Too often we create home based on what we’ve known and what’s familiar. But that’s not always what’s best. True comfort often requires us to move beyond the past.
I don't know how my folks were able to raise five kids where none of us felt a lack of attention or love. And yet, somehow, they were also able to let go and allow us to make our own decisions.
If there are odious or traumatic memories, I must have been able to repress or suppress, or perhaps even sublimate them.
Mom once told me of the two of them looking at me as a baby. Will he become a teacher? A pastor? Perhaps a doctor?..
Dad reportedly commented: If he grows up to become a beachcomber, the important thing is whether he is happy, and we would love him just as much the same
When I dropped out of college to become the manager at my summer job, the marina at Marina City, they let me go with my own decision, with no pressure to please their wishes for my life.
And I always felt their pride in my subsequent achievements. Now, forty eight years later, I am still supremely happy with my life and career, with no plans to retire.
I know I would not be able, for example, to allow a child of mine to get a motorcycle, especially after finding out firsthand how dangerous they can be. And yet, there I was, using it to get back and forth between Marina City downtown and my classes at U of I Chicago, and back to Oak Park again down the Eisenhower. Dad would even find excuses to use the thing itself, like picking my sister Kathy up from her job waitressing at the Come Back Inn. (The same went for my MG Midget.)
When Dad and I took a month long road trip west to visit old friends and colleagues during his sabbatical in the mid seventies, we used the family car, a Honda Civic, because it had much better mileage than my car at the time. Mom, meanwhile, matter of factly drove my 390 CI Mercury Cyclone GT with the four on the floor and rumbly glasspack mufflers to her job at Luther North (where she became a legend).
Perhaps the reason I never married and had kids is that I could never aspire to their example. Who knows?..
It took a recent personal and work relationship to find out that yelling and drama was attractive to me. Strange.
I'd confuse that with interest and concern. My mother would shift from loud verbal abuse to peaceful and friendly concern.
It's still is a challenge learning to differentiate this in my own relationships with friends and people. My walls are usually so high up because I don't know what's waiting at the corner.
I can no longer stand a yelling person. Yelling is hell. It is fear, and insecurity and hurt finding expression in intimidation.
I find that standing up for yourself or excusing yourself is the best way to deal with such scenes.
Most yellers are even unaware of their own rage. I once had to speak loudly back at a friend to call attention to their behaviour. It was funny because they didn't even know that they were out of control. Watching his face calm down was revealing for both of us. It helped me stop playing victim as it helped him grow in awareness
I don't know how my folks were able to raise five kids where none of us felt a lack of attention or love. And yet, somehow, they were also able to let go and allow us to make our own decisions.
If there are odious or traumatic memories, I must have been able to repress or suppress, or perhaps even sublimate them.
Mom once told me of the two of them looking at me as a baby. Will he become a teacher? A pastor? Perhaps a doctor?..
Dad reportedly commented: If he grows up to become a beachcomber, the important thing is whether he is happy, and we would love him just as much the same
When I dropped out of college to become the manager at my summer job, the marina at Marina City, they let me go with my own decision, with no pressure to please their wishes for my life.
And I always felt their pride in my subsequent achievements. Now, forty eight years later, I am still supremely happy with my life and career, with no plans to retire.
I know I would not be able, for example, to allow a child of mine to get a motorcycle, especially after finding out firsthand how dangerous they can be. And yet, there I was, using it to get back and forth between Marina City downtown and my classes at U of I Chicago, and back to Oak Park again down the Eisenhower. Dad would even find excuses to use the thing itself, like picking my sister Kathy up from her job waitressing at the Come Back Inn. (The same went for my MG Midget.)
When Dad and I took a month long road trip west to visit old friends and colleagues during his sabbatical in the mid seventies, we used the family car, a Honda Civic, because it had much better mileage than my car at the time. Mom, meanwhile, matter of factly drove my 390 CI Mercury Cyclone GT with the four on the floor and rumbly glasspack mufflers to her job at Luther North (where she became a legend).
Perhaps the reason I never married and had kids is that I could never aspire to their example. Who knows?..
It took a recent personal and work relationship to find out that yelling and drama was attractive to me. Strange.
I'd confuse that with interest and concern. My mother would shift from loud verbal abuse to peaceful and friendly concern.
It's still is a challenge learning to differentiate this in my own relationships with friends and people. My walls are usually so high up because I don't know what's waiting at the corner.
I can no longer stand a yelling person. Yelling is hell. It is fear, and insecurity and hurt finding expression in intimidation.
I find that standing up for yourself or excusing yourself is the best way to deal with such scenes.
Most yellers are even unaware of their own rage. I once had to speak loudly back at a friend to call attention to their behaviour. It was funny because they didn't even know that they were out of control. Watching his face calm down was revealing for both of us. It helped me stop playing victim as it helped him grow in awareness