Joan Anderson

The other day my brother called with an invitation. He had recently converted our father’s home movies to a DVD and he wondered if I would like to partake, he said, in some real “living history.”

I expected an afternoon of watching ourselves literally grow up—staged vignettes circa 1940 to 1950, a la Father Knows Best. Surely my brother and I would be the leading characters in the family drama although I felt certain there would be plenty of supporting characters such as grandparents and our parents themselves.

Settling into an easy chair with a glass of wine in hand, I was ready to be awash in nostalgia. There would certainly be tears as I watched my now deceased parents produce Christmas year after year, along with birthday parties, and family holidays.

Talk about experiencing metamorphosis—watching myself change right before my very own eyes!

My father (who must have fancied himself to be part Cecil B. DeMille) had captured all manner of our growth and development from zero to 10, beginning with the hospital delivery room, my first bottle, messy highchair meals, being wheeled in my pram or pulled in a sleigh, crying to get out of the play pen, taking a first step, being an angel in the Christmas pageant, back yard antics, and more.

For awhile, it was amusing to look back on a young life that would never have been made so vivid if not for these movies. But in reality, my “sixty something” vision detected, not a life as it really was, but how our parents wanted our lives to be seen. The back-story was intriguing and enormously revealing. It was time to put down my wine and straighten up, to search the images for body language, expressions, real joy or staged, fabricated fun.

I began to see many physical characteristics as my own– the deeply creased brow of one grandmother, the grin of another, a large frame and head like my father, and the porcelain skin of his father.

As time went on, there were the similarities in personality as well. I hadn’t realized how particular my mother was, detail oriented and very much in control, like me, addicted to perfection for sure and a father dutifully following her lead trying hard not to make waves within the relationship– again, like me. All the women seemed to be in control, not following the rules of others. The matriarchy was alive and well in this family. No wonder I have since made it my cause!

My mother and her mother fought hard to be individuals and I feel that fight in me. What’s more, they strove to make my brother and me originals—no carbon copies here—being different and individual was a virtue.

My mentor Joan Erikson believed that we arrive with genetic traits formed in utero—we’re meant not to ignore them but to use them. “Some things you just can’t change,” she would say. “They are indelibly printed on your soul. You’ve no choice but to go with it—use these strengths—build on them.”

It is spring. The perennials are coming up all over the lawn—pushing up from the cold, dark soil and making themselves seen. So it is with me. The perennial aspects of my personality should not be hidden anymore.

Last week I visited an amazing place in Rockford, Illinois – an organization called Womanspace. Started by two forward thinking (and somewhat rebellious) Roman Catholic nuns back in 1974, their headquarters are warm and inviting, nestled near a pine forest—a quiet place away from the madding crowd with a meditation garden nearby and beyond, the most extraordinary labyrinth.

Stepping into this thoughtfully designed haven, one feels immediately as if she has come home. Meant to be a refuge, it has the spirit of a sanctuary—peaceful, calm, and oh, so welcoming.  That they could imagine, way back when, that such a place would be a necessity, not just a luxury in a world changing too fast for anyone’s good, is indeed a blessing.

I had long since known that primitive tribes so revere a woman’s spirit—her intuition and instinct to be precise– that they send their women away eight times a year to such a place. The tribal fathers had a knowing that all would be well if women could be  off duty and together in a natural setting, free from work to simply feel safe and contemplate what really matters.

It occurred to me that we all need sacred space—womanspace. The world so often comes crashing in on us compassionate people-pleasers that if we don’t find our own refuge we too, will crash.

I returned home moved and determined–intent on redesigning my office, making it my haven, a place with only objects and artwork of my choosing. And because I love the sound of water, I am purchasing one of those fountains that you plug in and it gurgles away all day long.

All women should have a material place within their home and a place outside—in nature—to which she can retreat. Where would that be for you and can you find a corner in your abode? Happy hunting and do indulge yourself.

Last week I found myself in Ketchum, Idaho visiting my grandkids—an out doors playground for the rich, famous, and very fit!  A highlight of the trip was trudging out to an immense field of snowy mountains to watch the Nordic Ski races. Some three hundred very fit and very young skiers had flown in from all over the world to compete for 4 days in this winter wonderland. It was thrilling to be close up and personal with Olympians and others working their way toward such accomplishment.

For a while it was exciting to watch event after event as these thin, trim, muscular men and women did their thing, each motion smooth and skilled, each stride seemingly effortless. It wasn’t until they crossed the finish line and collapsed, (literally!) that I realized what training and discipline it must take to be accomplished in this sport.

Eager to take it all in, I attempted to run from one trail to another to catch a glimpse of the front runners but alas, both the altitude (6500 feet) and my no longer youthful somewhat out of shape body inhibited me from seeing much. I found myself wishing I had had an individual sport when I was young—that I would have cared more about conditioning and athletics, both of which would have come in handy with the onslaught of aging.

As I watched the awards being handed out and the beaming faces standing before me on the podium, I vowed to begin once again and give my body the attention it deserves. I bought myself a pedometer—10,000 steps a day, they say, will not only jump start one’s metabolism but keep the doctor away.

Try walking that far—it’s actually fun competing against yourself.