There I sat a fifty-something “good girl” with everything my culture told me I should have in order to be happy. I had the husband and the children, the house and the career. I had the education and the comforts. I had hit the marks and toed the lines, but my heart was numb and the achievements of my life sparkled for all to see like silver paper stars on the forehead of a “good girl.”

And I had been so very, very good. Dinners were made, meetings were met, homework was helped and clothes were folded. Cars were driven here and there and my smile shone pinched and perfect. The alarm clock was set. Tonsils were checked and teeth were straightened. Pets were vetted and vaccinated. Baseball and tennis, tutoring and music, bedtimes and bath times all marched to the beat of my orderly direction. Duties were dealt with and “yes” was the answer to every request. My husband had become just tolerated as parents and relatives were catered to. And I was a very “good girl.”

But beneath the beaming brow of every “good girl” resides the heart and mind, the soul and spirit, of a woman who is becoming an older woman with each passing day. How much of ourselves do we keep buttoned up and pressed down and primped perfect? How much of our individual worth and beauty do we set on the back burner as we rush about being “get-it-done darlings” for everyone else?

We must do it all so very well, don’t you know? Isn’t this what will make us happy–being so very good? I so thought this, until I realized the “good girl” had to go. She brought with her a subtle resentment and a quiet anger. Her burden was a guilt-shot, wiggling disappointment. So I made a decision. I ditched the “good girl” and began the search for me. What served my growth and my spirit? Which decisions were mine and which were rote responses that I needed to discard? And slowly, I began to learn myself.

Today I am a good woman. I can say, “No.” I know that I matter just as much as you. I no longer bend to anyone else’s opinion of me. Perfection is no longer part of my vision. Putting others first is not always a given. I decide what is valuable and needs my attention. I choose what I can let go. I know what I cannot.

So, if you are struggling with disappointment and a quiet anger, you might want to look at the “good girl”–or boy–in your life. Maybe they need to bite the dust.

• Don’t take myself too seriously. Don’t take you too seriously, either. Living is a heart-explosion game at best and a painful confusion at worst. We are all in the midst of changing and becoming at all times. To keep a sense of humor and a lightness of soul is terribly important.

• Stay where my feet are. This means I stay in the present, in this precise moment in time. For it is only in the place where I am standing that life can happen. If my head is tearing into the future or my heart is broken over the past, I am missing what is happening right in front of me.

• Be honest with myself in all things. Be honest with you unless the truth is really none of my business.  I must claim my truth–what is going on with me–at all times. I must look clear-eyed and ruthlessly at the how and the why of my behavior. I shall tell you the truth about you only where it is important for our relationship or your safety.

• Claim my mistakes. “Yup! I screwed up. What can I learn from this dealy-do and let’s move on.” By acknowledging my humanity, I can change my behavior. By denying it, I continue in the fault.  And, I lose a chance to create a better me.

• Know that compassion is love in action. “Love” is a great word, but the working side of it is having understanding and empathy for others. I must let go the leash of my judgment and hurt feelings, because I am not that important and our shared humanity is.

• Extend my hand and heart to another always. Living is a we thing. Without you, my mecannot grow and change. An open heart and hand makes living a wonderful adventure as we stumble and laugh through it together.

• Look life straight in the eye with my head high and my smile wide. This one means I shall not bow my head to anyone nor ride on my pride. I will meet you toe to toe and walk into life with a courage born of experience.

• Bring my soul openly to all that I do by being courageous in my vulnerability. I no longer fear your seeing my scarred humanity. It is the biggest gift I have to share. If you fear sharing yours, my hand is yours to hold.

There you have them. These are my there-ain’t-no-rules rules. I would love to hear about yours. Please share them with me at info@insightsonaging.com.

How dare I feel self-pity? I am responsible for how my life is going. If I don’t like the way the cards are falling, I need to get my bottom in gear and do something different.

How dare I not be grateful? Life is such a beautiful gift! When I forget to see this, I am in trouble. All I need do is make a list of what I have and what I have going for me–and the joy starts to bubble up.

How dare I not give life my all? There is the flagging-fanny factor that quite often will find its way into my behavior. Let me push the throttle back to full-on forward and my life rocks its roll again.

How dare I demand the stars as I spit on the earth? This one means I’m not paying attention. I need to stay where my feet are in this place of here and now. I must work with what I have as I strive for the stars.

How dare I shake my fist at God and demand happiness? My God created me to be happy, but my happiness ain’t His problem. Happiness is an inside job and I am the delver and diviner of the make-me-smile stuff. Get moving, baby!

How dare I take from others and not give of myself? When I demand things and comfort from others, I am in short supply of kindness and love. I have forgotten that it is in the giving of me that I am realized and I become more.

How dare I not embrace my beauty? When I disparage myself and find fault with me, I have settled into lazy-lady mode. I have shut my eyes to the wonder of me because I am not willing to continue the work of polishing those scratches and faults out of my character.

How dare I not love myself? When I am feeling crinkly and kicking the hell out of me, it is because I have simply lost touch with me. This is the time I need to pull into myself and simply be with me. I need to celebrate myself unto myself and with myself. And then that smiling grace of wonder at who I am returns.

How dare I not laugh? I must always remember what a gift life is and what a remarkable game it is as well. One laugh begets another and then the hoots of hilarity start and my soul bounces right along.

What about you? What does your “How dare I list?” look like? I’d love to know! Really, I would love for you to share it with me at info@insightsonaging.com.

How funny. I thought it was my writing style that had changed. Not! It is me. It is this woman that I am that has grown and moved on. So, the writing has lagged because I am trying to play “catch up” with the morphing and moving of me. “F it!” doesn’t begin to describe how this feels. I sit here now and know that I’m being pushed and shoved to become more, to embrace the changes that life is calling me to.

My writing is the echo of my soul calling to the world. My words are my heart’s language as it strives to embrace the wonder of life. So, as I have flung wide my heart and agreed to be brave–to take the hits that must come–how can I think that my words would remain the same? How did I not see that the courage of me being me would cause changes in my writing? I am gutsier and more raw. How can my words then not follow suit.

Moving into change and taking the hit full on is a painful and a very scary deal. We resist, we persist, we so want things to be same-old and comfortable like our favorite slippers or ratty T-shirt. But life is all about change. It is the one constant. It also can be rather sneaky. We don’t see what it will actually demand of us. But once we see? Once we have the clarity that change is on us, we can embrace it. We cannot turn it back.

So, I sit here now with tears dried and a smile gracing my lips. The lady that I was just a few months ago is gone. She has changed. And this is as it should be. I simply did not see it. There is peace. The confusion is gone. Change, that laughing bad boy, has come and I have suffered because I did not see him clearly. Now, that I do? Let me welcome him and move with courage to grab his hand and walk into the next days of my life with him.

I ask you to open your eyes and your heart. Be on the lookout for change. The laughing bad boy brings wonderful stuff to our lives.

It is another’s tears of sorrow or joy . . .
that cause my soul to fly out in a welcome of heartbreak or celebration.

It is the wonder of the human spirit reaching to be more and wandering in terror that it may be less . . .
that causes me to fling wide the arc and ache of my spirit.

It is a gut-wrenching longing to be one with the essences of those around me . . .
that causes me to yearn and cry my heart to the planet.

It is the simple and remarkable “humanness” of us all . . .
that splits my soul asunder in an overpowering desire to embrace the world in my arms.

With this utter clarity has come a profound and powerful war cry, “I refuse!” This may sound like an “in your face” angry sort of cry, but it is not. This is a cry of awareness, honesty, responsibility and joy. I refuse to not throw everything I have into living. I refuse to not do this thing well. With this said, here is my manifesto:

I refuse to live anyone else’s life but mine. I tried this and it did not work. I must claim who I am and live my days as me. Just me.

I refuse to do as you demand of me. No one, no one, has the right to demand that I do anything. Please ask me. Let me choose. And I shall bring all that I have to help you, assist you and comfort you.

I refuse to surrender my search for joy in life to do what is expected. At last I realize there really are no rules and I must make my own choices and decisions. With this comes great freedom, but also great responsibility.

I refuse to weaken the light of my spirit because it confuses you. My journey towards the end of my days must be mine. If my actions and thoughts are outside your comfort zone, feel free to walk away.

I refuse to bow my head and behave because my laughter embarrasses you. My delight is mine as are my hoots of hilarity.

I refuse to buckle my mind and button my lips when questions need to be asked. I at last know that silence wields a powerful and killing sword when we play “let’s pretend” and do not question what is going on.

I refuse to silence my voice when my truth must be spoken. I will no longer swallow my thoughts and words because you might not like them. I shall tell you how I feel and what is important to me.

I refuse to not put out my hand in welcome and compassion to others. The person next to me is just the same as me. Their hurts and desires, wants and needs are the echo of mine. I am made larger in sharing myself with others.

I refuse to quiet the singing of my heart and soul to the universe! There are now an elemental joy and terrible delight in living that course through me. I refuse to muffle it. I refuse to deny it. For this joy and this delight is quite simply who I am.

This is my “I refuse” list. I challenge you to give it some thought — to give it some heart and soul. Write down your “I refuse” list and send it back to me.

What is the price of a happy and joy-filled life? It is a gut-level, brutal honesty about who we are and what we have been doing. When we face ourselves head-on with a fearless “I will do this thing,” the hidey-holes of denial and self-deception disappear and we are then free to be. We are at last free to simply be who we really are. No excuses, no pretense, no guilt, no shame, no self-pity.

The above statement is clear and scathing in its simplicity. Tell the truth to yourself. Oh my! This is probably the hardest thing we will ever be asked to do. And, interestingly, the only person that can truly ask this of us is us. Are we willing to go to the terribly scary place of us meeting ourselves? This place, of us looking at ourselves clear-eyed with no blinders, is the sticking point. This is the place most of us fear to tread, so we never go there.

I have been to this place of searing pain and horrendous sorrow. I have opened the doors of those memory closets that I slammed shut and nailed closed and marked “Never to be seen again.” I have held my own bloodied heart in my hands and sobbed for the lost girl of “once was.” I have written the events and marked the stories of my past. I have claimed those circumstances where I ran and hid, where I denied and defied, where I lied and blamed others.

I went to this place because there was nowhere else for me to go. My life had crumpled like a Dixie dispenser cup sodden from holding water too long. There was no fill-in-the-blank form in which to place my days. The alleys of my life were bare of street signs and unpeopled. The markings of my days had dissolved with a marriage done and family and children disappointed and estranged. A career lay on the sidewalk, a windblown paperback that no longer held my interest.

There I stood, an image of an image of who I thought I was. I surveyed the wreckage of my days–lost and shattered, broken and shell-shocked–with nowhere to go and nothing to do but be with me. And, I did not like this me. I did not like this me because I did not know this me. Alone and unto myself, I got honest–brutally, bare-bones, broken-dreams honest. And in coming to see myself openly, I came to accept myself as I am and as the person I can be. In this there is at last a peace and a quiet joy. There are no hidden corners and no lies told to me.

I wish you the courage to go to this place of honesty on your own. And if this courage eludes you? I wish you the price of this courage. I wish you horrible pain, enormous sorrow, knee-bending suffering. For in this pain you will be driven to your truth. And from your truth will your life arise-joy filled and amazing and 100% yours.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” We are asked this question as children from the first moments we can totter around and grab the doctor kit. We look for the things we must accomplish and the needs we are supposed to fill to define us as people. Somehow though, I believe many of us, perhaps most of us, get lost in the role and lose the real call of living–simply to be who we are as whole and complete human beings.

In the summer of my fifty-first year, life as I knew it was trembling on a precipice of disaster. I was separated from my husband, my daughter was away somewhere and my son was at camp. My parents were away at their summer cottage in Michigan. I had let my nursing career slide and I was in a holding pattern, simply waiting for I knew not what.

I was at home. There was no one in the house but me. Three bedrooms and two baths, a living room, dining room, kitchen, TV room and an office were all quiet. Not a sound and no one expected. I was alone. There was no one that needed me. And I stood there in the middle of the TV room and I cried. I did not know what do to with myself. There was no role for me to fulfill. A horrible sense of nothing to do and nowhere to go descended on me. I was alone with me and there was no one home.

I did not know who I was outside of the roles that I had taken on and fulfilled for years. I was a mother and a wife. I was a daughter and a sister. I was a student and a worker. The duties and dictates of these roles had filled my mind and heart for years. Busily I had bustled from one event to the other, from one day to the next being the person I was asked to be. My self-worth and value came from how well my home looked, my family felt and if my parents smiled.

I would complain and ask for praise. I would hold myself up for congratulations from others to affirm my actions and to support my self-esteem. In the spare time that I could finagle away from my “role call,” I would read mindless novels and watch or re-watch “true love and happiness” films that soothed my soul and stuffed warm fuzzies into an aching center.

I look back at this Robin-that-was with great compassion. I was a no-personhood woman doing “role call” duty. The events that would soon bring me to my knees in pain, would also drive me to finally claim who I am today.  There are no roles for me to fill as I now simply bring 100% of me to all that I choose to do.

So what about you? Where are you in the “role call” of your life? Do you know who you are outside of the roles you play? Is there a happy and whole you that calls your name outside your roles? If not, maybe it is time to claim the you in your life.

]]> http://www.insightsonaging.com/stories/2011/10/06/role-call/feed/ Array http://www.insightsonaging.com/stories/2011/09/28/1450/ http://www.insightsonaging.com/stories/2011/09/28/1450/#comments Wed, 28 Sep 2011 13:52:59 +0000 Robin Korth http://www.insightsonaging.com/stories/?p=1450 Recently I sat in front of a microphone for four-and-a-half hours as an interviewer asked me about my life. It was exhausting and also very illuminating. There were tears and laughter, quiet whispers of pain revisited and heart-held sorrow revealed openly to others. I was asked about my life’s journey to date. And I willingly answered, believing I was the giver in the equation. I had no idea the gift I was being given as a life came shining through–my life!

For the last number of years now I thought I was creating or recreating me. I thought I had walked away from the old Robin and gone on a journey to find the lady I was meant to be. Not so! As I looked back and truly saw me–child, young adult, self-made victim, mother, wife, etc.–there I was in the all of the story. I clearly saw who I have always been at the heart of me.

In grade school I defied Catholic dogma. I told Sister Dennis Mary that God would not send babies to a see-no-God place called, “Limbo,” because their parents had failed to baptize them. I was made to face Monsignor O’Dowd in the hallway for my transgression. His chastising words and worrisome finger in my face did not change my mind. He simply had really bad teeth and the Limbo thing was still dumb.

At twenty-two, I was calling photo shoots in the bellies of C130 airplanes, marketing the burgeoning Miami aviation industry to the world and traveling to Washington to explain the importance of the aircraft support industry to the “big boys” of advertising. I had no idea I was paving a path for women in this field. Between the ages of twenty-seven and thirty, I played cat and mouse with life–living on the edge and sometimes over the edge.

Then I married and had children, looking to become part of the rank and file. I folded and stapled my true nature as I joined the picket-fence platoon of my childhood image of being a grown up. I tried and tried for twenty-one years. And, I failed and failed.

I went to the classroom meet-and-greets. I carpooled and swimming pooled. I tutored and I tennis-lessoned. Meals were made, shoes were bought and homework was taught. My marriage bed became a place of separate-heart-and-body sleeping. Ideas were no longer shared and underwear was washed as Robin faded into the rinse cycle. My days ran into years of the soul-silenced activities of daily doing. Then I was done.

Looking back, I see so clearly that I stumbled and got lost when I let me go. I slid away from myself in the taking care and carrying on. So now, here I am again–renegade, in-your-face thinker and questioner, and now a writer as well. I do this because this is quite simply the lady that I am. And I must let a life come shining through–mine.

So here are a thought and a question or two for you. Perhaps your life has become someone else’s idea of what you should be doing. Perhaps that you that sparked and shimmered in your dreams has winked small? Perhaps it is time to journey through your years and revisit and reclaim the child, the teen, the young adult–to let your life come shining through?

Do you remember the first time you heard the “S” (Sir) word or the “M” (Ma’am) word when someone was addressing you? In the time line of maturity this event stands stark in many people’s memories. The first time I got “ma’am”ed, I actually turned around to see who the person was talking to. It certainly could not have been me! I was a mere thirty-something.

After doing some very scientific research–I queried three of my brothers, two male business associates, four women friends, the man in my life, my hair stylist and two complete strangers–I can report that it appears that men and women perceive the “S and M experience” in quite different manners. Men seem to swell a bit with the “S” word and women would rather misbelieve the “M” word has been aimed their way at all.

My younger brother recalls that the first time he heard the “S” word was when he was togged out in a business suit at the age of about twenty-nine. The “Sir” appellation pleased him mightily and squared his shoulders as he was walking into a business meeting. “Well, I must certainly look the part,” he thought with an added “swiffle” of confidence.

The man in my life and my oldest brother said that they had both been “Sirred” for so long that neither could remember the onset of this address mode.  As both of these fine male specimens are well over six feet tall, I wonder if aerial design has something to do with the “S” word. Though, my eldest sibling did say that “Boss” now seems to be replacing the somewhat more elegant “S” word. A sign of our cultural slant towards the more casual, I am sure.

The “M” word seems to have a much more powerful effect on the female of the species. My four female friends had some definite input on the subject. We as a sex are, for the most part, not at all pleased with being addressed as “Ma’am.” Speaking from the receiving end of this mode of hallooing, the “M” word implies fustiness and a definite lack of sex appeal and feminine wile.

We gals will complain about a “Hey, baby!” while secretly enjoying that we still have “it.” But the mouthing of a “Ma’am” our way causes an inward cringe and an immediate inventory. “When did I cross the line from ‘cool’ to ‘respectable?’ Ouch!” This sentiment will quite often be followed by a covert checking of our reflections in a frozen-food-case glass or a storefront window.

One of my business associates said that the first time he was “Sirred,” he thought the person was talking to his father. His father was nowhere in sight, but that did not dissuade him from this firm conviction. The two strangers I queried looked at me more than oddly when I asked them about their “S” or “M” experience. Either they could not remember the event or they did not speak English.

My hairstylist advised me of one venue where the “S and M” question falls into an entirely divergent framework.  This distinction occurs in the “True” South, which is geographically located north of Ft. Lauderdale, south of the Mason-Dixon Line and east of the Mississippi River. Here, the use of the words “Ma’am” and “Sir” are so inbred as the proper address for anyone over the age of their majority, that they only notice the lack of this prescribed polite conversational prelude.

I began this exercise thinking that the “S” word and the “M” word were perceived by both males and females as uninvited evidence that they had arrived at the “mature” mark in their lives. But my “study” seems to indicate that men see the “S” word as their “due” and women see the “M” word as they’re “done.”