Dianea Kohl - Articles

HEAT of the HEART

2012-01-16T09:32:00.000-08:00

After four marriages and several boyfriends, you might think I've had enough love=making in my life, but it ain't so! I separated from my last husband in 1998, and subsequently lived with my new boyfriend Steve for a year, 2004-2005. Since then, no boyfriends (although at-tempt-ed:), an occasional lover thrown in.
Years of not feeling the heat of a man sleeping butt to butt with me, I languish in a super soft set of mossy-mint green sheets that feel like warm baby alpaca as I crawl between them during the cold of winter. Definately not sufficient!
Although I dance four nights a week, it is rare that I feel an attraction to a man that meets my hopes, until of late where 2 Latinos have turned me on while dancing bachata. Pablo has flirted with me, saying, "I have never made love with a slender woman", as he clasps his rugged arm tight around my waist. I reply, "Let's have lunch so we can get to know each other better." The phone does not ring; sparks flying, never landing, between intermittent trips home to Panama.
More recently, Puerto Rican David has danced so close that I give him my card, and he does call; but there is no phone number given where I can reach for him. Another month goes by where I do not see him out.
Then, two days before christmas 2011, while ringing the salvation army bells in front of Northside Beverage, David flies out the door, wine in hand, hearing my voice, he swings around and crushes me with a hug that is warm enough to be felt through my thick winter coat. His cologne hangs onto me, as do his brown eyes that stare into mine. A glint travels between us as he makes sure that he will see me Tuesday for salsa.
That same day I am leaving my credit union, and Pablo is facing me with open arms, that hold me long, feeling his arms slide up and down my back as he keeps me close. He'll be back from Panama in two weeks, he says before we kiss each other's lips, a first, and too quick.
Watching a news magazine that evening about the centuries old monastery Mount Athos, Greece, there is an in depth interview with several monks about how they spend their day: praying 'father have mercy on me' as they work, eating 2 meals a day while only allowing 10 minutes to chew down their food. Those interviewed say they don't wish to leave and want to die there, while I am wondering if they ever think of sex. No questions asked about that; so I ask myself, are they homosexuals in hiding?
Today is the day after christmas, and I am reading when I answer my cell phone with "Jimmy" lit up on the screen. Surprised is puttin' it as if being hit by the new year's eve Times Square falling ball. This is the man that stood me up on a planned date in august and also was my lover briefly over a year ago. He tells me that he has me on his mind so much that he had to call, and that he likes "the energy" we have between us...this inexplicable CONNECTION he capitalizes later in his email. I ought not be amazed at this point in my middle-aged life that I had emailed him a couple days prior to his phone call (says he had not read) after no communication since august when he was too afraid to answer my emails inquiring if he was all right. He's not; he stands me up again on new years eve. I don't cry. I understand. I enjoy argentine tango's embrace in a stunning dress.
HEAT II

It's new year's eve day (2011) at the Kwik Fill Gas station, when I hear shouting, "I love your license plate, we're crybabies!" CRYBABE reads my license plate. I turn around, to see a gray-bearded man leaning out his window, maybe an older teen daughter sitting in the passenger seat. I reply with delight, "I'm not a crybaby, I'm a crybabe!" laughing with the feeling of heat filling my cold hands and cheeks, realizing that men are becoming proud of their vulnerability! As I drive away I'm aware that I'm still smiling.
Then, the day after new years, I am at the Mate Factor, a cozy cafe where a fireplace radiates flames of blue, red and orange that can't compare to the heat I feel rising in my chest, as a man walks over to me, only a railing between us. He smiles, "You're the woman that writes books about crying aren't you? I'm Tim."
"Yes," as my blue eyes light up like those fireplace blue flames, which become steadfast to his as this thirty-something man continues, "I'm regretting that I held back some of my tears at the movie I just saw. I was too concerned about the people around me. I didn't have anything to wipe my tears so I walked to the side aisle, took off my shirt and my t-shirt, so I could use it to blow my nose and wipe my tears."
"WOW!! that's awesome!" I reply, not caring who hears us, in fact wanting my new date to hear, or anyone else who cares to listen. "Good for you! that you intuit what your heart and body needs."
"I didn't used to be able to cry, now I can, I know it's good for me", says Tim.
My heart is piping hot with the heat of love-shared. It may sound silly, but whenever I cry, which happens close to daily now, my hands become warm.
My new year (2012) has begun like a sandwich, new years day sliced between encounters with 2 men: strangers spontaneously connecting with me because they have opened their hearts to tears, on the days before and after new years day. Like a double scoop of my favorite Death by Chocolate ice cream on a summer's day, I am happily melting (synchronistically) by the warmth of more and more men who are accepting, dare I say proud, of their vulnerability that is valiant, and vigorous.
A valentine of real love before february!

GOOD ADVICE

2011-12-18T10:03:00.000-08:00

Sy,(editor of the SUN magazine)
I sent out an email to all my immediate family members, maybe 13, asking what good advice they have received or would like to give. Two weeks go by without any responses. Therefore, I am falling back on what I remember my special dad saying,
“I won’t give you any advice unless you ask for it.”
I’ll add one piece of advice my mother gave me that I am glad I followed: Stand and sit up straight,” even though I am a woman standing out at 5’9”.
My favorite peace of advice is from Washington Irving:
“There is sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief…and unspeakable LOVE.”
Coming in as a close second is heard from Einstein:
“The intuitive mind is a sacred gift, and the rational mind is a faithful servant. We have created a society that honors the servant and has forgotten the gift.”
And in conclusion, I must quote Rumi, 13th century poet:
“Your task is not to seek love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.”
Haven’t they created a perfect circle?
Sighing, Sincerely,
Dianea, whose license plate is CRYBABE,
Licensed MFT (Marriage and Family Therapist)

Hope this makes you smile

whispering to listen to

2011-11-08T05:58:00.000-08:00

Lately, I am aware of voices in my head, saying call so and so, or have such and such for lunch while I am reading a book I want to be reading. It surprises me the contents of these reminders as I am enjoying the book. Like, you need to call your daughter about her fear to see her sister naked. She is having anxiety attacks recently, and I sense her need to be freer of her childhood fears. Another voice whispers, “Be careful, Be patient.”
Reading Gail Hornstein’s book, Agnes Jacket, and her interview in the July 2011 SUN magazine, encourages a long-standing whisper that schizophrenics can be helped with psychotherapy, unlike most of present American psychiatry believes. As a child, I rode to the Binghamton State Hospital one hour away, every month, with my mother at the wheel, my grandmother beside her. My mother’s brother Victor has been ‘living’ there since age 19, having been paranoid that his family was poisoning him. During our lunches together, between his mutterings about something we did not understand, there were some conversations that totally made sense, like a leaf changing color in fall. Like my mother, I became a nurse, and continued to visit my institutionalized uncle, sometimes inviting him to my married home for lunch.
After becoming a psychotherapist, I visited him a few times at a group home for the mentally disabled, after the institutions freed their long term chronic patients, ‘well’ medicated. One time, I questioned him (just now I searched through MY old notebooks of family history…searching for my visit to Uncle Victor, living at Oakland Manor, Weedsport, NY. After looking through several notebooks, a whisper advised me to look into my father’s file.) I remembered I had written notes on a yellow legal pad, my ‘interview’ with Uncle Victor, out of curiosity. Now I’m reading that it was April 21, 1991 when he was 75. WOW! I whispered loudly, having found what I was looking for immediately after the faint reminder-whisper in my mind.
My notes say that I asked him, “What do you remember about your childhood?” “Very fussy parents,” is his first response. Adding, “They want us to be as old as they are.” Victor graduated at age 15 from high school, smart; now he recollected family events accurately that I had heard from my mother and grandmother, in between other whispers that made no sense to me. At this moment, I am amazed as I read his awarenesses, “I was afraid to bother father,” and “people were less verbal years ago.” I am saddened then and more so now that I was not able to say ‘I love you’ to him, tears now ringing those words as true.
So unlike, the cell phone call I answered last week, “I am in the library, I have to whisper.” My ‘son’ replies, “I love you, call me when you can talk.”
Synchronously, a month ago, I engaged a monument company to design a grave marker for my Uncle Victor and Uncle Ralph; both died within the same week of October 1996, alone, my mother being their only loving caregiver. She was unable to create headstones before her death, so now I am saying I love them the only way I can.

“A whisper can be a shot of memory…EVOLving.”…dianea kohl

CAN WE PROMISE LOVE?

2011-10-20T20:18:00.000-07:00

August2011

PROMISES

I don’t remember making promises except on rare occasions…as I realize I did not promise to marry ‘til death do us part’ except maybe for my first marriage, when I said “I do.” Luckily, I never promised to obey in 1969, but granted “I will try to obey,” which makes me smile a near laugh, as I write this. One promise is outstanding to me.
It is while sitting in the Elmira high school auditorium next to my two teenage daughters, listening to their father (then divorced due to him coming out as gay) sing magnificently, “The Impossible Dream” that I make a very clear promise, like a low-flying plane dragging a huge-lettered message of advertisement to sunny-beach-goers below, to mySELF. I am a newly graduated (1985) Marriage and Family Therapist sobbing. I am aware of a huge audience surrounding me, hearing my breath-filled sobs and blowing of my nose. Yet, I promise to my self, I will never again be embarrassed of my tears…I had connected in a heart-felt way; tears are healing as sunshine.
As we walk out of the auditorium into the lobby at the finish of Man of La Mancha…a man I had never met before walks up to me and says, “You are stunning.” I am shocked with happiness that my eyes have been so clearly seen.
Now it is August 2011, and I am looking forward to a date with Jimmy, to whom I am very attracted, since we met at a ballroom dance weekend a couple of years ago. We “made love” a couple of times, more than a year ago, after which he broke us off. After I spontaneously appeared at his door this past June, being in Syracuse for a meeting at Syracuse University, one hour from where I live in Ithaca, he emailed me that he wished he hadn’t had company and that we could have had lunch together that day. He went on and on about how great I looked and how he wanted to get together for dinner and catch up on our lives. We spoke on the phone a couple of times before we decided on our date for Friday night, after telling me about how he can’t keep a straight face at his dance lesson of the Paso Doble, where he eventually breaks down laughing. I think to myself, I bet I know why, because he has admitted to his childhood fear of his father and now his dance partner has put on a face of anger, part of the role in this dance.
He tells me on Friday afternoon to call him after my 4pm client, to make final plans where to meet. “I do.” I get his voicemail and leave a sweet message. An hour goes by. I call and leave another message just after 5pm. Another hour goes by. I leave a concerned message just after 6pm. I wait until after 7:30pm, and realize I have been ‘stood up’. And, although I cry easily these days, I felt no need for tears. No sign of anger.
Two more weeks have gone by and I have not heard back from him, although I wrote a caring email and called his work, finding out he is okay, when the girl states that he is not in yet. It is my birthday today, and I wish I was celebrating with him; I sense the presence of the scared little boy inside Jimmy, sadly with no room for Tears for Fears.

BEST FEELINGS ARRIVE UNEXPECTANTLY

2011-10-20T20:13:00.000-07:00

September2011

The BEST FEELING in the World

Dear SUN (magazine):
Is it your warmth on my skin that is the best feeling? Or that you bring light after darkness, always there for me, and the world?
HOW can I name ONE BEST feeling? I need to count the ways down to it.
First thought: I’m 16, climbing the cellar stairs when I think to my self; I am an individual in my own right, not a part of another spirit or being. I try to express my warm-all-over feeling to my loving father as I reach the kitchen, with a mind of explosion.
Next: I’m 10, when a heart-felt knowing pushed into my chest like cupid’s arrow. I know the religious dogma that I must accept jesus as my savior in order to go to heaven and not to hell is not true! Still, it was not until I let go at age 38, in 1984 (how Orwellian) that I was feeling the best freedom ever.
I’m 22: walking down the aisle, with my hand intertwining daddy’s arm. I’m that beautiful virgin-bride seen by a large church-community, as my husband’s luscious tenor voice sings “Ich Liebe Dich,” to me.
I’m 24: holding my firstborn, Erin in my arms, seeing her large great toes, soft as every other perfect part.
I’m 27: experiencing natural childbirth of my second daughter Megan, (assisted by Dr.Harry Roach - yes, that’s his real name), who readily nurses as we lay on the delivery table. I proudly walk out of the delivery room with Megan in my arms AMA, (against medical advice) along with her daddy. I am an RN who likes quiet: the bright light of my daughter’s eyes, her dainty perfect fingers holding my breast, nursing in our bed together. At home.
I’m 28: my husband comes out as gay and leaves me to experience another man, like me, a virgin who is free to experience other lovers, unconsciously hoped for.
I’m 29: dancing the hustle, finally letting go of “thou shalt not dance” from my mother’s condemnation of worldly pursuits. Suits me just fine!
I’m 36: in sandals, and white dress bought by daddy a couple months before he died suddenly from a heart attack at age 60. It could be worn to a garden party, like at NY Treman State Park, where I walked on grass to the music of a waterfall, being wedded to my second husband, Reid, an astronomer like my daddy.
I’m 39: I’ve run 36 marathons in 36 months, a national women’s record, because I needed to clearly see my own goodness. As an average runner, I felt crazy to be ‘hitting the wall’ at mile 20, why wasn’t I listening to my body?
And, I hear myself saying to the audience, “I thank my daddy for his lovingness, and belief in me,” as I receive my Master’s degree as a Marriage and Family Therapist.
I’m 40: at my birthday lakeside campfire, a single parent, hearing from another, “It helps to know children can learn different ways to be in the world by having two loving homes with different rules.”

I’m 49: while running, 3 titles come to me: TEARS ARE TRUTH…waiting to be spoken, TEARS ARE TRUST…waiting to be felt, TEARS ARE TRUE LOVE…waiting to be known. I’m surprised to EVOLve into a writer, after receiving 65 in English from Cornell University.
I’m 50: feeling increasingly hopeful at the Primal Center, while crying deeply for a year, creating a new-found openness and trust in my heart, after marrying my soulmate, my fourth husband, Gregory.
I’m 52: Denali, my first granddaughter calls me in NY from California, (she called her mom in Baltimore to get my number) asking me to tell grandma Ruth to let her cry, not send her to her room until she can stop crying, which makes me feel estatic.
I’m 53: TEARS ARE TRUTH…waiting to be spoken is self-published…saying, “I’m afraid to stand up here and speak,” in Barnes &Noble at my first book signing.
I’m 55: I see the word LOVE mirrored in the word EVOLution, truly jumping for joy!
I’m 56: at daughter Megan’s wedding, she being 5 month’s pregnant, both of us without shame! She in a white dress. Later, holding one leg as her husband Ben holds the other, Megan pushing Riley Shea into the world, hearing her best first breath, and mine of connected-ness. After a lifetime, my mother finally tells me “I love you,” February 15th, 2002, a few months before she dies at age 80, those same words on her last breath.
I’m 57: I see mirrored in the word EVOLution: kNOw-IT-U-LOVE: I scream outloud!
I’m 59: Denali is 12, staying overnight with me. I find the note she wrote me at 10pm that night a few days later: “I know I’m supposed to be asleep but I needed to write this to tell you how greatful I am to have you as my grandma. Thank you so much for everything you do to help me. Lots of love, Denali.” Appreciated is an understatement.
I’m 60: crying at orgasm, his eyes holding and completely accepting me.
I’m 61: TEARS ARE TRUST….waiting to be known is published and receives the USA Best Books Award as a finalist in the mental health category.
I’m 63: Emily’s jumping into my arms when I come to visit, her first words, “How is your leg, Didi?” (My grandma name) She’s my third granddaughter, age 5.
I’m 65: It’s my birthday, and my first look out my kitchen window surprises me with a hummingbird floating from a Petunia blossom to look straight into my face before flying off. It is two hours later, and I’m looking out the dining room window as a hummingbird backs out of a wild Touch-Me-Not and rises to look at me straight in the eyes! It felt like both of my parents were there to hold me in their love, as it is rare to see a hummingbird, let alone have one come and look at me straight away!
That was August 30th 2011, then on September 24th, while reading The Memory Keeper’s Daughter, it is surprising to read, on page 111: “Paul ate them (wild strawberries) by fistfuls, juice running down his wrists. Two hawks circled lazily in the deep blue sky. Didi, Paul said, lifting a chubby arm to point.” I couldn’t believe my eyes at first. Didi is the name given to me first by my best friend Tanya’s son Lukie when he was very little. I had never heard this name before, nor seen it written, so is this the best feeling of connected-closeness-oneness of LOVE?

WARNING SIGNS of LOVE

2011-10-20T20:06:00.000-07:00

July2011

WARNING SIGNS

Next month (august 2011), I am expected to sign up for Medicare; I had no warning that I’d feel so young. Despite forgetting my purse at the Laundromat last week, my memory snapped in ten minutes later, just as I arrived home. I called Pete’s, who owns the Laundromat. The girl on the phone said she’d send someone across the street to “see if it’s there,” adding, “Call back in 5 minutes.” I quickly reply, “I’m driving there now.”
I trust my purse is safe. I may be praying. When I arrived, Pete’s had retrieved it! Reassured again, I can trust the Design of the Universe to love me.
I remember back to my lake house, when I’m nigh unto 40 years old, looking for my car keys, finally seeing them in my left hand. That memory consoles me, as does me leaving my wallet on the top of my Camaro, driving off, later finding it along the side of the highway. Another near-forty memory comforts me.
Alzheimer’s media constantly warns of signs of memory loss; yet I am still (should I be?) amazed how sharp my memory is while executing my four-days-a-week job as a psychotherapist. Just the other day I marvel, to feel the touch down of a mosquito on my forearm, without seeing it happen.
Also, I wonder at my easy flow of tears since the early 90s, whereas beforehand I held them back, like a mother refusing to push her baby out, embarrassed, while reassuring myself of my inner strength.
For the past three to four years, a raised brown pigment has grown on my right cheek; two years ago a dermatologist at a nudist camp told me it was not cancerous, “nothing to worry about.” Over one month ago, my granddaughter showed concern, suggesting I see a doctor-type. About a week later, I noticed that the spot had become flat; I had tried to scratch off its layers for many months. It kept rearing its brown head. Now it was flat?
At the next weekly dinner with my daughter and granddaughter, I point out the disappeared spot, now flat, even creamy like the rest of my cheek. She asks, “What did you do?”
“Nothing different, it must be my tears have finally cured it.” They both smile that I know mom smile. Aware they know that tears break open cracks of our hearts, like wildflowers growing out of rock faces, making more room for love. It must BE true; no new diet, no new creams on my face, no new nothing.
My healing feels like this morning; taking a break from reading “The Help” to talk to my kitty of five years, Radiance, lying on the other side of the porch. We live alone. I am feeling a bit guilty as I ask, “You get enough attention from your mama?” when a tear out of nowhere appears and dances down my now smooth cheek.

SAYING TOO MUCH

2011-06-09T07:41:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday, 5 days ago, I was driving in Ithaca, NY and stopped for a red light. I was feeling exceedingly pleased with the abundance of green leaves, red bud trees, and various beautiful flowers planted all through my fair city. (May has to be my favorite month of the year!) When I looked in the rearview mirror, I saw a couple wiry gray hairs sticking upright from the top of my head, and decided I must pull them out. As 76 year-old Shirley MacLaine writes, I am trying to get over my vanity. As I approach 65, I still muster a brunette head due to my mother’s gift of her genes, she being eighty with maybe a dozen gray hairs. I fool myself into wanting to honor her gift.
I pluck out one of the two 5-6 inch gray hairs and fling it out the window, followed by the second. It must have been a few minutes later, when I look left out my window and see these same gray hairs clinging to the window as I drive along. WOW! I say out loud, thinking the root must BE really sticky to be able to cling to the window as the wind blows it like a wave of the ocean, pounding the window. I am even more amazed when I am driving 40-50 mph toward my country renovated chicken coupe home.
Next to my bed, the window shelf holds 4-5 books that I am alternatingly reading, one being “The Art of Kissing,” picked up from a used book library sale, and that I have periodically opened, months, maybe years in between. That same gray-hair-plucking-Saturday, who knows why I picked it up again, admitting to myself this is a foolish, yet inviting book, as I have not been kissed, really kissed, passionately that is in months, slightly embarrassed to have been by a married man that I do love. This book states, “Kissing Tip…For talking and kissing, try the Chico Marx technique. When replying to his wife, who caught him kissing a chorus girl, he said, I wasn’t kissing her. I was whispering in her mouth.”
I notice that I feel embarrassed to be admitting these vanities; but then some of my family members tell me I say too much, when I write books about my personal journey, which of course includes them. Being a psychotherapist I value vulnerability like some value a multi-million dollar lottery ticket. Only my ticket is for the evolving-love train I wish to be on. SO, I must practice what I preach. I like to think I am like those gray hairs that continued to stick to my jeep’s window for another few days, even through a thunderstorm.

laughter with love by cheap thrills?

2011-04-11T20:24:00.000-07:00

I am late with my March essay. I didn’t know what to write about until today. Soon, you will realize or maybe be thrilled by why.
March 31st, 10pm, I call up my older daughter Erin, to tell her that my apartment was burglarized, my computer and TV snatched. She answers with neutrality, “You have property insurance, yes?” I am a bit disappointed not to hear, I’m sorry, but keep my own neutrality in check, and go on to say something like I’ve always kept my doors open for decades, and this surprises me, out here in the country. Then, I spring, “April Fools!”
Erin annoyingly retorts, “It’s not April Fools day yet!”…of course I am pleased, as I say, “That makes it even more fun; it’s only 2 hours from now”
I have been the prankster on April Fools day for many years, so my daughter’s are especially onto me, so when I call my younger daughter, Megan, the next day and get her voice mail, I say, “Megan, please call me, I have something important to tell you.” Later that day, I receive her voice mail that goes something like, “Mom, you can’t fool me! Don’t even try! I know its April Fool’s day!” So, I don’t, but think to myself, I’ll call tomorrow and play the trick!
That day, I drive five hours to the board meeting of the IPA (International Primal Association), of which I am the secretary, and it is a working-board weekend. When I arrive, I greet everyone, give and receive hugs, and then go out to my car for more preparations. About 10 of the board members are socializing when I return, in a large sunny room of Sandy’s home in the woods. I shout, “I have an announcement!” Everyone turns my way as I say with glee, “I am engaged!” Everyone starts clapping, and I can still see Larry’s huge smile as his large beautiful hands clap vigorously. After enjoying the applause I shout, “April Fool!” They laugh as I feel their love.
When I return home on April 3rd, there is still no SUN magazine in my mailbox and this magazine usually arrives before the first of the month. It is the only magazine I read cover to cover. It moves me to inspiration and connectedness with its personal stories and interviews of people less known that are changing the world. I wait a couple more days before I check my subscription online, and it was renewed in January for 2 years. I wait two more days, still no magazine. This amazing magazine has no advertisements and is not cheap I think to myself…the magazine still has not arrived and today is the 11th…but cyberspace did return my email saying the SUN would arrive in a couple of weeks…no explanation, no sorry, cheap (April) trick!

RUMORS OF LOVE

2011-03-05T12:18:00.000-08:00

It is president’s day 2011…and I feel present to the rumor dispelled yesterday. My ex-husband Gregory now lives with his elderly parents in their home in Oxford, NY. Gregory had been angry with me for leaving in 1998, after he dropped out of therapy.
By 2006, Gregory had felt my continued love sent out thru a couple cards or birthday calls each year, finally granting me a divorce, becoming my friend, being very appreciative of me. Still, he told me that his parents did not like me, and I was not welcome to visit them, and he was even afraid to tell them of our renewed loveship. (Isn’t this a kind of relationship? ) Were these rumors or roomers?
I’d like to think that this CRYBABE-license-plate-therapist could have a sense of humor! Even when she caught her dance heel in her partner’s shoelace last Saturday night, and fell on her bum, thumb and sprained her 4th right hand finger…she continued to dance with partner’s who agreed to use her wrist, instead of her right-partner-hand. Even with her two fingers wrapped in white tape, held in the air like a surrender flag.
The next morning, my hand was swollen and sore to the touch, so I knew I would have to leave Sunday’s day of dancing at the Dance Flurry held one-weekend a year in Saratoga Springs, where over a dozen different kinds of dancing happens simultaneously in various huge rooms, each with LIVE music! Although I was disappointed, I left with a rumor in my heart that this sunny day would provide something special, like a spontaneous visit to Gregory who lived only 12 miles off my route home to Ithaca. I left two voice mails without reply; knowing then I might meet up with his parents, whom I had not seen in 15 years, with an uninvited rumor in my head. I keep thinking of a roomer I had in my last home, who left unexpectedly, because I insisted she dump the week’s compost (and other shared-chores) as she had agreed to. Was I going to dump my plans to visit unexpectedly because of Gregory’s rumor? Not a chance!
I parked next door to the Race’s home, walked to the front door, rang the doorbell, not knowing what to expect. I was surprised my heart was calm, the roomer of fear leaving because I wanted love to move back in. Gregory had told me that his mother was experiencing some dementia these days. Yet, when she opened the door, she redily said, “Come in.” In the entrance hallway is a table with framed photos and a dozen red roses; they had just celebrated their 65th wedding anniversary. Mrs. Race showed me their wedding photo, adding stories of their beginnings and her own mother and aunt. I asked about her three other children. Mr. Race finally shuffled down the hallway to talk with me, saying he was putting a family history together for generations to come. He had given me away at our wedding, so I was more than pleased (does that mean enthusiastic?) that I felt welcome, in my coat, standing in the hallway for close to a half hour, Mom Race hugging me goodbye, adding “I’ll tell Gregory you were here.”

BEing awARE is the key to LOVE

2011-02-10T19:01:00.000-08:00

PAYING ATTENTION

It is 1/11/11, so I leave a voicemail to remind my new ‘guyfriend’ Briant of our ONEness. Later, I am reflecting back on my voicemail, where I tell him about my visit to see my near thirty-year friend Tanya and her 11 year old son Lukie after I had left Briant’s place on Sunday.
Before Briant left for work at 9am, he brought me a glass of aloe-fruit juice, and told me there was some buckwheat hot cereal on the stove for me when I chose to get up. He kissed me good bye as I lay snuggled in his bed sheets, as he says, “You can stay if you want.” We had slept together, gently touching during sleep, a making love. No sex.
After dozing, and reading for a while, I notice that I feel the energy to leave, to drive the near 5 hour distance home. I am paying attention to a new calmness in my body. I want to stay and BE with Briant….yet want to hear, “I’d like you to stay.” He had driven us to Rockefeller Center the night before, and then to dancing ballroom, salsa and hustle, not laying our tired bodies down until near 3am. I knew Briant would be tired when he arrived home this evening after work, it would be hard to be present for me. For us.
I wouldn’t see or talk much with Briant for the next two weeks…we are not phone-people. Still, the energy felt right to leave, quietly happy that I’m not needing/depending on a man like I used to, yet felt love for him.
Leaving provided an opportunity to stop at Tanya’s on my way home; it was beginning to snow when I approached her exit off route 17, the car driving it self right on by. I kept thinking I need to visit; it has been too long since we have connected by phone or visit, as Tanya isolates herself, feeling depressed and overwhelmed by her responsibilities of full-time job, her son, and an unhappy marriage.
The snow stops flying and my car drives an extra 8 mile detour to Tanya’s over snow-laden back country hills and valleys, where 30-40mph speed is necessary. I pray not to slide off the road. I had left a voicemail about a half hour earlier that I was stopping by to visit. When I stepped on the porch, and had barely opened the door, Lukie springs his arms around me with the force of an excited dog, happy to see its master. “I am so glad to see you Didi!!” he exclaimed with ecstatic joy I had not felt in months. I was very surprised, soaking his words in like a well-rubbed Velveteen Rabbit.
Lukie shares his planetary project for school with me, as well as his catalog of antique light globes; he is a big collector of antique signs like those from old gas stations. His enthusiasm brims over me like melting chocolate-nut ice cream, my favorite. Luke also articulates his mother’s “exhaustion” out loud as Tanya expresses, “I feel like a victim, at work.” I can’t help but notice Luke’s lips purposely speaking greater than his 11 years, seeing his worry and desire to help his mother.
I suggest that Luke stay with me some weekend, hearing loudly, “I’d love that Didi!”
Tanya replies, “Chuck (his dad) won’t allow that.”
I smile, “I will put out loving energy, anyway Chuck talks to me friendlier lately.”
“I love the environment and antiques where you live Didi. I’d love to come.”
As I put my coat on to leave, my heart leaps again as I hear, “I will stay in touch Didi, even if my mom doesn’t.” Luke wraps his arms around me again with the firmness of a bear hug, repeating “I’m so glad to see you Didi!”
As I voicemail Briant, “There’s nothing like the love of a child,” tears choke (cloak) my words with more clear love.

NEW YEARS FIGHT FOR LOVE

2011-01-02T10:06:00.000-08:00

I fought my way into this world, as I am a child of rape; my mother not wanting me. She went to a doctor for an abortion, but the doctor refused as she was 5 months pregnant. Then, she went to Tarrytown, ny to an adoption agency; but was convinced to keep me by the man she fell in love with, a patient she took care of on the ship returning from WWII. I cannot be greatfull enough for my daddy-dad fighting to keep me. This IS amazing grace! Not of my mother’s kind.
I fought my mother (all growing up) about the bible’s validity that only “born again” christians would go to heaven, or else go to hell. What kind of love is that?
I fought thru an F in calculus at Cornell University, being put on probation, then one year at a christian college, (to please my mother, and sadden my dad) to return and graduate from Cornell’s Nursing school with a BSN (Best Soul Nurture)
I fought the minister’s and church community’s advice not to permit my coming-out husband to have access to our 2 daughter’s because homosexuality is a “sin.”
I fought against my mother’s belief that Negroes were inferior, having fallen from god’s grace due to the curse of Ham. I hammed it up with black men in the seventies.
I fought my ‘christian’ in-laws dismissal of Tobi, our brown (mulatto) foster baby to the basement of their home; their anger at me for not respecting my Mississppi mother-in-laws belief to be separate from blacks (Negroes can be your friends, but don’t mix with them). I brought Tobi to their home every weekend we visited: my mother-in-law apologized to me 7 years later.
I fought off the guilt I’d learned about dancing being a worldly (ungodly) pursuit, hustling Saturday nights, (like John Travolta) attending church on Sundays, embracing the good fight of my hypocrisy. Now, I dance 4-5 nights a week! With joy!
I fought for natural childbirth; having to cross a state line to a small hospital in Susquehanna, Pa. where my husband would be allowed in the delivery room. Erin was born there, and now has a daughter named Hannah…becoming more aware of the synchronicity of everything, everyONE being connected.
I fought for three amicable divorces, my fourth husband not so willing, fighting with angry lies about me. In this marriage to Gregory, I learned not to fight with anger; I could no longer fight back my many tears, SOBs, (Shortness Of Breath? and/or Son Of Bitch?)
My tears help me fight off my fears of rejection, of not being loved.
I surprisingly rallied from my 65 in Cornell’s freshman English to my bewilderment of writing five books, so far, that fight for acceptance of tears as OPENing hearts (hear hear) to LOVE! (keep crying John BoehnEr! And I am not republican)

“Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth.” - Thoreau
then LOVE will EVOLve…dianea

Rites of passage to LOVE

2010-12-21T07:32:00.000-08:00

There is one rite of passage that I wonder if I will ever pass through….maybe I am not supposed to. But, I was meant to be married four times; each one a right that I will treasure.
Of course, I wished to have one long happy marriage, as a “born again” christian, married as a virgin at age 22. I bore two magnificent daughters by this husband, who is kind and supportive throughout natural childbirth. But, it was unnatural for Chuck to be married to a woman, so he left us for his gay partner now of thirty years, Kimber.
Unconsciously, I had wished to experience other men sexually, so during the grief of losing an intact family, I was having sex with boyfriends, along with my guilt. I would sit on the toilet the next morning, asking god not to punish me. I was also dancing (god forbid, my mother’s voice) during this time of questioning my “faith” that I had been brain-washed into since a toddler.
Seven years later, I married Reid, a space sciences Phd. Candidate at Cornell, where my dad had been a research associate analyzing the first moon dust, as I was challenging and analyzing my need for religion. Although we went to a few sessions of marriage counseling, my spirit would not let me stay married more than two years; I was finally liberated from religion through arguments with Reid; my spirit had to be free to be ME. We parted amicably, and a few years later he was diagnosed with a virulent form of cancer, and died at age 44. I attended his memorial, tears thanking him for being a rite of passage out of religious abuse, as Matthew Fox, ex-catholic priest and well-known author has put it.
My third rite of passage-marriage was-to-be another seven years later to Alain, an owner of an auto repair business. We met roller skating; I’ve always been attracted to the physically fit muscular guys, which he was except he smoked and drank more than was healthy. I thought I could help him. By being a Marriage and Family therapist by then, I learned to pay more attention to my own needs for emotional intimacy. We participated in marital therapy for about 6 months, when Alain, said, ‘If you can’t accept me as I am, then we are done.” Another amicable parting, as I listened more to my heart-spirit.
On to Gregory, only three years later, my soul mate. After 2 months together we were committed in a spiritual marriage, then legally three years later. During this time, he became very depressed over losing his house, and his job, unemployed for 2 years, as I tried to help this sensitive father-worthy man. I gained a stepdaughter, Sara when she was 10, and advocated for father’s rights by writing to newspapers. Gregory’s weekly therapy and medications were not enough as our marriage was suffering from his verbal abuse and great distrust, Gregory thinking I was having affairs. I was crying and stomping like a toddler. Mostly, helpless. Mostly, the greatest rite of passage to my true Being.
A last ditch effort to save our marriage was to travel to the Primal Center in California where I would train and both of us be in intensive therapy. Gregory dropped out of therapy saying, “I am too afraid to feel my pain, I will have to come back another lifetime.” I had shut down my successful therapy practice, moved across the country, and cried like a river, a waterfall of shut-down pain I had buried. I have always loved waterfalls, and at present live as a single chick, (still looking for the rooster) between two gorges where many powerful waterfalls symbolize me as I cry at ‘the drop of a hat? Or is it ‘at the drop of love’….being happy that this rite of passage feels like forever-love.

“Love is eternal; its character may change, but not its essence.” – Van Gogh

SHOES...can you walk in others, as well as your own?

2010-11-06T16:56:00.000-07:00

SHOES

I have been on a budget for many years, mirroring my financial situation changes. So, when I began running, I put on my K-mart tennis shoes. I am 5’9” and believed that size 71/2 fit me well until I began to acquire black great-toe nails. I did not want to buy the next size larger, an 8. I valued my smaller more feminine size at the time. As I grew emotionally, I gave up this insecurity of appearances for REAL running shoes, Adidas size 8…still from a discount store. Running marathons up and down hills continued to blacken my great toes, until I gave up that long-distant need for recognition.
I have substituted running with my love to dance, which was not permitted while growing up due to mom’s strict religious beliefs, until I could become more secure in my own beliefs that dancing is good despite its part in “worldliness.” Then, I provided dance lessons for my daughters, as well as tap dancing for me. Tap shoes were my first REAL dance shoes, but those you do not wear in public. I wanted to dance socially, so began swing dancing in 1992, using saddle shoes from PayLess. And, wore whatever regular street-shoe that I thought was cute.
After 2000, I branched out to salsa and ballroom, and in 2003 met the challenge of argentine tango. I was still wearing street shoes, and couldn’t imagine myself wearing the 3-4” heels that is expected in true Argentian style. After all I would be 6 feet tall…and would my partners want to dance with me? Besides, REAL argentine tango shoes cost over $100 dollars. Yikes! But, as with any love, you breakdown and do what is best for your partner, my feet. I learned of an online store where tango shoes are made special for Tangueros, and credit-carded over $100 to buy 1½ inch tango shoes, black of course. They have served my dancing feet well…but the beautiful look of the higher heels kept calling to me. In 2006, I traveled to Buenos Aires, for the REAL tango milongas, and could not avoid the handmade tango shoes sold there. Still, I was not above a 3” heel.
2010 took me to a higher place, and a higher price, a turquoise and royal blue Gretaflora design with a leather flower attached, 3 and ¾ inch black heel, (I just went upstairs to measure it) near $200 dollars, I am embarrassed to admit. Yet, I have lost my embarrassment while dancing with all heights of men partners, while in our tango embrace with the love of the dance.

(Tomorrow is Halloween, and I am wearing ballet shoes along with a tutu, being the child dancer I was not allowed to BE.)

the beauty of trust

2010-10-05T18:23:00.000-07:00

THE BACK DOOR

I have wondered why my house where I grew up, on a long main road, was the only one where the driveway wound around the back of three houses, ours being in the middle. Therefore the family car was parked by the back door. It was a very rare occasion that our front door was used, as was true of our neighbors.
And, I do not recall our back door ever being locked either. I grew up in the 50s and 60s, where a neighborhood trust was taken for granted, a gift I highly prize especially now as I reside in a renovated chicken coupe, next door to a farm house, where an apartment has been created on its second floor. In this 21st century, people have locks on everything: cars, bikes, helmets, purses, office doors.
I refuse to lock my doors, even when on vacations, loving the freedom to come and go without having to search for my keys. Now, Heavenly Blue Morning Glories grace my back door, arching and stretching, swinging as I open and close. I have planted my favorite flower for 9 years, and they have climbed to the second story roof, but never before over my back door.
I honor them with my attention, counting 22 in full bloom during one September day; then, I recall being in Trumansburg, NY court room last week. I did not stand up when the judge entered from the back door of the court room, because I did not see him enter, my nose being in my journal. When it was my turn to defend my case, the judge gave me instructions, and when he asked if I understood, I answered, “yes sir.” Not, ‘your honor’. I had not planned to avoid “your honor,” although I have thought often that judges should not be addressed with this unequal title. I defended the injustice of my $10 parking ticket that came with a $100 tow of my jeep liberty. I had attended the Grassroots Festival; parking being a premium I ended up with one wheel on the pavement; I turned to see that it was not obstructing traffic on this rural road. My parking ticket was for having wheel(s) on the pavement, a law I had no prior knowledge of. I pointed out that my car had been parked for 9 hours before it was towed, and the officer on the day shift had not chosen to ticket it, but the evening one did. And, that the tow fee is usually $54-$65 for a five mile tow. (I had researched 3 different rural towing companies, even the one who towed me that July night)
The judge said he chose to deliberate and send out the verdict. I said, “thank you sir for hearing me.” Two days later I received the judge’s letter that said, “Not guilty.” I felt the truth was honored with equality, noticing a bloom of a smile on my face.
Then, as I write this I realize that once again I live on a circular driveway that serves three families (homes), only the driveway is in front of the back doors, instead of in back, like it had been in childhood. As I walk to my back door, or drive by, my heart opens to happiness with each look into the center-circle of the Heavenly Blue Morning Glories, speaking “your honor” with each entry and exit.

best birthday gift

2010-09-01T17:05:00.000-07:00

Out of the mouth of babes....
do we see that we are all connected...
like 6-year-old Emily does spontaneously in this essay...

SINGING

Riley, my granddaughter, was three years old, when she sang “Since You’ve Been Gone,” by Kelly Clarkson, as if she was performing on stage. Riley opened her mouth big as a balloon, and wiggled like a worm. No, like a rock star
Everyone laughed, and loved how much she mimicked Kelly Clarkson, being miniature-sized. I wanted to videotape her, and send it into America’s Funniest Home Videos…but I forgot to bring my video camera from Ithaca to Boston where Riley lives with her younger sister, Emily. By the time I returned to Boston with my video-camera, Riley no longer wanted to sing for me or her family. I was disappointed, and now wonder why I hadn’t remembered earlier, and why it meant so much to me to record my grand-child’s amazing singing.
"EMILY IS DIDI"
Didi (my name as gramma) is very excited that Emily wrote what is above in bold on her own. Emily is sitting on my lap as I type, and she is working the space key. She is 6 years old. She likes to sing Put your hands in the air, “because I know it a lot,” she tells me when I ask why she likes that song. Emily just typed her name and is giggling. I help Emily type mostly her words:
And green is the color of Love. Cats and dogs and bunnies are love.
Riley and Emily are LOVE.
I love didi and mommy and Riley I am dun.
My heart is singing, and not just because it is my birthday, where I sing today with my 2 daughters and 3 granddaughters, “When I’m 64” by the Beatles.

MAKING LOVE with OPENESS

2010-08-10T06:06:00.000-07:00

Isn't it great to be more open about SEX?

MAKING IT LAST

I’ve been having sex for forty years; bet you’d like to know what age I was when I started? I’ll tell you I was a virgin when married the first time…so it’s obvious I am a slow starter.
I guess I was supposed to make my marriage last by not having pre-marital sex as a “born again” christian. My husband left me because he came out of that repressive religious closet as a gay man, after granting us two beautiful daughters. Then, my sexual curiosity zoomed thru several boyfriends and three more marriages; my second marriage being an OPEN marriage trial.
Still, what was most difficult for me was to be able to talk out loud to my partners about what would bring me more pleasure: where to touch me, how to touch me, why to touch me. Thoughts of me ‘taking too long’ to reach orgasm stymied me, fearing I’d bruise his ego if I instructed my lover. Bottom line: fearful they wouldn’t love me enough, and therefore leave me.
Through psychotherapy, I became more OPEN with myself, I developed more
courage…asking to be touched or licked in certain ways. Most men responded without complaints. As my fears lessened, I noticed that I did not need as much time to come to orgasm, and also that I responded more to a lighter touch. This sensitivity was where men found me to be different…in a good way. They didn’t have to work so hard
Now, I let my tears be seen at orgasm, beautifully connecting us as one.
I’ve experienced men who enjoyed making love without having an orgasm right away or maybe none at all. I found my self saying out loud as I was feeling my pleasure of a building orgasm, my voice in his ear, “I want to make this last.”

natural medicine of the heart

2010-06-30T19:27:00.000-07:00

MEDICINE

April (2010), my daughter Megan drives me and her daughters Riley and Emily to a new wooden-structure playground, where my g-girls beg me to chase them. Although I run fast, they dodge me left and right, and with laughter eventually I tag one. Megan is sitting on the wooden bench watching us streak by, sipping her ice coffee.
As I dash up a few steps after my grand-girls, my sneaker slips, letting my left shin crash into the corner of a stair: I fall, my elbow scrapes and a deep slash pours blood out of my shin. I am surprised that no tears form, all I can do is breath hard and weakly tell Megan I can’t speak between heavy sighs. My nursing background pushes to the fore, asking Megan to give me her coffee plastic cup which still holds ice. I push the V-shaped-skin-tear together, pressing the icy cup to my shin.
After hobbling to the car, I make the decision not to go to the ER for stitches although I need them to create a pretty leg again. I have no health insurance. I direct Megan to buy some butterfly bandages and Telfa pads that do not stick to the wound, and some anti-bacterial ointment, while the girls and I wait in the car with my leg elevated on the dashboard. When we arrive home, my son-in-law Ben helps me arrange the bandages, while Megan prepares for a BBQ for friends arriving for dinner.
Two days later, I am scheduled to volunteer at Ithaca’s Free Clinic as an RN. I ask the doc to look at my slightly oozing butterfly-bandaged leg, and he says, “That probably should have been stitched, but it’s too late now.” And, it wasn’t the best treatment to be on my feet for the next 4 hours…miraculously, another RN shows up; she mistakenly thought it was her day to be there. Gladly, I left, to support my leg’s healing.
Although I am educated first as a Registered Nurse, I have been in private practice as a Marriage and Family Therapist for the past twenty years, avoiding medications for my clients as well as for myself as much as possible. I have encountered many experiences where I have learned that our bodies heal well when our emotional currents are cleared with tears. Still, I am very greatfull for traditional-medicine when I experienced a fractured skull (19 years ago), being hit head-on by a bicyclist. And I’m even more appreciative of my medical knowledge when the plastic surgeon told me I would need a tracheotomy in order to repair my facial fractures and jaw. I was scared to not be able to talk or breathe…I knew how helpless I would feel. I immediately asked for an oral surgeon consult…who thankfully said the tracheotomy was unnecessary. Despite a couple small scars, my head is fully healed (Still working on my mind)
And, my shin has healed as a purple-V-natural-tattoo which for me stands for Vulnerability, Valentine and Victory…I love my scar (that’s a first!) because…
when I returned in May to my daughter Megan’s family who live approximately 6 hours from me…I was asked to go to their friend’s house to pick up the girls. As soon as I entered the front door, Emily, who is 5, ran into my arms, saying “How’s your leg Didi? I want to see it!” (Isn’t this the best medicine?)

Addendum:
Today, (June 26, 2010), I cut rhubarb from my backyard to give to an elderly couple (ex-boyfriend’s parents). Teresa likes to make rhubarb pies and Don loves to eat them, as does their son Daniel. When I arrive at their home, Teresa is still recovering from bronchitis, and finds it difficult to talk, because talking makes her cough. She tells me “I need to get more cough drops: I have run out.”
“Oh, I can bring you some after I get my clothes from the Laundromat.”
Teresa immediately gets up from her kitchen chair to pick up money to pay me. “Absolutely not!” I emphatically reply. She threatens lightly, “Then, I won’t take them when you bring them here.”
As I scurry out the door, avoiding the money in her hand, I hear, “Shame on you!”
Briefly, I hear my mother’s same critical words in my head, then smile to myself, ‘this is the first time I feel good shame.’

Fathers Day meets the summer solstice

2010-06-21T15:14:00.000-07:00

I want to acknowledge all the loving fathers out there...and especially my father, Servy Michel Kohl who is no longer with me on this planet, but whose LOVE is with me always! He died in 1977, and I miss him more and more as my tears flow...loving to plant dianthus (close to my name diane)at his grave yesterday. I visit there once a month just to BE especially acknowledging of his specialness to me.
I encourage every son or daughter to have a special time with their dads...a special talk, walk, and I wish my own daughters to come to their granddad's grave, whom they can barely remember...yet they have my love and his together whether they are aware of it or not.
For those of you who do not have that loving dad...my hope for you is to find an older man who could serve as a second dad...as I have with Bill Wernsing...now gone also...and Barry Vissell who will be the keynote speaker at the International Primal convention/retreat in August. www.primals.org for more info.
And may the summer sun give you pleasure of the flowers and trees and waterfalls of your life! Take time to notice:)
with more love, dianea

men are like women when it comes to FEELINGS

2010-06-09T17:39:00.000-07:00

Like to SPY?:)

THE OFFICE

I wish everyone could ‘be a spyder on the wall’ of my office where confidentiality is essential.
I tend to disagree with psychotherapists who believe that men are different from women in the emotional realm, even John Gray’s popular book, Men Are from Mars, Women are from Venus gives us this impression. I’ve worked with many couples over the spam of twenty-plus years, and at least half of my clients are male.
Two weeks ago, Steve came in alone for the first time, after attending sessions with his wife for maybe 6 sessions. Originally, Nancy had been seeing me for about four months; Steve was afraid to enter therapy yet saw the changes in her and decided to be courageous. As with all people, trust has to be built, so I was a bit surprised that Steve had agreed to see me alone after expressing much anxiety (fear) to do so. During that session, I asked if there was anything he could not share with his wife. He embarrassingly admitted there were two things. After he told me about two childhood events, he expressed how relieved he felt, because he had never told anyone, and had thought about those sexual events off and on for forty-some years. The following week I was surprised again when Steve and Nancy came in as a couple and told me that Steve had revealed his secrets to Nancy despite feeling great fear. Nancy said she felt afraid as well when Steve said, “We have to talk.”
Steve tells me with wide eyes, “As soon as I began to tell her, this HUGE weight came off my shoulders,” emphasized by his arms lifting up in the air, which he repeated with varying expressions during the session. Nancy said that Steve repeated his relieved feelings at home several times. It is difficult to describe the swell in my heart to hear Steve; it’s as if the mystical ONEness the Buddhists have long time spoken of is felt.
A couple I helped through a near divorce several years ago was initiated by the man who cried most sessions, while his wife rarely sprang tears.
Another man, who has recently returned to therapy after leaving a few months ago, and who had sobbed in sessions with his wife, (who was more angry than tearful), is crying again although I catch him trying to hold back tears. I ask him what makes him hold onto his tears. He replies, “My dad always says things aren’t so bad, just suck it up. But, I know I want to cry. Yet, I just hide in booze. I don’t want to be angry as I am.”
On the other gender, a 26 year old woman came in four months ago full of rage; she had thrown a garbage can over her husband’s head. She is a social worker who knew she needed help. She had been to another therapist the previous year, coming to me saying, “I need someone to challenge me…I didn’t let them put me on Lexapro. The anger and loss of control are getting worse…I’m scared and don’t want to own up to it.” Now, she is crying openly with her husband and her rage has dissipated thru connecting it to her loss of her dad after a divorce.
Yes, we still hear Fregie sing, “Big girls don’t cry,” and parents telling their sons, “Big boys don’t cry.” But, I am encouraged (and surprised again) by a new male client who had never been in therapy before, saying in his first session: “I am used to bawling myself to sleep.”

For the LOVE of my daughter Megan....her birthday today

2010-05-06T07:33:00.000-07:00

TEENAGERS

By the time I was a teenager I was taken into slavery. It seems harsh to say, but looking back on my life 40 years later; it IS a slavery of the heart. It took me years to recognize that I was sexually aroused one morning in my sunlit bedroom, a tingling between my legs that I have a clear memory of at age 16, yet I had no idea what was happening to me. I did not know what masturbation was until I was in nursing school. And, my mother was a nurse, but also a strict “born again” christian.
While growing up, I had a strong desire to dance, trying it out in seventh grade, but my feeling guilty of going against my mother’s christian rules not to dance, “or be of this world” put chains on my wish-to-be dancing ankles. Although I fought with my mother often, my rebellious spirit was conquered by wanting and needing my parents’ loving approval more than the teenage need to be her self. To this day, I wish I could have danced with my father at my wedding.
Sixteen was also the monumental year for learning the shocking truth of my origins by my mother yelling at me, “He’s not your father!” Later, that same year I also remember myself walking up our cellar stairs experiencing an epiphany: ‘I am an individual in my own right’ a feeling of amazement that I could BE; I was conscious of my consciousness: immediately sharing thIS with my father. I wish I could remember his response, yet I feel he approved and supported me like how he wrote to me in college when I was 18, “That you make comments and ask questions in Bible class and are not afraid to think and ask and how happy I am about that.” It was dad’s openness that fundamentally led me to leave the religious ropes I wore until age 38 in 1984!
In my twenties, I delivered 2 beautiful daughters, and began living a double life, of dancing while still attending church every Sunday. It was when my eldest daughter was 12 that I told her I was leaving my christian faith while she cried in her top bunk, saying “But mom you will go to hell.” Even though my daughters enjoyed dance lessons, they were still indoctrinated like I had been, but with less rigid rules. It shakes me to my toes how easily children are molded by their parents as I watch a documentary on TV where a 16 year old tells the interviewer that he has his own choice to follow the mennonite religion he has been brought up in…teenagers may think they have the independence to choose, but they are still dependant on their parents, and I strongly wanted to call that teen up at that moment; to free him. And, I wanted to call the TV station and ask them to hear my heart!
My daughters no longer believe what they were brought up to believe, thank god, and it gives me pleasure to remember when my oldest, Erin, snuck out one night when she was nearly 16, after I had gone out myself to dance somewhere in Ithaca’s college town scene…and whom did I see crossing College Avenue? Erin in her short skirt dolled up to roam where the boys are. Promptly, I walked her toward home.
Now my 17 year old granddaughter Denali is spending her junior year as an exchange student in Paraguay, becoming fluent in Spanish and recently took an extended tour of Uruguay and Buenos Aires, Argentina. She emails me: (she knows I argentine tango usually two nights a week, and dance four nights a week) “Buenos Aires is amazing! I thought of you lots! I saw a tango show in the street, and danced for like 30 seconds with an old man “king of tango” and also went to a fancy dinner and tango show which was soo great! The whole time I was there I wanted to be tangoing...haha”

LOVING to FEEL: tears, our true connection to REAL LOVE

2010-04-19T16:39:00.000-07:00

Today i was enjoying tending to my garden, my expanding bed of Mrytle, the blue sea of flowers shining brightly outside my window. And, SURPRISE, SURPRISE, I noticed a solitary Trillium ready to bud white...my first survivor of transplant from a field of them here in Ithaca , NY. I couldn't help but say OHHHHHHH outloud, and thank you for your brave beauty!
And, I thought to myself, that Trillium i would have missed if not truly looking around SLOWLY...so many beautiful details of beauty I would miss like my May Apples, also transplanted from the wild last year...I can't help but smile.
And what does this have to do with tears? Tears also may seem like details to add to the LOVE of yourself...very important details that happen when we are watching commercials, movies, listening to songs...or reading a book. Many laugh or hide when these drops of water appear unexpectedly. Yet, they are times, like springtime, to notice our own beauty through noting what was said that brought the tears, or the picture that brought up the tears. These times are OPENings to seeing yourself more clearly...and allowing the pain to let go...instead of suppressing those natural drops of healing our hearts...even endorphins, natural pain killers are part of the chemistry of emotional tears!!!
It was 1986, when in Mt. Rainier National Park, that tears sprang from my eyes as I came to the summit of a 6 mile hike....I didn't realize why I cried then....but I never forgot those moments...and now know why. Tune in next time and I will let you know WHY.
I would love to hear from you about such moments for you...and any questions, I will be glad to answer!

slowing down to smell flowers that love us...

2010-03-29T20:19:00.000-07:00

Happy Spring to all...
which emphasizes the need to SLOW DOWN and smell and see the detail of the design of flowers showing their beautifull blooms.
Even though we are busy people, it is a continuing goal for myself to slow down in order to pay attention to the heart within us all...despite our reluctance to do so. Yet it is where I GROW like the flowers do...into beauteous REAL LOVE.
I hope this essay of my life may help you slow down...to love yourself more.

SLOWING DOWN

I feel embarrassed. I want to slow down but it is difficult for me to do so even though I am into my 6th decade. I do write in my journal as my meditation several days a week; as well as enjoy dancing four nights a week. At least I no longer run marathons, which I did in the 80’s: 36 marathons in 36 months, a national record for women. Then, I was proud of my accomplishment; now I see it as abuse of my body and soul.
I still feel a bit embarrassed to tell you what happened a few months ago. Last fall (2009), I met up with my ex-husband for a visit, being friends. I planned a picnic; at his suggestion it would be at Gilford Lake, NY six miles from where he lives in Oxford. I had never been to this lake, and was surprised to see a very small beach area, although the lake is beautifully clear with near a mile to swim and boat. I laughed at the sign on the beach saying: “Only 112 bathers allowed,” along with some other rules. Why only 112?
After that visit I wrote the SUN reader’s write about this BEACH, the topic for that month. Then, decided it would be funny to provide a photo of this beach sign for the SUN. The beach is an hour away from where I live, so I planned to stop there on my return trip from Boston where one of my daughters lives. I allowed just one hour of extra time to drive this side jaunt to take some photos. I am on route 206 west, having traveled this road many times with it many ups and downs and curves. I remember passing a small sign reading Oxford, the town I wish to travel to where Gilford Lake is located nearby. Because route 206 is a country road where I pass few cars, I drive 65mph (55mph state speed limit) so I can keep my speed up to 55mph on the big up hills is my rationalization. When I arrive in Greene, NY, I am wondering why I have not seen the sign “Oxford 11” (11 miles) as yet. I drive a few more miles and realize I must have passed the sign, returning to Greene, where I know I can turn onto route 12, arriving in Oxford that way. Hurriedly, I take photos as I am worried I won’t make it back in time for a client appointment. I am disappointed in myself for not being more observant to see the sign which I had barreled by in West Bainbridge…which I made sure I saw again on my next trip to Boston. It was a short cut that would have provided new scenery and a more efficient drive to Gilford Lake.
I must have needed to be humbled, and of course the lesson…my guardian angel teaches me again today while reading a 1966 letter written by my loving dad to his dear younger sister, recently translated from German…that reads, “As I always do, I read your letter immediately and greedily, then very slowly again. I just wanted to tell you now that I hold you very dear.” which I wish to say to the SUN.

BEAUTY with tears

2010-03-03T16:47:00.000-08:00

How to find BEAUTY within:

BEAUTY

While growing up, I lived across the road from the city reservoir, where my dad walked with his 3 children, most Sundays. I cried at age 16 when we left that home to move to a house that my mother wanted…I must admit that the view of Cayuga Lake was pretty. For many years since then, during the summer, I still visit Potters Falls a few hundred yards down from the reservoir, where as a middle-aged adult I learned to swim nude; scary due to my religious strict upbringing to be modest, or rather learning to be ashamed of one’s body.
About 9 years after my first marriage dissolved, my dad died, leaving me enough money to put a down payment on the small lake house my mother was then selling. I have many fond memories of swimming, sailing and ice skating with my two young daughters, as well as playing in Stewart Park which was less than a ten minute walk. I taught my youngest to ride her bike there. It wasn’t until my girls were 12 (Megan) and 15 (Erin) that I was able to save enough money to drive a rusty dodge van that my boyfriend owned across country to camp and hike in many National Parks; which I have a love affair with since my first cross-country trip thanks to my first husband’s interest in the national park system.
During August 1986, we hiked in several national parks on our way from New York to California, where Yosemite, Kings Canyon and Sequoia dazzled our eyes. Then, on to Oregon’s Crater Lake and Washington’s Mount Rainier, where a six mile hike opened up to a 360 degree view of rugged peaks, clear lakes, boundless colorful wildflowers, (tears now), where I stood with tears rolling down my cheeks for no apparent reason.
It wasn’t until several years later that I understood why.
When Erin was 16, we moved to my then boyfriend’s home, because there was more room, which dismayed Erin; I had felt such feelings at 16; I understood that she loved our lake house. Later, I sold it. When that relationship did not work out, I bought a barn-style A-frame home that my girls liked, surrounded by trees instead of water. From this home, they launched their lives into college, all 3 previous husbands (2 stepfathers) present at Megan’s high school graduation. By their college graduation, I had finished my masters degree and was in private practice as a psychotherapist, married a fourth time. Since 1988, I had been chain-sawing down trees on my property to use as fire wood for our woodstove, opening our home to more light, not realizing the connection to my heart being ripped open to deep pain through my marriage.
During the nineties I was drawn to primal therapy, which is truly “gut-wrenching” …and healing, like childbirth’s labor turning into joy of the newborn! It was during a primal-session that I connected with the tears I spilled on Mount Rainer; the beauty that I had seen with my eyes, I did not feel in my heart: the beauty of my body or my soul. Although I had received a 65 in English my freshman year at Cornell University, I was motivated to begin writing books about the healing connection of tears to LOVE. To support this self-publishing venture, I sold my home, and rented a renovated chicken coupe on big sky farmland, on top of a hill, surrounded by light, across the road from my favorite state park garnering many waterfalls of grandeur and gorges of glory.

children's LOVE allows tears

2010-02-12T20:11:00.000-08:00

I write these essays about real life experiences that allow tears to bring us more love:

THE LAST WORD

It’s a windy January morning in Boston, my five-year-old granddaughter, Emily warming my lap. She opens up a book on the computer desk and pauses at the photos, as I tell her that I wrote the book. Her amazing dimple appears as she exclaims, “You wrote all those words?” Emily tells me she thinks it is Erin (my oldest daughter) in the middle of the photo of me between my parents at my nursing school graduation. I smile to see the resemblance to myself. There are several photos of my dad’s family whom she has never met and she wants to know who they all are; one is with her mom as a little girl. I tell her that my favorite is the one with me as an infant in my daddy’s arms, the only photo of me being held by him as a child.
Then, Emily finds some cursive passages that dad and I had written to each other, and she wishes me to read them to her. The first is me writing to my dad for Father’s Day 1968: there’s a long list describing “What a Real Father You Are – Dad” poetically and pragmatically, where eventually my tears have the last word while reading out loud:
(I realize more deeply this is true in 2010)
…”a lightening, to the disheartened
a listening ear to any problem;”
by now my tears have become snot down my lip and belly bumps, that Emily calmly and contentedly takes in with listening ears; her back leaning into my chest. There is no separation, or fear. And wonder of wonders, Emily turns the pages and picks out another cursive page, a card my dad wrote to me during my sophomore year of college. She asks me to read: “Dear Di,
just a quick note to let you know: (there are 12 items listed)
1) That I had a wonderful time just being with you.” (My dad’s underlining) Tears return, I am now being with Emily as I was too scared to BE with my dad, as we never shared tears together and I wish we could have.
11) “That I hope you are well and happy.
12) That I love you, Dad.” which dad had not spoken out loud as I do to Emily (and to the rest of my family)
Emily asks, “Can I have this book?” My delight sparkles my wet face with “Of course! I’ll write an inscription for you.” I am so pleased that she wishes to know her great-grandfather despite the lack of blood relation (he adopted me when my mother did not want me, and married my mother to raise me as his first born.)
Emily has been sitting on my lap with the serenity of love I’ve journeyed to know, my dad leading my way. Emily flipping through my 217 pages (she counts them) book TEARS ARE TRUST…waiting to be felt, for more than a half hour, eventually slides off my lap, readying for her noon kindergarten school bus, saying, “I’m going to put my book in my (school) backpack.”

2010-01-28T11:24:00.000-08:00

Hi everyONE,
Hopefully your new year is off to a clean snow start...or better yet,
"crying that makes you happy," as one of my male clients has said.

This entry is to GIVE you:
10 steps to Access healing Tears: "your pearls of god" as the poet Rumi expresses it.

1 Notice your feelings! Focus on feelings, not thoughts. I FEEL...sad, hurt,scared,alone,rejected,misunderstood,unheard,mistrusted...etc.

2 I feel like...I was hit by a Mack truck is a thought, not a feeling.

3 When angry, ask what triggered it? (or triggered the sadness, hurt, or fear)

4 Write the feelings down, as well as the triggering event

5 Close your eyes, ask yourself how this feeling feels familiar from your childhood - write down the memory (if you are crying, let yourself cry as much as needed first - same applies to anger/rage)

6 Give ROOM to FEEL...15-45 minutes if you can. If angry: hit pillows. tear paper, go to your car and scream, throw pillows. stomp. etc. whatever your body wants to do safely.

7 Get support, such as re-evealuation counseling, or co-counseling, or 12-step group

8 Let yourself feel tears: at movies, commercials, songs, looking at babies...:)

9 Find a photo of yourself as a small child, and put it up where you can't help but SEE it, LOOK into his or her eyes for at least a minute, then hold that picture close to your heart for at least a minute ...daily!

10 Say outloud to your child's picture, "I love you," every day.

Pretending

2010-01-14T07:38:00.000-08:00

There has been a 2 week lag in my intended weekly contact with you all due to my computer being in the "hospital" and is now fixed. (And a double dose of writing to make up for it:) I am gratefull!
And, I am not pretending when I tell you at this very moment there is a ladybug walking along the frame of my glasses as i type this...
I tell you this because of wishing to raise everyone's awareness about what makes us pretend that certain things do not bother or concern us...when they do. It is a betrayal of our true self/spirit...and so i share my monthly essay as my experience of being true to ourselves even when we are afraid TO BE. Enjoy and your comments are always welcome.

SUNreaderswrite dianea kohl

December2009 ithaca, ny

PRETENDING

Over the years my brother and I have not been as close as I wish. Still, our relationship has been friendly and we have connected especially while running together, even the Marine Corps marathon. In 2003, we enjoyed hiking with a guided group down into the 90 degree mouth of the Grand Canyon for a week. I was thrilled that we were sleeping in the same tent. Since then he has made it possible for me and my sister to fly with him to visit my dad’s family in Germany…a first to have this time alone as sibs since we grew up together. It was very special to me as well as to my dad’s sister, Resi, who had a very close relationship with our dad, and not met my siblings before, and Resi was turning 80.

I have been the one in the family to make waves (if only we could flow like waves or wave like babies doJ) because I write about my life, which entails my relationships with my family members. Some of them are not pleased about this, my brother being one of them. Also, my sister called and yelled at me, then cried, for writing about her, despite me saying it is only in relationship to me, not wanting to hurt her in any way. Constance’s phone call happened in the spring of 2008, and within a couple of months we had mended this hurt despite our differences about being open about ourselves…she needs to have the power to veto anything she does not wish to be in print. Sadly, what I wrote about her, everyone in our family knew, still she wants the “respect” of being asked permission. But then, when I ask permission, she tells me I cannot print things that affect me in not being able to be OPEN about my life lessons that she is a significant part of.

I have risked rejections to be able to uphold my truths and integrity, and it has been difficult to lose some closeness with some while gaining the respect of others. My brother has not answered any of my phone calls or emails which I write at least once a month, since Constance blew up at me. She and I are closer than ever surprisingly? Still, he will not communicate with me as to why he is giving me the silent treatment, although I did catch him once on the phone this past June (2009) when I called. I was in the airport, and although he was superficially friendly…when I asked the question as to his silence…he said we could not have a therapy session on the phone.

We had seen each other at the previous (2008) Thanksgiving, where about 20 family members gathered at my nieces. There we spoke as if nothing was a problem between us although my stomach said otherwise until, as he was leaving, I followed him into the hallway and asked, “Are things OK with us?” he easily and smiling said “yes.” “Then, I’ll hear from you?”

I am still writing, calling, and waiting.

PRETENDING part2

I want to pretend that the neighbor’s light doesn’t bother me. I want to ignore the feelings it brings up. I want to deny that I need them to turn it off.

I have called Kate and left messages a couple of times to explain why their outdoor light being on all evening is of concern to me. I want her to talk to me about a compromise because I love living in the country and seeing the natural light reflect the trees symmetries, the various colors and patterns of the moon and the sparkling of the stars. The day after christmas, my landlord tells me that Kate and Jeremy, who are in their twenties can have their light on as long as they turn it off before they go to sleep. So, why don’t my apartment neighbors talk to me, when we have been friendly all summer?

The day after christmas I knocked on my neighbor’s door, and Jeremy opened it as I asked if I could talk to Kate and him. He replied that they were in a hurry, preparing for a guest to visit. We spoke for a couple of minutes, Jeremy telling what the landlord said and I should talk to him. I said, but we are the ones who are having the issue, so we can resolve this. He added, “Why should we have to go out of our way?” Stunned, I echoed his question out loud without a skip in my heart or mind. I like to be a good neighbor and help you out if you asked me a request that I could remedy. Then added, “Do you know why I want the light off in the evenings?” I was surprised to hear Jeremy say “No.” Hadn’t Kate relayed my phone messages?

I explained about the country natural ambience being why I live in the country, and couldn’t he turn the light on and off when others visited or when they come and go. Jeremy was concerned that someone might sue him if they slipped on the snow or ice. Would his young friends sue him?

Because he was in a hurry I did not have the chance to say, I have lived here for 8 years and the previous 3 renters never left their outdoor light on, and they were all older than you. I have never fallen while walking to my door without an outdoor light, and I am old enough to be your mother.

My heart continues to swell for the natural wonders of the country beauty; to drive home in the dark, to be able to meet the sky without artificial light’s distraction; is that too much to ask?…I can no longer pretend, despite my heart beating faster, I will find the right time to talk to my neighbors again.

Lovinglivleyluscious new year 2010

2010-01-01T15:00:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone!
In 2010, I will be more faithful in having weekly blogs and i'd love to receive your comments!
What are your new years resolutions? (green is the color of love) Make them as specific as possible...
Last evening I danced argentine tango with the beautifull community here in ithaca, ny. I FEEL so gratefull to share our loving tango hearts, despite not having a significant other.
Today i visited my dad's grave, who died in 1977. Since 1993 when I began my primal journey, I have come to appreciate the love he gave me much more deeply...which made my biannual visits increase to monthly because my heart has more room for LOVE. Today i cried as I spoke out loud at his 'weeping cherry tree,'..." I wish i had said 'I love you' to you, (not just wrote it) I am so sorry, you are so important to me (tears now), and I was too scared back then."
My tears not only honor my love for daddy, but also wash away pain, so there is more room for love in my heart, for me. This demonstrates the amazing circle of unending LOVE that we symbolize with a wedding ring.
I will share some very important quotes that support this VERY important truth, that tears are meant to heal our hearts...please add yours:
"THERE IS SACREDNESS IN TEARS. THEY ARE NOT THE SIGN OF WEAKNESS, BUT OF POWER. THEY SPEAK MORE ELOQUENTLY THAN TEN THOUSAND TONGUES. THEY ARE MESSENGERS OF OVERWHELMING GRIEF...AND UNSPEAKABLE LOVE." - Washington Irving

Finding SUGAR in your relationships

2009-11-16T10:46:00.000-08:00

Dear readers,
Remembering our past through FEELING depthful tears, is how I can write about FEELING differently, and more depthfully into LOVE.
enJOY!
SUNreaderswrite dianea kohl
October2009 ithaca, ny

SUGAR

“Sugar!” My ex-husband’s grandmother GeeGee speaks of me and her grandson, when we visit her at her home in Jackson, Mississippi. And, before we left, she’d say, “Give me some sugar!” which any southerner knew meant kisses and hugs, but being a northerner, that was all new and sweet to me! Until now, I had not wondered where that expression originated. What I remember most about that visit in 1970, being a young newlywed, was her taking us to the cemetery where her husband was buried. At the time, I wondered about why it was important to go visit the dead; yet I knew it was important to her, and wanted to please this very sugary-sweet woman.
Profoundly, what stuck with me was “GeeGee’s” (what her family called her) steadfast love for her husband whom she had married when she was 17, her groom being 43….25 years older than her! He lived into his eighties, and GeeGee never remarried although she lived into her 90s. They must have married in the 1920s.
I know that was not especially approved of back then and probably is rarely today…yet her love of her man still rings in my ears. I like to think I am a spunky woman like her, for I have been married four times, and when I tell others, I usually get, “WOW” from their mouths as well as their widened eyes. The judgment is apparent, and I know I used to be ashamed of my marital exchanges, especially as I am a marriage and family therapist where people expect the “professional” to have it “together” with a successful marriage in order to help them. When I tell others how my first husband left because he was strong enough to admit his gayness, their faces begin to show more acceptance, and then again when they hear my second husband died. I did leave my second and third husbands as I EVOLved by giving up my religious addiction, and then expecting more intimacy emotionally from my third husband, who refused to give up his smoking and drinking.
So, my fourth husband was meant to be, to trigger me into truer deep intimacy within myself, where I felt very primal pain that I had buried under marathon running, 36 in 36 months, (as well as other actions I am becoming aware of) where I felt strong in being recognized for this national record. Healing that primal pain, took me to appreciating my father’s love in a much deeper way, where I began visiting my dad’s grave monthly instead of the obligatory Memorial day, or the day he died. Presently, I ask my daughters to go with me to visit their grandfather’s grave, which they don’t find the time to do. They were young when he died, so I wish them to remember their very loving grandfather who nurtured them the first years of their life.
This past week, while making an apple pie with my oldest daughter, I am adding a cup of brown sugar, when she says, “That much sugar?” “Yes,” I answer, “It is mom’s recipe and she made the best pies on the planet!” This day I added a little less sugar, thinking to my self how dad and I always shared the last piece of mom’s apple pie! His favorite, he being my favorite!

THIS I BELIEVE...TEARS EVOLve LOVE

2009-11-03T12:12:00.000-08:00

It has been said that as you grow older you grow wiser…the irony of it all is that I believe I knew the most when I was born. I’ve just forgotten. I am in my sixtieth year, yet feel I am thirty, so maybe I have retrieved half of the life I had lost to a strict “born again” religious upbringing that puts you in a black and white box of what you should believe and feel.

I have come to believe that we have needed that “safe” box because of our insecurities about being loved. We ARE afraid that we ARE not loved. So, we reach for love in a being called god. As we all know, religions have divided us around ‘who knows god best.’ We have lost love and respect for each other, even fighting wars over whose religion holds the truth.

I have had the fortunate (or unfortunate as some would perceive) journey in life to be married four times. It’s like being reincarnated four times in this present life. Some of us humans have experienced regressions to past lives, and I know I am an old soul. My karma this lifetime brought me thru a first marriage to a man who came out to his gayness our sixth year together: two beautiful daughters fostered ongoing love despite the church’s admonishment to not have them exposed to their father. I knew better in my heart!

My second marriage ushered me to a cliff where I hang-glided away from my religious box…I began to fly into a larger realm of love. A few years later, this husband died of cancer…I was not meant to be married one time, or two.

My third marriage rocked my caretaking boat for a man who smoked and drank, making intimacy difficult on the feeling level. We went to marriage counseling, and he said I had to accept him as he was. I had to fly to higher love.

My fourth marriage felt like my soul mate and was the most painful. I regressed into being a stomping toddler, and screaming baby. Yet, I functioned well in the world as a psychotherapist and as a single parent much of the time. My husband was too depressed to work for a couple of years until we flew into primal country. I shut down my private practice for a year so both of us could attend the Primal Center in California, 3,000 miles away from our home in Ithaca, NY. This became my salvation to learning how to truly love. This is WHY we ARE on this planet….to EVOLve, by learning how to keep the LOVE that babies ARE born with, alive. Just look into their eyes! What do you see?

They stARE at you…with wide-eyed (I’d) openness. There is no fear. They smile with abandon. They grip your finger with trust. They FEEL all their feelings without reservation. They cry and giggle. WHY is it that we ARE drawn to their joy?

Children are curious about the simplest things, like an ant crawling along the sidewalk. They voice the wisest statements like my three-year-old granddaughter while picking up pretty stones on the beach: “I’ll put this rock back in the water so it will grow.” Emily knew water is essential to growth as I have found out that tears ARE for all of us in order to LOVE, everyone.

My fourth marriage triggered repressed rage and anger that became the surfboard into an ocean of tears. I had fought with my mother all growing up about the rigid rules of our “born again” religion, as well as over defending my father whom I felt she unfairly criticized. During one of those fights, my mother yells, “He’s not your father!” I was sixteen, so stunned that I could not remember what I did after hearing those words, for many years. I was left alone with my pain. When in my thirties, I asked WHY no one talked to me after running out of the house, crying, she said,

“I thought you’d just get over it.”

I did not just get over it. My once very close relationship with my father, who had adopted me, by signing his name on my birth certificate, became less close, less trusting, as I would not let him hug me as I had before that secret was revealed. It still makes me sad that we could not work through those painful feelings together. My daddy-dad, as I now refer to him died suddenly of a heart attack when I was 31.

While I was in nursing school, he wrote detailed letters to me weekly, this one on April 7, 1969:

“Since you have been delving into psychiatry and have, as a result gained greater insight into your own makeup and the things that motivate you, I had hoped to have an opportunity to discuss your reaction, or rather, a particular part of it, to me, with you. It did however not materialize and so I am wondering about it in this letter. Please do not feel compelled to answer if you’d rather not. Your answer would in no wise change what or how I feel about you – my love for you and my concern. There is, however a reason for your rather strong reaction to physical contact with me and I was just curious, if you had come to grips with that, or discovered the reason for it. I must be quick to point out, that I do and always will respect your feelings on the matter and that I will never press for, or expect a change. Above all, I want you to feel entirely free in my presence and do know that I have no complaints. It is, on the one hand, a matter of curiosity and on the other, it might be a little easier for me if I knew the reason. There are still times, when I have had to make a real effort to keep my distance, since by nature I tend to be demonstrative, but it is an effort I gladly make if you prefer. (No, daddy, I don’t prefer NOW! As my tears now state) Above all, I want you to always feel free and at ease. Well enough of that.”

Well, no, not enough of that! At this very minute my tears ARE making me awARE once again of the fact that I am grieving that hurt: daddy-dad and I never discussed the pain of our physical distance that demonstrated our emotional distance – our fear - to be truly vulnerable with each other. With everyone.

My father, as we all do, had his repressed pain, his fear of rejection of my love, so much so that he would “never press for or expect a change.” It is WHY I now believe that to press someone is a very loving action….to take the time to face our fears of being rejected so that we can fly into the sky of deeper love, where there are no obstacles to our ability to love. As I have continued to grieve my past pain, connecting my tears to my childhood feelings that ARE triggered by present relationships, I have lost all my anger that I had carried around for much of my life. Yes, I still become annoyed, but can now immediately ask myself, “What is the hurt?” I am feeling which is defended and protected by anger.

Then, I express the hurt either in my journal, and/or to the person that triggered it, constructively, if it seems helpful to the relationship growing into more closeness of LOVE; like what happens by feeling the tears of sadness that ARE triggered by reading daddy-dad’s letters which express admiration and love for “what you ARE…that you ARE,” in his 2/12/68 and 4/7/69 letters to me.

When you think about it; your body’s natural desire to cry is for the purpose of letting go of pain, whether it is physical or emotional. Yet, endorphins, proteins with potent analgesic (pain-relieving) properties that occur naturally in the brain, are found only in emotional tears. So, if we hold tears inside because we have been taught not to cry, we cause our body to express other physical symptoms that result in illnesses. If we prevented other bodily functions such as sweating, urinating, etc., we would die. When we don’t allow ourselves to cry - our ability to love dies. We become angry which distances us from loving one another.

What is amazing about this EVOLving spiritual belief of mine is that I FEEL my trust in the universe growing, (which I call the DOU, Design of the Universe) as I feel more trust in my tear-filled-self everyday. A few years ago, after beginning this tear-laden journey, I became awARE of more connections within the universe, even in our language, as can be seen in the capitalized words, where who you really ARE is part of the word awARE. Once we become more aware of our deeply buried feelings, connect them to their source, we FEEL more compassionate for ourselves, which eventually rolls over into compassion for others, instead of anger and hate. (Notice: aWaRe…when we are no longer at war within ourselves – we become who we ARE meant to be – LOVE - like babies are.)

The Buddhists have spoken and written of the “ONEness” we ARE meant to be; yet most of us are not connected to that ONEness that is created by profound LOVE.

A few years ago, I was excited to see within the word EVOLution, the first four letters reflected backwards spells LOVE. Later, I discovered that the whole word reflected in the mirror spells a sentence, our purpose for being alive: NO–IT-U-LOVE! Are you smiling now, like I am?

As the 13^th century poet Rumi has said, “When the shell of my heart breaks open, tears shall pour forth, and they shall be called the pearls of god.” Then, you will feel the divine love within your self.

And as one of my male clients said during a session in 2007, “I have to embrace pain and be in love with that.” Margery Williams wrote: “Real isn’t how you ARE made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become Real.” “Does it hurt?” asked the rabbit. “Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse for he was always truthful. “When you ARE Real you don’t mind being hurt.”

Then, you will be able to see all the words within “HEARTS!”

You need an EAR in order to HEAR your HERT (phonetically) which brings forth TEARS, that can connect HE to SHE, because they can SHARE who they truly ARE by letting go of HATE, we can EAT of mother EARTH’s rich bounty and be a STAR! When you STARE into each other eyes, you will want to open your HEARTs to LOVE! This I believe whole heartedly!

Washington Irving wrote:

“There is sacredness in tears. They ARE not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief…and unspeakable LOVE.”

Now you know WHY my license plate reads: CRYBABE!

IT’S NOT THE TURKEY’S FAULT

2009-10-16T08:41:00.000-07:00

Centerfold from "EVOLution of an Orgasm"

I sit alone in the Cornell University’s movie theater, waiting for “Love and Sex” to begin. I’ve been without a boyfriend, partner, spouse, for over two years - something that is good for me, but tastes like spinach not well-washed, without any dressing.

Yes, I am an attractive woman; people say I am a Faye Dunaway look alike, but that doesn’t usher in the “love of my life.”

I’ve always enjoyed sex, despite being deprived until I was 22, a virgin for my husband that I’d hoped and been duped to believe would be my one and only. Like I am the only one in this movie theater – until just now, one middle-aged couple chooses seats four rows behind me. Then, a fortyish woman drops into her cushioned fold up chair by herself, and now two college girls. All delicately spaced throughout the rows, as if trees competing for the sunlight. Who comes to a movie like this at five in the afternoon?

I asked my friend Steve to come along, but he had things to do. He’s been a friend for eighteen years; we weave in and out of each other’s lives like night-lights, plugged in, or pulled out. When my two daughters were in elementary school, they would come with me to Cornell’s Teagle Hall, where I would lift weights, and Steve would mind them while he handed out towels. They loved Steve “Teagle,” as we called him, a jokester, and lover of children. But I had to turn down his offer of romantic love back then, because I was not physically attracted to him, although I loved his spirit.

I’ve been to Steve’s house for parties, run with his blind friend, bought his children’s book, seen movies with him. He’s written newspaper articles about me. He’s helped me with self- publishing. We’ve had many talks about his or my marital difficulties, and shared his children’s friendship with my granddaughter. Once, our naked bodies met in a hot tub at a friend’s party. My hand found his erect penis underneath the water, others not suspecting our playfulness. Our eyes met, but never our lips. Just hugs of appreciation.

Summer 2000 changed that. Our paths crossed again, this time at the annual June Ithaca Festival. Only his daughters were with him, he being separated from his wife for two years, like me from my husband. Steve was still trying to revive his marriage; I was not. I danced with Steve on the soft green grass, helplessly noticing how his biceps and pectoral muscles had filled out. The glimmer in my eye now reflected his, which I had not been reciprocated in the past. I began to wonder what it would be like to make love with this man, whose great heart I’d always admired.

In August, I saw Steve again while I was dancing on the Ithaca Commons, outside in the sticky air. It was near my birthday, and he offered to give me a massage for a birthday gift. I, laughingly, took him up on it for some future date.

My heart was softened again, as I read his Thanksgiving Ithaca Times article about his two daughters, and how they taught him to cheer for the rat’s survival on their farm. I smile as I write, thinking what a rat I’d become, causing Steve’s focus to swerve from his marriage, conflicted over what was his responsibility, and what was mine. I knew Steve was not “the love of my life,” and that our honest friendship could stay just that.

The day before Thanksgiving, I was depositing money at the bank, and as I left I told the teller, “Have a great Thanksgiving.” She replied, “I will, and I’ll probably gain ten pounds due to the turkey.” Without hesitation, I came back with, “It’s not the turkey’s fault.” We laughed, and she said, “Well then, it’s the pie’s fault.

It’s a Sunday December morning when Steve arrives at my glass door with his massage table in hand. He finds the space in front of my wood stove an ideal place for bodies to be born naked to the tender firm strokes of his farm-worked hands. I had not known until now that he went to massage school back in 1979. I hadn’t had a full body massage in years, and hadn’t particularly felt the need, but the almond oil of human contact from a dear friend was welcomed. We talked for the hour of his laying of hands to my body. I felt Steve’s respect of not only my body, but also for my person. His touch was not sexual in any way. I felt my heart connecting to my loins as we explored where each of us was in our relationships. Deep things. He said there was an unspoken agreement between him and his wife that they could be sexual with others while they were separated, waiting for each other to change. Waiting for his wife to find therapy as a way to salvage their marriage, as Steve continued his. I wondered again about my responsibility. I’ve

always been too responsible for others, my needs lagging behind like a toddler trying to walk as fast as its parent.

Steve became so warm near the end of the massage that he took off his long sleeved sweat- shirt, revealing his bare chest. I wondered again at what is happening to me. I would go with my heart. Like a cherub, I rose off the massage table, and I hugged Steve a big thank you that has no words. Our hands held each other, my head to his chest, his hands up and down my back. The almond oil brought our bodies together where there is no separation of oil from vinegar. My head

bent back, and our lips met for the first time in eighteen years. I wondered at their wideness. After a minute of consensual kissing, I asked, “Are you all right with this?”

“If you are.”

I was. I took his hand like a child would, and led him upstairs to my white iron bed, where my one remaining piece of clothing was removed. And his. I was all at once amazed, accepting, and comfortable with what was happening. I was trusting my heart to become whole. We felt our skin meld into each other’s like long-lost kin. I felt the ocean waves rise and fall as he so tenderly wandered my body. I looked up at Steve and said, “Since this summer, I’ve wondered what it would be like to make love to you.” He replied with a smile, “I’ve wondered that for eighteen years.” We laughed. We returned to the waves of our souls, closing our eyes to feel the center-delight of our bodies. “Afternoon Delight” played along as our fingers played. I opened my eyes to say, “Look at me,” and his blue eyes and John Travolta mouth reminded me of my brother’s face. I felt connected again. I now felt attracted to this man physically, as well as to his heart and mind. I told him so. “This is (w)holy.”

“Well, we are in church,” Steve grinned as he has just entered me. “The Bible says our body is the temple of God.” Holy Spirit, I thought to myself. I chuckled as I said, “Yes, it is Sunday! What a great way to know the Divine, it is truly what church is!” I laughed heartily because I was happy to have made this greater connection to the divine love in us all through this man who has seen it in us for 18 years. And my tears were for the sadness of not seeing the goodness in myself for all my growing up years. Not until I was 38 years old! In 1984. When I left the organized church…

And opened my heart, like I do deeply in my weekly crying sessions with Susanne, where I have come to experience the critical healing that tears provide. Even my male Bangladesh client says, “Crying makes me happy.” After ten years of this heart-opening work, it has become easier for me to connect my irritation to the hurt child walled off and defended by the anger, because the tears spout only when specific words roll off my tongue. Sometimes I surprise myself as to when my tears spontaneously appear, like when I spoke the exact words that I had said to the bank teller: “It’s not the turkey’s fault.” I began to cry as I spoke those syllables, and immediately I connected this seemingly off-the-cuff statement to how I had always felt, feelings hidden in the crevices of my heart. From age three on, every week, I heard in Sunday School how “it was my fault” that I didn’t deserve god’s love. I had been born in original sin. Through my tears, I’ve

had the image (several times) of me falling off the small chair I sat in close to the Sunday School table, where we gayly sang, “Jesus Loves Me This I Know.” The knowing was in my brainwashed mind only, not in my heart, where tears tell me my truth - that I am loveable, and so sad not to have felt that for so long.

Now, less than four hours after my “church” experience with Steve, I’m waiting for “Love and Sex,” to begin. The lights are dimming, as the movie splashes the big white screen with color. Just enough light to see a slightly built man about to sit down four rows in front of me. “Ken,” I say, full of surprise. He immediately comes and folds down the chair next to me. It is another one of those synchronous moments, where Ken’s and my life intertwine, meeting at the most auspicious times and places. As if energy of certain colors flies together like those of the rainbow after a storm. Ken, like Steve, is another friend with whom I’ve connected on an intellectual level, without the physical attraction crystalizing in me. We figure for about sixteen years. And like Steve, our paths cross every few months. My surprise is doubled this day, because it is Steve and Ken meeting me on the same day!

After the movie, Ken has forty-five minutes before an appointment, so we meet at a nearby bagel shop, where he buys lasagna, and I ask for a cup of hot herbal tea. I leave it up to him to pick the flavor. While he orders, I find a table where we can sit. He tells me he ordered vanilla almond. My mouth flaps open. “Unbelievable,” I gasp.

I tell him about the almond oil used for the massage I had that day. About the four almonds I eat every day to ward off body toxins. There is no reason for either of these men to know that I like almond. Almond, I later notice, can be split into al-mond. Mond comes from Latin, then French (monde), and Italian (mondo), meaning world. So almond can mean all-of-the-world. So today, have I connected with all-of-the-world?

Or all of me? Or at least most of me? The divine source of me? Is it no longer my fault, that I am unworthy of god’s love? I can still play by memory “I Am Not Worthy, the least of his (god’s) favor,” on the piano. Out of five years of piano lessons, it is the only song still committed to memory.

The following Sunday, Brian, my platonic friend of eight years known mainly as a dance partner, has dinner with me after our practice. I think about the “turkey” as I eat my chicken breast dressed in its Mexican spicy black bean sauce. I tell Brian about my synchronicity with Steve and Ken during our mouthfuls. I forget to tell about the almonds. The waitress asks if we would like dessert. Brian asks what are the choices. She lists: chocolate decadence cake, flan, almond nut pound cake, Mexican ice cream and raspberry torte. I tell Brian to choose.

“We’ll share the almond cake.”