It’s in the freaking water of my body. Submission.
When the world gives me lemons
I make lemonade.
A few days, or years down the road.
Not always.
Today.
This morning.
I am at my co-working space. Sitting in front of a row of windows at a wooden desk.
My second cup of coffee, in a green mug, is on my left.
A silver water bottle to my right.
and Billy Collins Sailing Alone Around the Room on my lap.
The sun's rays shine through the tempered glass.
Enveloping me in it’s warmth on this coolish November morning.
And the light shimmers and sways on the river below, sparkling like diamonds.
I observe the dance, the play of light and water, that I can see if I look up.
And that also is a constant companion out of the corner of my right eye.
It’s with me.
The water, the sun’s rays, and the ducks feeding and moving.
The Ponderosa trees standing at attention on the far side of the Deschutes River.
My sentinels in life.
My non human ancestors.
And the lemons.
Two this week.
Ack. And jeez louise.
And relief, release-- as insight and gratitude slowly wakes.
Last year I took a class at COCC called Equity and Cross Cultural Communication. (highly recommend this class!)
So many aha moments.
The big, hard one that came up again this week is that in situations when power is up for grabs, or someone takes it, I more often than not--every time in this class actually--end up in a submissive role. I froze.
Not shocking really when I can acknowledge the facts of.
My age. Baby boomer.
My gender-female
The primary roles I’ve played the longest so far-Mother, Wife, Nurse.
Much of my life's work has been unpaid labor.
Invisible. Unseen. Emotional. Relational. Spiritual.
My family of origin-number six in a family of seven girls (not often a power spot)
And still it was unsettling, disarming and anxiety producing.
It’s in the freaking water of my body. Submission.
So that said.
The lemons and the lemonade.
This week. I was meeting with a small group of peers when one couple decided unilaterally to call me out on something. No notice, no asking permission. No heads up. Just plowed on in.
And I let them.
Impact.
And I disappeared. Or most of me did.
My partner and I used to call it -my pony running- in a flash, off, feet soon touching the Atlantic coast.
But really some part of me is left on ice.
Submissive can be disappearing, making myself small, becoming overly agreeable.
I didn’t even cry.
Which some part of me badly needed to do.
Safety was not in my sight line.
And as I unpacked this subtle way power-over/patriarchy/submission seeped in. How easy even with the most well intentioned people. The grab for power as protection of self, control, or to manage someone. Or something else. One never knows if it’s not you doing it. And maybe not even then.
And how many times I’ve done that. (sorry Pea and Jay)
I was so far gone (I live in Oregon for gosh sake)
It took me 24 hours or so to even register I had disappeared.
To feel the pain and the separation.
See the power differential at play for what it is.
To sit. To walk.
To thaw. Bathe. Breathe.
Settle that sweet vagus nerve.
To bravely unwrap the package offered.
To own my part and tease out the subtle threads of other.
Reweave my inner life.
Ah, this being human.
Breathe.
And then yesterday. With a former client. I was off my game. Still not fully collected. And there it was again. How I was less than. Not in my power-with heart or mind. And because of that I was “off” in a text to her.
And, as I say this I want to point out this can be super subtle stuff. I can take responsibility for my part. My habit of “less than” when I can see it. Often it’s after it happens. Dang.
And it’s not an either/or. It’s a both/and. We impact each other.
Patriarchy/power-over/submission/oppression is woven into the threads of my being.
And power-with is percolating.
The lemonade.
Power-with is a practice.
A shift.
A new muscle to flex and grow.
We and me. Self and world.
A rewiring of neural networks to cultivate---
Inviting instead of managing
Asking permission instead of plowing ahead
Collaboration, sharing
Mutuality
Inclusion and respect for all---
Imagine, feel and sense this new story, plumping up my cells
Flooding my nervous system.
Call out and celebrate.
Dance and sing and laugh with.
Praise.
A homing device.
Like the shimmer on the river.
And the majesty of the Ponderosa’s.
And my mistakes.
My freeze and flight.
My sometimes fight.
Again.
Embrace humility.
And discomfort.
And coming back to.
Power-with.
Breathe. Sigh.
Home.
And sorting it out reminds me of teasing the snarls out of my son’s white blonde tresses when he was three.
Slow, tedious work.
It pulled and hurt.
Sometimes I had to cut out the snarls.
Sometimes he would laugh.
Sometimes we would sing.
Sometimes we left some knots alone.
Sometimes we’d stop before we started.
Sometimes midstream.
And sometimes the comb would move through his locks like a butter knife through frosting.
And I’d hold him up to the mirror and we’d smile together.
His cherub face, red cheeked, impish grin.
We’d combed through and come out the other side.
His head. My hands.
His permission. My willingness to stop, to not complete.
To let him have his hair.
How to make lemonade.
Oh the lessons to learn!
Carol