outstanding as Alice.  What is best of all about this movie, though, is that Walt Disney has finally given us a worthy heroine!!!  A heroine with “muchness”!!  It was long overdue!  And that’s what I want to talk about.

I don’t recall how old I was when this incident occurred – I was most certainly not more than ten – when I was stopped walking to primary school one spring morning, by a young bully with a frog in his hand.   He refused to let me pass until I kissed this frog!   Now, my older brother, who had to suffer three younger sisters before he was finally given a male sibling, had introduced me to frogs long before this incident; so I was not afraid.  But even at that tender age, I did not like to be bullied; and so, on principle, I refused.   Consequently, he – along with his mates – continued to block my path to school.  And, as it happened, he delayed the progress of many others too, who stopped to watch the unfolding drama!  In the end, I decided that being late for school would be far worse than kissing a frog.  So I did it.  As I recall the incident, it was rather an anti-climax for all concerned.  And off to school we went.

I had never encountered any difficulty with bullies before that day, nor since.  So just what might have sparked this particular incident?  Kiss a frog!?  Well, even as a little girl, well versed in fairy tales, I knew frogs didn’t really turn into princes!  But did this boy?  Was this simply a case of bullying, or was it perhaps an early expression of masculine inquisitiveness and logic?  If I kissed the frog, and it turned into a prince, perhaps there would be hope for him too!?  Isn’t that what bullies do, overcompensate for their own insecurities?  And isn’t that essentially the role into which many men would like to put us women?   Is it a role we choose, or into which we are socialized?  Isn’t it often seen as our job to “refine” them, to smooth their rough edges, and to treat them as royalty.  Isn’t it thus they become the princes they would like to be?

I have never been satisfied with the Walt Disney versions of fairy tales: damsels in distress, housekeeping for dwarves, waiting to be rescued by their prince, marriage equated with “living happily ever after”.  Not that there is anything wrong with marriage!  It’s just that I had graduated early from reading “The Hardy Boys” to “Nancy Drew”.  I knew that women were capable of so much more!  

So Hurrah for Tim Burton’s “Alice in Wonderland”, and for Walt Disney for finally producing a movie with such a worthy heroine!   Do go and see it!

And by the way, watch for my upcoming workshop, “Grimms for Grown-Up Girls”©!  In it, we will learn the history of fairy tales and what was really intended in their earlier oral and written forms before Disney.   We will explore what these tales can teach us about the ages and stages of women.  And finally, we will explore their significance for our own lives, as we write our own life stories as new versions of a fairy tale.

See the “Programs” page, and follow us on Twitter at CChangeWrites!