Life Happens

By Bonnie B. Matheson

Journalling for health and peace of mind works wonders. It is easy, free, and wonderfully cathartic.  We all carry around a lot of mental baggage. It weighs us down more than we know. Do you want to feel lighter and more energetic? Write down all the negative things you are harboring.  Get them outside of yourself. Then meditate on the positive aspects of your life.

The computer is excellent for writing. And it can help with spelling and punctuation, something that appeals to me because mine is not always correct. However, writing in a special journal in your own hand with a pen is even better.  It is fun to find a beautiful leather book with creamy blank pages. I have had quite a collection of those over the years.  But it can also be a colorful paperbound book or a spiral notebook. Years ago I always wrote with a fountain pen. Now I am not sure I still own one of those. Find a pen which seems to flow smoothly. Rollerball tips are smooth and seem to write of their own accord.

Once you have determined what you will use for your journal, you simply begin.  Getting all those worries, fears, triumphs, and self-doubts or self-congratulations out of your head cleans house.  It will leave you room for more information from outside yourself or maybe from deep INSIDE. Make room for it and then pay special attention.

It is important to realize that our souls, our inner or outer spiritual selves do not speak in words. They speak through symbols, and signs, poetry, and country song lyrics. It is through dreams and visions and meditation, coincidences, and sometimes pure magic that we come to see what our deeper selves are trying to convey. This is the language of intuition and deep inner truth. Listen carefully. You can transcribe what you just “know” and get it down on paper.

That little voice is quiet. It never shouts. If you are not paying attention, or if you ignore it, you may miss the message.

There may be things that bother you from your past, especially decisions you made which you now regret. Write about it and move on. We cannot go back and change the beginning. But we are fully capable of managing how things come out in the end. This is universally true. We can do what we need to do NOW, to ‘right the ship’ and sail on whether the waters are rough or smooth. Start writing the script for how you want things to turn out.

Perhaps it is not old wounds that rankle but newer losses, or ‘let downs’. After all, life gives us a constant supply on which to practice. So consider yourself fortunate and begin to decipher what that small inner voice is telling you.  Write it down so you can see where you are headed. Don’t fret. It is like emptying the trash. Of course, not all of it needs to be jettisoned. What you put down on paper will surprise you. Perhaps with its eloquence or at least with the pertinence to your life now.

For many people, summer is a quiet time, a time for reflection and inner growth. As we are working on ourselves, writing our thoughts, we can do some beach reading. Perhaps spend some time barefoot in the sand or simply walk without shoes in the grass at home. Write barefoot.

Grounding is the practice of walking or meditating barefoot in order to allow the earth’s energy to pass through our feet and pulse through us. It is supposed to be good for the immune system and overall well being. I believe it is good for us while we use our journal.

“Earthing (also known as grounding) refers to contact with the earth’s surface electrons by walking barefoot outside”– “the earth’s electrons induce multiple physiological changes of clinical significance.”**

Meditation, Journalling, walking barefoot, eating healthy food are all pro-active beneficial acts.  But my personal favorite is my journaling.  First of all, it calms me.  It enlightens me when reading what I have written later. And sometimes the words come to me delivered by unseen voices. Right through my fingers with their long nails, polished in turquoise. I watch my fingers flash across the keys or holding a pen and marvel at what transpires. Inspiration a la carte when you least expect it. Magic.

**For some more information, check out, https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3265077/ an article in PMC Journal of Environmental Health. 

By Bonnie B. Matheson

When I was a little girl, the 4th of July was splendid! The Second World War had ended, and patriotism was a national hobby.  We were so happy and proud to be Americans! 

One year that stands out in my memory, mothers dress, and my sisters and mine were matching red, white, and blue. My father was also enthusiastic. He gave us little American flags to wave.  We watched a parade somewhere downtown, and there were so many people and so many flags, so much bunting. Those flags were proudly flown and no one made any rude remarks about them. The idea that anyone would not be celebrating honestly and proudly was preposterous.

People looked forward to the celebration which might fall on any day of the week.  There were no mandatory Monday holidays then.  People were excited to celebrate the 4th on whichever day it fell.  There were barbeques and picnics in backyards in every neighborhood and municipal parks. Massive fireworks displays followed parades in the evening when the light failed.  The national celebration was enthusiastic and loud.

Set in the corner of our yard, far enough from the house so we would not risk burning it down, sat a big stone outdoor fireplace. There was a picnic table out there.  When extra guests were expected,  card tables were set up in the grass with folding chairs enough to go around them. Not many people had “garden furniture” as they often do today.  Everything was spontaneous.  It was just whatever came to hand and could be moved without too much trouble into the yard.

Paper napkins and paper plates were a modern convenience that was gaining popularity. Dishes of China were still often used though because some people felt it was more genteel. Paper plates and paper napkins were white.  I never saw any in colors till much later.

As a nation, I believe we were grateful. And gratitude can accomplish amazing things.

It was such fun. Home cooked fried chicken, not “carry out” and strawberry shortcake for dessert.  Eating watermelons was a favorite occupation. Spitting out all those seeds so that we would not grow a watermelon in our stomachs, kept us alert. Potato salad and cole slaw, hot dogs and hamburgers with buns added to the fun. Lots of mustard and catsup and sometimes relish or pickles accompanied these. 

None of us had ever heard of Grey Poupon mustard.  

Nor did I ever hear a word about cholesterol or triglycerides.  People did not even talk about getting fat, even though there was probably a big bowl of potato chips at every gathering. 

There were also jello salads with grated carrots and mysterious things inside including tiny marshmallows. Usually, there were plenty of deviled eggs garnished with olives, radishes, and celery.  Tomatoes were not ripe yet and so were rarely available at the market.  People waited till they were in season. (Same for corn on the cob). It ripened earlier in the south, but until then you simply could not buy it. It was such a great day when the corn was ready. Everybody buttered and salted it and ate it all up.  Then we were allowed to roast marshmallows when the coals died down. 

Fireworks were expected even at a private party.  Some were illegal of course, but the men had a way of coming up with them. Cherry bombs were impossibly loud.  Chinese fireworks worked best;  the dreaded Roman Candles were notorious. And they were dangerous! They still are.  Fireworks are so elaborate now, and a session can sometimes go on long enough for a viewer to get bored. But back in the forties and fifties, they were much simpler and certainly shorter, but to us they were magic!

Those days seem far away now. Protesters did not seem to be part of any celebration so close to the end of the Second World War.  The country was pretty together and feeling triumphant and victorious. Hope was everywhere, and no one scoffed at it.  We were all proud Americans.  We felt spared from war, and our job was to live productive lives.  Studying hard for the young, working hard for those who were older seemed reasonable.  

As a nation, I believe we were grateful.  And gratitude can accomplish amazing things.

Happy 4th of July!

By Bonnie B. Matheson

Memorial Day begins the “summer guest” season. These innocent holidays usher in the possibility of a hoard of family or other guests sharing a house. It may be for a day or two or two weeks or more, but it will happen at some time during the summer.

It starts so innocently;

‘We want to see you when we are visiting.”

“Oh Don’t be silly, you can stay here! “

Or, “you girls can share a room, can’t you?”

Or, “We won’t be any trouble at all! ( do you mind if we bring our dog?)”

There is an old saying,

“Everyone seems normal until you get to know them.”

The sharing of a house for the summer or just having friends or family stay for the weekend are all ways to spend time together. Just keep their particular situation in mind when inviting guests.  Remember, there are some non-drinkers. So alternatives are needed. Soft drinks, Pedialyte, and sparkling water sit on the bar along with wine and hard liquor.  Be mindful of food allergies, and preferences, and enjoy each other.

One lovely spring day while sitting at my computer writing, I heard ghastly screams coming from the other side of the brick wall in our large garden. Jumping up to see what had happened, I saw a couple of my grown nieces and their children running one after the other towards the kitchen door. They were chasing my miniature dachshund, Sisi (10 pounds). When I got there, the little girls were crying, and one of the mothers was trying to get a baby bunny out of the mouth of the small dachshund. But it did not survive. For a couple of days, Sisi managed to dispose of four possibly five baby bunnies. We could not find the nest, and with a house full of people did not devote the amount of time necessary to do this. Dachshunds are hunting dogs. You cannot fault a dog for using its natural talents. The cousins, 10 and 12 years old, got a lesson in the survival of the fittest.

Friends of mine opened their house to two families; parents, a grandmother, and three children all staying at one time for several days.

When their house was full of guests, there was a shortage of easily accessible bathrooms. One guest and her young daughter went outside in the bushes early in the morning, because they did not want to disturb anyone jet-lagged who might be still sleeping. The hosts did not tell her that they have installed a system of movement activated cameras showing the greater part of the yard. It stores the images so they can see anything missed in live time.

Some cause happiness wherever they go; others whenever they go. 

– Oscar Wilde

My own family is varied, to say the least.

Two or three are on Keto diets. They eat within a designated time frame ONLY. They won’t eat carbs or sugar and minimal fruit and only a few vegetables. But they want lots of nuts, olives, butter, coconut oil, and avocados!

And no fair teasing about what each other will or won’t eat. Best not to comment on how punctual or late they are or how messy, or neat.

One neat-nick cousin and compulsively cleaned the closet in the guest room.

Talk of politics is out. We have a full spectrum of ideas and beliefs, but little patience with those whom our views don’t mesh.

Some are passive-aggressive, some are always sweet, one has a mean streak, some are very neat and tidy, some toss their belongs helter-skelter. Some are punctual, and others are chronically late, some are slobs and dress in clothes that my mother would consider rags.

Sometimes when there are house-guests, I need to be alone, not to be lonely but to enjoy my own company in peace. It is helpful to recharge my energy for hosting.

We all have the power to change anything, even house guest woes. We are the ones who choose the things we focus our thoughts upon. We feel our own feelings, and no one else can do this for us. Knowing this, it is easier not to blame others for our angst.

Believe good things will happen, and the Universe will see that they do.

Here are some tips that may help! 

1. If it feels wrong, don’t say it.

“Well, that is the way it happened!” “Oh! No! You are wrong. This is what happened!” Siblings often have differing views of family stories or their role in them. But it does not have to erupt in angry name-calling. You are in control of your actions. You control your own words, and temper.

2. Don’t be afraid to say no.

“NO! Your dog cannot sit on your lap while at the table.” or perhaps even more helpful. “Sorry you cannot bring your dog(s).”

One time we counted 11 dogs in a photo we took over Thanksgiving years ago. But when our grown children began having children, things changed. After a horrific and nearly fatal dogfight, the new rule was “You can bring your dogs or you can bring your children, but you cannot bring both dogs and children. You will have to decide which.”

3. Don’t be afraid to say yes.

“You have five children, and the youngest is four years old? Oh, no problem, we have lots of room!” And this happened with wonderful results. But it could be risky.

4. Don’t be a people-pleaser.

Meals can be fraught. One grandchild will not eat anything except white food. Some are vegan. Fixing vegan meals and yet pleasing the meat eaters can be challenging. Thank Goodness for pizzas. And double thank goodness for Pizza delivery.

One grandchild has peanut allergies; these types of things are not a joke. We have had one hospital visit due to a plate of Christmas cookies given as a gift. It was a lesson learned very well by the rest of us.

5. Stay away from negativity and drama.

Telling the truth is so essential, but perhaps holding one’s tongue is even more critical. There are hot buttons we can avoid. But not always:

Some drink a LOT of alcohol. Things can heat up late in the evening. Feelings can be hurt, and angry words cannot be taken back.

Go to bed before this happens.

6. Let go of what you cannot control

Let people do what is right for them. Do not pressure them to conform to your likes.

7. One final suggestion: Just love them.

We will suffer as long as we allow what others say or do to cause an emotional reaction in us.

Real power is restraint, and in sitting back and observing everything with logic and patience.

If words can control us, everyone can control us. We must take a deep breath and let things pass on by.

Our family tensions will be reduced, and we will be able to visit in peace and harmony.

Happiness starts with us. Not with our guests, or their manners, eating habits, clothes or political views, or even how well we get along. Happiness is a choice we have the power to make. Choose wisely.

By Bonnie B. Matheson

“Well, Bonnie, if my children had given me a present like THAT, I would have given it right BACK!” said my pretty friend, Anne, in her sweet Southern drawl.

What she was referring to was the birthday gift from my children, given to me without my prior knowledge– or consent. I should have known something was up when my daughter- in- law, Susie, said she wanted to bring her children to watch me open my presents. But it never crossed my mind that they had ​such​ a surprise planned for me.

I had planned a birthday dinner party to celebrate the day with my family and friends. All five of my children were invited with their spouses along with a few of my grandchildren. The party was held at the wonderful house, Barrsden, on Route 20 North, where I used to live.

My family arrived a little early and before the other guests. They told me to sit on the sofa in the living room, which I did. My old dog, Lord Byron, a Jack Russell, sat beside me, looking perplexed. Murdoch, my youngest son, handed me an old- fashioned wicker fishing tackle box. It had a big bow on it. He surprised me by setting the tackle box squarely in my lap.

“What am I supposed to do with this? Do you want me to take up fishing?” I asked, truly mystified; I do not know much about fishing. 

“Open it, Mom!” they all chimed in. Even then, I did not get it. I was completely in the dark.

I opened the wicker lid. Though the lighting in the room was somewhat dim, I saw two bright little eyes looking up at me out of a black furry face.

A PUPPY!!!! A real live puppy, and it was for me!

“Oh, My Goodness! It is a puppy. ​I have never been so shocked! Oh my God!!! I already have a dog! I do not need another one! This is unbelievable!​ ” I was totally amazed and nearly speechless. But also horrified! I had already begun going to spend long periods of time in Washington, D.C. with my aging mother. The very LAST thing I needed was another dog. And a puppy, of all things, not a trained dog, a PUPPY!!! What was I going to do with a tiny puppy that very weekend? I was supposed to be leaving the next day to go, first, to The Plains, Virginia, for a party, then on to D.C. for a week. 

My original reaction may not have been very gracious. I really thought it would be impossible to have a new puppy. My disbelief was real. But a puppy is hard to turn down.

My Jack Russell turned his back and ignored the tackle box and its contents. But, of course, I took that little fur ball out of the basket and into my arms. At eight weeks, he was still very small, and his fur was still smooth. They told me my present was a mid-sized (not miniature) long- haired dachshund from a local kennel near Ruckersville. He had brown markings in all the appropriate places and huge front paws, which surprised me. He had a truncated tail. I asked what happened to his tail and they said, “Oh, it will grow.” I have had dachshunds all my life, and I knew that tail was NOT going to grow. This puppy’s tail ended in a sort of hook.

I was still in shock and still holding the puppy as my other guests arrived. They were all surprised that my family had given me a” live” present. But my family knows me very well. We are a doggie bunch. And they knew I needed something else to love. I was spending so much time dealing with my mother. I held him close and cuddled him against me. I held him all through dinner, too. He sat in my lap quietly and peacefully and never made a sound. By the end of the meal it was pure and mutual love.

My five children were all “in on it.” Those wretched children thought I might need another dog. They realized the Jack Russell, Lord Byron, was aging. I had usually had at least two dogs at a time. They had all talked it over (behind my back). They felt it was time.

Well, I am not so sure my older dog, Byron, thought it ​was​ such a good idea. But, over time, he accepted that puppy and loved him, too. In fact, I believe the puppy helped extend Byron’s life.

My first son, Charley, lives near Earlysville with his wife, Andrea Matheson and their blended family of six children. They have the wonderful wine tasting and event venue, Chisholm Vineyard. My daughter, Helen, an artist, lives near Crozet with her husband, David Hilliard and occasionally, some of their three children. Helen hunts with Farmington Hunt. David owns the Lodge at Old Trail. My daughter, Lilla, a sculptor, lives in The Plains, Virginia with her husband, Christopher Ohrstrom; most of their four children have grown and gone. Lilla hunts with Orange County Hunt where my husband was President of the hunt for many years. 

My entrepreneur son, Robert, father to Jack Matheson-Bradley, has a house in Charlottesville, which is also a some-time Air B & B. Murdoch, my youngest son, is married to Susie and has three children. He is a broker with Frank Hardy Real Estate, and Susie started the Scout Guide with her partner, Christy Ford. They hunt with Keswick Hounds.

It was Susie who went to the breeder and bought the dog. She kept it for one night so that it could be presented to me exactly on my birthday. She is the culprit. She is also a loving, helpful and thoughtful daughter- in- law. And I thank her now all the time for understanding how important it was for me to have a new dog, and granting my unspoken wish. This puppy, who is now a mature four- year- old dog is the love of my life. Lord Byron died at 16, more than a year ago, giving up the place of the Alpha dog. Thank heavens, I had Magnus to console me. Everyone who can should have a dog (or two). There is simply nothing like them for companionship, unconditional love and in most cases, stress relief.

Magnus is a black- and- tan, long- hair– supposedly mid-size Dachshund- who should have been drowned at birth. His tail is only a half the length it should be and there is a pronounced hook at the end of this truncated appendage. It grows a great fluff of tail feathers where the long hair of his coat makes a multicolored plume, to make up for the lost length of tail. His coat is shiny and full, with King Charles curls at the back of his neck. The nose, which should be long and narrow, is way too short and rather wide, giving him more the face of a spaniel than a typical dachshund profile. His ears dangle appropriately and give him some gravitas. His front paws are huge, much larger than those on his rear legs. I have never seen this on another dog before. Normally, the front feet match those of the back feet.

Everyone feeds Magnus snacks. Once a sleek and agile puppy, by the time he was a little over one year old it was clear that he was gaining too much weight. I tried in vain to get people to cut back on the snacks. There are many caregivers here at my mother’s house in Washington, D.C. They all insist on feeding him treats. He is, you might say, tubby. As for his personality, there is none better. Magnus loves everybody. He enjoys other dogs, and other places, and other people. Above all, he loves me, best. He basically follows me everywhere when he is in the same house. If I am gone, he generally stays in our room. He must be enticed out of there to eat, and he is very shy about coming downstairs without me. Dandy Dude, who is mother’s small “intact” male dachshund, has taken the Alpha dog position from Magnus. Magnus has been neutered, you see. And he seems to recognize this lack. At least he is nowhere near as aggressive as young Dandy, who is two years younger.

Magnus has taken the place of Lord Byron, who left this world the day before Thanksgiving a year ago. I miss Lord Byron every day, but my love for Magnus grows exponentially. He is a dear boy and his devotion is touching. It is as if he knows he is solely responsible for my happiness now that he is the only dog and Lord Byron is no more.

The very first night when we went to bed, Byron slept at my head and Magnus curled up near my chest, but not touching me. Magnus is not a “touching” sleeper. He will allow me to put him next to me in bed and lie there for a while, but then he will quietly move away to his own space, normally closer to the foot of the bed. The nice thing is, most mornings when I wake, he is snuggled against my back on the outside of the covers. This pleases me immensely.

Magnus snores. Sometimes loudly. He has a strange black spot on the edge of his tongue towards the tip. I have no idea why. His nails are long and go clickety click on the hard wood floors and the black- and- white squares in the long marble hall leading to my end of the house. We live a strange existence here, now, in my old house with my elderly mother, who just turned 101 years old last Friday. Who would ever have thought this would happen? Because of her age and the fact that someone must come and run this house, I have upended my life and now Magnus and I stay here with Mother, full time. It is not the life I would have chosen, but I have determined to make the best of it. And I am happy here, now.

The year after the one when my children gave me the dog, I did not invite all of them for my birthday. It was not meant as an insult. I was just trying to make room for more guests. But the outcry from the children was tremendous. They thought it might be because I was afraid, they would give me another puppy. There may have been some truth in that. I don’t quite trust them, not to do it again.

By Mary Morony

This summer I spent three months give or take a week in Uganda. I stayed at an organization created to rescue girls from the slums and many times the sex trade. The organization is called Pure and Faultless. The pace where the girls live and I visited is called Rahab’s Corner. The director of Pure and Faultless Uganda is Wangira Juamh. In Africa the last name comes first.

I was there to interview the girls so that I use their stories for a book I am writing about the remarkable work Juamj and his sister, Sanyu Moreen, the one who dreamed up the idea, are accomplishing. It all started with Moreen’s dream. Here is an anecdote from my time with these beautiful people.

The queen’s wave is iconic. Everyone knows it. The shoulder is set to square and flat. All the way to the elbow, the upper arm lies pressed close to the chest. The hand-held around the shoulder level achieves its loft by a tight angle at the elbow. A pound note would be safely stored between the lower part of the upper arm and the forearm. The hand travels at a forty-five degree; the actual degree may vary, arc starting with the pinkie held toward her adoring subjects. In a clockwise motion, assuming she is using her right hand, she sweeps the jeweled and often gloved appendage around culminating in a full frontal palm.

My wave is a bit more organic. You might even say less formulaic, so there is no need to delve into the slight degree changes that occur when I am greeting someone with a hand gesture. Our setups are the same, the Queen’s and mine. The engine of our greetings is where the real difference lies. Her’s in the write, mine in the big bumps at the end of your hand.

The joints that scrape and make it impossible to get your drivers license out between the seat and the console. Having shot from your quaking hands when the state trooper climbed out of his car, the card is just out of reach thanks to those bumps. As the trooper places his hat on his head and his approach begins, you hold your bleeding in hand in other unsure of the best course of action.

The paramount thought in this situation should be the attending to the rehearsal of your excuse for driving so fast. Instead, your brain is calculating. Do you have the time to open the door and climb on to the seat to get a better angle to snatch up the elusive permit? Or waiting, sharing your knuckle dilemma with the officer and hoping he won’t watch as you bend over the seat outside of the car to retrieve the aforementioned document.

Those knuckle joints are the power source of my particular brand of to and fro-ness greeting. I guess you could call me a finger waver. It doesn’t make as much difference to me, as it would, say the Queen if my digits are pointed outward or to the side as I flap them in Hello! What is essential is the subtle motion of my fingers.

For my first few weeks at Rahab’s Corner, I routinely respond like this to lusty waves from various souls on our ways to and fro. Without exception, the initiator of the greeting would hustle right over to me. I would then hail them with a good fill in the time of day acknowledgement. We both waited expectantly for the other to say something. When nothing was forthcoming, we’d shrug, smile, and continue on our way.

One afternoon, from my room, I was headed to the kitchen. With some effort, I had corralled my flip flops on to my feet. The effort had to do with picking mine sandals out of the pile of shoes by the door. Africans take their shoes off outside of the house. Immersed as I was in listening to the flop swish of my tread on the tile walk, a movement out of the corner of my eye distracted my wondering if I could identify the sound of each tread. Glancing over, I saw Juamh in some haste coming down the stairs toward me from his office. He stopped mid-stair and waved. I smiled and waved back. I noticed that he too employed the same finger wag as I. He, again, twitched his digits in my direction. I did the same laughing at this odd encounter.

His smile turned upside down as his eyes squinted in puzzlement. He said with the slightest hight of impatience, “Come here. I want to ask you something.”

“Oh, Okay why didn’t you say so?”

“I did,” he responded as I made my way over to him. He turned his back up the stairs and disappeared into his office. I followed.

“I thought you were waving at me.”

“This,” he demonstrated a perfect replica of my wave, means “come here. This,” he lifted his arm up in the air with his hand well over his head and to and fro-ed it boldly with the fulcrum at the elbow, “means Hello.”

By Mary Morony

What are you going to do with them? From the challenges of accepting the latest tattoos to carping about taking out the garbage, nursing a sick child in the middle of the night, carpools, schedules, and money issues living with others no matter the relationship is messy work. How do you describe your family–Mom, Dad, kids, the dog, and cat, maybe a grandparent or two? Do in-laws, out-laws, neighbors, good friends, goats, and horses fall under the umbrella of a family? Or does the designation constitute just blood relatives? The Latin word familia where our word family springs meant the buildings and contents including the servants and the livestock more like a homestead than actual blood relations as our definition states.

Is your familia defined in as broad in terms as in ancient Roman? Is it a happy conglomeration of folk glad to see each other and wildly supportive of one another? Is a particular disease a part of the scenario like the unspoken guest at the table? Does dysfunction rule? Or is your family unit nonexistent or wholly broken? 

To explore different aspects of life is a perennial curiosity of mine. What is human life other than relating to one another? The crucible where we first interface with the world, learn how to be, what to think and how to define the other takes place within the family. The pressure cooker of living with others only makes things more fascinating. Though I know in my heart that every tribe has its problems, crazy aunts, or brooding teenagers, and despite writing three novels focused on family dysfunction, I fear to broach the topic of kith and kin because I believe mine might fall short of the ideal. 

Would Norman Rockwell be interested in painting the vignette of your family sitting around the table chatting about the day’s events or maybe a holiday with a steaming turkey front and center? By the way, The Saturday Evening Post did no one any favors with their idealized family covers. Are there fantasies, vestiges of 1950-era sitcoms, surrounding your family’s interactions—Hallmark moments? Is there an impossible standard the glue that holds the whole sloppy thing together? When failing to meet the benchmark, do things go south in a hurry? In my nest, holidays while compelling are fraught with anxiety. Even while I ask the question, are we the only ones? I am confident we are not alone. But so afraid are we as a group that someone might meltdown, as soon as the last dish is safely ensconced in the cupboard the place clears as if someone yelled fire in a theater. 

Having been a member of several different clans due to the odd particulars of my life, I am aware appearances rarely represent the goings on when the camera ceases to roll, the last guest leaves, or the cat pulls the Christmas tree over on Great-Aunt Luella’s exceedingly delicate table and your only heirloom. A social worker friend once told me, “if you were able to peel back the roof and gaze into houses unseen you would be shocked at what goes on.” Since I’m not much into hopping up on rooftops and looking for the appropriate corner to start peeling, I can’t say. I suspect, however, that what goes on in the bosom of your family is a far cry from what we would have the world see. We, humans, want to present in the best possible light. A little something we learned from where else other than our parents. And as critics we are our worst, even more so when it comes to our families, they being extensions of ourselves. 

Hubs, a funny man said when asked when he exactly had he arrived at a long resisted decision, “While floating down the Nile.” His Irish accent makes the joke more amusing since he pronounces “the” as “de.” Denial is often at play when matters as dear to our hearts as kin arise. Because the topic can be overloaded with guilt and regret retreating to the assumed safety of denial is an oft-employed tactic. The problem with denying unpleasantness is it doesn’t work. The grumpiness almost always gives way to more troublesome feelings.

Often, I find myself mewling either to a child or the noise in my head, had I known better, I would have done better. The guilt that suffuses families, the ones of origin and the ones we later create, keeps therapists in business while taking a tremendous toll on both parents and children for generations. James Hillman, a Jungian therapist, suggests that the family is rich in mythology and if we allow ourselves to define family thus, we can build in moments of awareness rather than taking on the angst of having done it wrong, been a bad parent, or child. 

Taking a cue from Shakespeare and Hillman, I am looking for the active mythology afoot in my household dynamics. Nothing else I’ve tried in the past has proven to be anything but exhausting! I have so many and any other way has proven time and again exhausting. Rather than getting caught up in the drama and blaming the actors, I going to sit back and take stock of the happenings on stage, the world is one. I might learn something about the myth that is me and get a little entertainment in the bargain.