The summer before my tenth birthday was both one of the most difficult and one of the most magical, life-changing summers I can remember as a child.
Each of my first 12 summers, my parents would rent a bungalow in one of the scores of bungalow colonies in the Catskill mountains north of New York City. Usually at least one other family we knew (friends or relatives) would rent a similar cottage in the same colony. The women and children spent all week there, from the time school let out through the Labor Day weekend. The husbands came for weekends after they'd finished a week of working in “the city.” Arriving for late suppers on Friday, they'd leave after dinner on Sundays. Each of the men came, as well, for his week of vacation, whenever that might fall.
Cynthia was very much a girly-girl. I was rather awkward both physically and socially, totally mystified by “girly stuff.” Cynthia went off to the colony's day camp with most of the other pre-teen kids. I wasn't sent to join the camp. Though my mother told me that it was because I “wouldn't like it,” I suspect it was more a matter of her decision that camp “wasn't necessary” as an additional expenditure.
After the day at camp, Cynthia was part of the gang of colony kids that ran around teasing, taunting and laughing uproariously with each other all late afternoon and evening. I was only a watcher-from-the-distance; I felt excluded, a complete social misfit, friendless. I had no idea of how to become a part of the community of kids
My mother was particularly irritable and cold with me that summer. My sister at two and a half was adorable, sparkling and, it seemed to me at the time, the center of my mother's otherwise limited attention. I was filled with envy. My mother made it clear repeatedly, in ways both verbal and not, that she couldn't stand having me hanging around the cottage or herself. I had no idea of what to do with myself during the long beautiful days and evenings in the country. There were not enough books, no place to curl up safely and no library around for me to explore. I remember feeling incredibly sad, despairing and bereft.
Lonnie, Cynthia's brother, at almost six, was very much a loner. With a half loaf of white bread and a makeshift fishing pole, he disappeared each early morning to be gone all day. I suspect it was his behavior that raised a possibility for me. I finally noticed the woods that were less than 50 yards from our cottage door. (We were at the furthest boundary of the colony.)
Early one dew-wet morning while my mother and sister still slept, I put a bagel and cream cheese in a paper napkin into my pocket. In rubber boots, layers of warm clothes and my rain slicker, I set off to wander in the trees.
The misty wetness, the pungent smell of pine, the moist springy bed of browning needles under foot, the brilliant green humps of furry moss, the vibrant flashes of darting orange-red salamanders, the mysterious stillness of the little rooms amongst the trees-I was awe-struck and bewitched. I felt, more than ever before in my young life, a profound sense of belonging, of rightness, of what I'd now call home. (As I write this today, tears spill down my face, my body and being are remembering that first experience of fitting within the natural world; that relief from my, till then, unutterable sense of being alien.)
I began waking early every day during the week, wandering off to my fairyland before anyone else was up and about. I stayed hidden and lost in fantasy play in my green and fragrant rooms all day. As the air warmed and dried, I'd slip out of layers of clothing that I'd pile for taking home later. I'd explore barefoot, loving the textures, soft and prickly under my toes. I'd catch and release the beautiful salamanders to wonder at their iridescent freckles. I'd stretch out on the bed of needles, lean up against and hug the trees. I felt enfolded, surrounded with loving presences. I felt such joy and peace and comfort there. In the woods I didn't feel unlovable, homely or a misfit.
Before that summer, my refuge (both from my mother and from the world-see Accept Who You Are for more about this) had been with my books, and with writing poems or stories and drawing pictures curled up in the gold brocade chair in our city living room. Now, when life was feeling too hard or lonely back in the city, I learned to take buses and trains to get to Prospect Park and the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. I found magical nooks in those green worlds. I could go barefoot in the grasses, lie down and roll on the warm, fragrant earth, lean against and hug tress, put my feet in little ponds and feel comforted, feel that I truly fit somewhere.
Like so many of the obstacles in life, the deprivations and ordinary miseries of my childhood became doorways. Without the warmth and acceptance of traditional mothering, I had to find other ways to comfort myself. The depth of shaming and humiliation to which I been subjected for having needs of any sort made it impossible for me to turn to anyone other than myself. The wounds, convolutions and tangles of my relationship with my mother were, in the deepest sense, a great gift that she gave me. Her emotional absence forced me to develop an independence that was neither expected nor experienced by most of the young women with whom I grew up.
So much the outsider, both in my own childhood home and in the world at large I, very early in my growing years, had to learn ways to tend to and to be content with just myself. I didn't-till much later in my life-understand what powerful and empowering skills these were for a person, especially a woman.
I've continued, through the years, to bring to the time I spend with myself the same caring, curiosity and devotion we're all much more likely to bring to the time we spend with others we care about. This practice has kept on expanding my capacity to be fascinated and intrigued with my own unfolding, to delight in my own company and to find rich solace in the world of nature, books, fantasy and solitary creativity.
Though as I've grown up I've become more socially adept, being used to having such fun with and by myself has made me very picky about where, how and with whom I spend my time. Despite how particular I've been, I actually have found a few kindred spirits. Not surprisingly, they're people who have a similar capacity to be fascinated by their own unfolding and to delight in being just with themselves. These delicious beings are friends with whom I share fully, openly and deeply.
Still, I'm rarely willing to do something/go somewhere that doesn't interest me just to have someone's company. I find it easy to give up the possibility of company in order to be doing something/going somewhere that feels right to me. I'm unlikely to settle for any activity, endeavor or company that doesn't, at the very least, promise to feel as nourishing, entertaining or compelling as time with myself does.
Over the years of spending so much time with myself, I've also been expanding my ability to be unconditionally accepting, loving and nurturing to all the different parts of my everyday self. This increasing capacity has grown out of consciously experimenting with the practice of treating myself the same way I'd treat anyone else that I truly care about. (And, from endless work with transforming the inner critical voice. See Criticizing Yourself, Loving Acceptance and Do Better, for more about that work.) The more I've developed this unconditional loving for myself, the less tolerance I have for being around people, situations or circumstances that treat me less than equally kindly and lovingly. It's an amazing liberation. I give thanks daily for the help from Spirit that has supported and guided me in this journeying.
May you consider exploring the practice of spending small bits of time alone, treating yourself lovingly. And, may you consider really honoring that practice if you're already doing it.
Be really gentle with your dear and precious self.
P.S. So many of your delicious e-mails send appreciations for the affirmation, support and nourishment you receive from the site. When I answer them, I don’t always remember to let you know that having your own deck of the Rememberings and Celebrations cards is a way to bring this same loving voice into your everyday world, to have it at hand as you need to remind yourself of the "real" truth moment to moment in the crazimakingness of the so-called real world!
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The card on this page is part of a set of 64 handcolored bookmark-size cards called the Rememberings and Celebrations deck. They can be used as an oracle, a meditation focus or a "book-in-pieces" to kindle and grow a compassionate, gentle, unconditionally loving, fiercely protective inner-Mother to help you carve safe healing space for your emerging self and for the wounded little ones inside.
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