postcards from nowhere

Greetings!

Thanks to so many of you who have offered your kind words of appreciation!
Postcards from NowHere has given birth to a spin-off;  Postcards for 
Parents. Today's postcard is a sample.  If you enjoy it,  please sign 
up for a free subscription by emailing me with 'parents' in the subject 
line.  You will not automatically receive both unless you subscribe.  
I will continue mailing postcards from nowhere approximately every other
week, and the postcards for parents will (hopefully) be mailed on the 
weeks in between. 


The other day my seven year old daughter was reminiscing about the music
show her first grade class had performed for their parents.  I asked her 
what she thought about it. She said it was good, except for the part when
one of her classmates forgot her line and said oops.  

'Aha!' my mind pounced with great triumph. "See the domestication taking 
place in your sweet innocent daughter! Before public school she never 
would have believed that something had to be perfect to be good!"  I was
so pleased with myself to have evidence of the evils of regular public 
school and the dastardly role it plays in domesticating our children. 
(Now you know my bias -- I'm not a big fan of mainstream culture) "I 
told you so!" gloated my mind.

But I spoke to her of how I thought that was one of the cutest parts of 
the show.  And I gave her a very discreet (or so I told myself) mini-lecture 
to counteract the insidious cultural perspective that only perfection is
good enough.  Then I gave myself a little congratulatory pat on the back
and went about my day.

All was well until I was relaxing in a hot bubblebath later that evening.
The bubbles dissolved and I was faced with my thighs and belly.  As for 
the umpteenth time I wished they were smaller, I stopped short.  Uh-oh. 
What is the difference between what I just thought about my body and 
what my daughter said earlier about the show?

My bubble of illusion popped.  A ponderous possibility took its place.  
What if public school was actually NOT her first exposure to the myth of
perfection?  What if, in spite of my careful, conscious use of language 
and teaching of concepts, she had absorbed my beliefs in the same way 
she had nursed milk from my breast?

Ouch!  No longer could I hold myself separate from the system.  No 
longer could I look down on it from my place of superior insight.  
(notice the pure unadulterated arrogance there?  Amazing, isn't it?)  
I had to take responsibility.  It made me squirm.

But at the same time, it gave me hope.  When I thought that this cultural
demon called public education could influence my child to believe things 
that I saw as unhealthy and self-sabotaging, I felt angry and powerless.
But if I was part of the problem, there was something I could do about it.  
I could work to accept myself.  I could work to heal the parts of me that 
I didn't want to see passed on. 

There was a scroll hanging on my bedroom door for many of the years of 
my childhood.  It was called Children Learn What They Live.  I'll have 
to look that up somewhere, because as I recall the author knew exactly 
what I just learned.  But it seems to me that not only do children learn
what they live, they learn what we live.

It is a much more efficient use of my allotted child-rearing energy to 
learn to love my body just as it is than to deliver mini-lectures (even 
very discreet ones!) to my children. 

Remember that experiment from grade school where the celery soaks up 
the colored water and eventually the leaves change color? At least for 
the early years, I am the colored water.  Even when they go off to school
, or friends' houses, they still come home to me.  They still look to me 
for a reference point.  The real me, not the me I try to present for 
their benefit.

Maybe that's what is meant by the saying children are our mirrors.  When 
I notice in them a belief that I do not like, it is a pointer into myself.
And the opportunity is not given to change them, but to heal it in me.  
I'm betting that when my internal healing occurs, they'll feel it too.

So for now my daughter has shown me that a part of me still buys the myth
that 'it's only good enough when it's perfect.'  But maybe someday I'll 
be buying the idea that true beauty comes in one-of-a-kind packaging.  
Maybe someday I'll think my thighs are as cute as that little first-grader
giggling and saying oops.

Blessings,

Karen

p.s.  If you are seeking support, information and guidance as you tackle 
the many issues facing parents today, I'm available for further discussion 
or private coaching sessions. Please call me for a free consultation.