Sunday, September 6, 2009

An Open Letter to Alice Miller

Dear Alice:
I found you by chance
or maybe not
a click away as I perused all things parenting
It is my passion
All thoughts expand back to be enveloped by it
as if it's the good earth and fertilizer all in one
the pool of hope and possibility
the prayer for a happy beginning, a fulfilled ending
We, you and I, Alice, share a knowledge
and although I was not looking for validation, I found it
Are we the only ones who know this?  Who care?
How precious is a life.
How definitive is a child's earliest emotional experiences to the remainder of his life.
How awesome, as in comprehensive, is every parent's responsibility.
How often are children clinically or educationally 'treated' for the negative effects
of their parenting.
How often are parents released from learning by 'they did their best'.
I write not to blame but to inspire,
to encourage change in thought and action;
to gently but persistently dispute a subtle, enduring, damaging belief system.
And to acknowledge a role in life that offers a healing
for those who are blessed to call themselves parents.
More emotionally healthy people walking around
More authenticity to find and share
to access
for us all.
Alice, do you hear me?
Your friend in all things childhood,
aka (under construction!)

p.s.  Maida Bellpepper is my safe, secure, beloved childhood; the enduring foundation upon which all crazy challenges of my life find resolution; without which I would not be my authentic, happy self.
Although not without minor neuroses, I am eternally grateful to my parents and huge extended family for their consistent love, respect and care that I never questioned.  They were passing along how their parents parented them.  I just got lucky.

Etude in G

Garbled genius ghostlike beneath too much gin
A gourmet mind now a mere garnish
The grandeur gone from our conversation
The potential embers a fading glow
The goodwill between us gliding, sliding down his throat into gut drowning suppressed feelings by yet another glass of booze.
Glancing at the clock I am panicked by the passing time. Our moments together governed by his rank and file and the goodwill of the war machine.
He's scared. He's different. I glide my fingers into the small tuck behind his left ear.... our secret spot.... as my lips gloss over the nape of his neck. A gust of knowing acts as go-between to our hearts, and there is a gentle connection still.
Damn the grenades and other ghastly goods of war. I will find this man again and nurture the garden of true love we once shared.