Know thyself

Someone said that Aristotle said, "knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom." That sounds like some really smart thing to say, and from the little I know, Aristotle was a really smart cat. So I believe he probably did say it. But what the hell does it mean? What does "knowing yourself" mean? And even if you "know yourself" at some point in time, is it possible to not "know yourself" at other times? Based on personal experience, I have to say, "yes" it is entirely possible. Was there a time in my life when I thought I knew myself? You bet there was. When I was young and stupid, I thought I knew everything. Not only did I know myself, but I knew people in general and above all - I knew how the world worked. During that time in my life, what I knew - or thought I knew - about me was that I was sure footed, confident, organized, anal, focused, goal-driven, compassionate, empathetic, argumentative, aggressive, kind, generous, no nonsense, secure in the knowledge that I would never be a victim, a good friend, of average intelligence, a lover of music, a believer in God, a hard worker, a good negotiator, sharp tongued, a righter of wrongs and on and on. In addition to all of this, I knew - without a doubt - that I was a "fat girl with a pretty face" that a man would never love. A man could not love me because I was fat. It did not matter that I had a "pretty face". It did not matter that I had at least some positive qualities. It only mattered that I was fat. I knew that because I had been told that by my parents - good, loving, honest people who would never lie to me or steer me wrong. Then, somehow, the impossible happened. A man loved me. I loved him. We did what two people in love do. We got married. And then it happened. I stopped "knowing myself". It's as if I woke up one day and no longer recognized myself. I looked in the mirror and an image looked back at me. I did not recognize her; I did not know her. I seem to have lost the attributes that used to make me, me. I'm not confident. I'm not organized. Hell I can't even figure out how to sit down and get the bills paid. Bills I have been paying for year and suddenly I feel clueless about what to do or when to do it. I have no goals. My compassion, for the most part, has left me. I don't care if I'm a victim, I question everything knowing only that I know nothing . . . not really. Music no longer matters to me - I'd just as soon listen to talk radio. I seem to create more wrongs then I fix. I go to work, but I don't want to. And God has become this big question mark in my mind. I don't feel connected to anyone or anything. The mass which is my body just seems to take up space - wasting precious natural resources. But hey, I'm still fat! Didn't lose that. Didn't lose that knowledge. I wake up every morning and the first thought I have is. . . how fat am I today? How is it that the beginning of all wisdom. . . for me anyway. . . lies in the knowledge that I am fat? I don't know anything else - not anymore, but I know that one thing. That one fact. I am fat. That's what I know. That's the beginning of my wisdom. Ha! Fat people die young. Fat people miss out on so much life - so much living - because their bodies simply will not let them engage in physical activities - fun stuff that skinny people get to do on a regular basis. So thank you Aristotle for your wisdom. What I know at 51 is that I have a fat body. I am fat. I will die young and I won't get to have much fun along the way because carrying too much blubber around is too fucking hard. Is there any wonder I hate life?

Happy Mother's Day

On Sunday we will celebrate mothers all over the world. At least I hope they are celebrated all over the world and not just here in the United States. Mothers, regardless of where they live, deserve celebrating! They work so hard, sacrifice so much, taking care of those they love asking for little in return. So a day to honor Her is certainly in order. And that day has come again this year. My, my time passes quickly. Where did it all go? Seems like just yesterday, I lay in my tiny little bed plagued with the mumps while my own mommy did her very best to cure me, reassure me and love me. That was more than 40 years ago. And each and every year since I was old enough to know, I have tried to celebrate my mom on Her special day. . . Mother’s Day. This year I want to do things just a tad bit differently. Sadly, I will never experience childbirth. I will never hold an infant in my arms with the full realization that this unique little being was created by God, my husband and myself. I will never hear those special, magical words, “Mommy, I love you.” Is there a sadness in me because of this? You bet there is! But! As sad as I am that I will never have a child of my own, I’m full of joy with the knowledge that I have a mom - a mom who loves me unconditionally - a mom who loses sleep over me even after all these years - a mother who would lay down her very life if she thought it would save mine. Not only that, but I have an aunt who - in her own special way - has been my mommy too. I’m what you call doubly blessed! Whatever do I mean? As I sit here thinking about what a mother is, what a mother represents, I am full of ideas. Of course there’s the biology. Only one woman can give birth to her child. But does the sheer act of childbirth make a mother? Not in my view of things. A mother is so much more than biology. A mother is there smiling from ear to ear as her three year old asks her for the 25th time, “why” they can’t have another cookie before dinner. A mom is the person sitting on the toilet (patiently) while her little girl excitedly shares her school day and beams with pride as she demonstrates her new ability to spell E-L-E-P-H-A-N-T. A mom is the understanding ear that really listens as her pubescent daughter tells her all about Tommy, the boy who broke her heart by liking Lisa better than he likes her. A mom is the person who teaches her child to be kind and empathetic and patient and loving and respectful of others, while at the same time delivering a powerful blow of her own to any no-good who would dare to harm a hair on her child’s head. A mom is the person who cooks and cleans and works to provide for all her child’s needs and who would walk to the end of the earth to try and obtain even one of her child’s wants. A mom’s heart beats not only for herself, but also for her child. It just does. If her child’s heart hurts, then so does the mom’s. If a child’s heart skips a beat, then so does the mom’s. Whether pain or pleasure, a mom is the person standing right there letting her child know, always, that they never walk alone. A mom is, my mom is, . . . so many wonderful things. But. . . What about the woman who didn’t give birth to you, but mothered you just the same? What about her? I have such a woman in my life. See. . . told you. . . I’m doubly blessed! She, the woman of which I speak, is My Aunt Fern. I say, “My”, with a capital “M” to try and emphasize the ownership I feel towards her. She is so wonderful, I want to keep her all to myself. Don’t want to have to share even though my mama taught me better. Truthfully, there’s nothing to worry about. My Aunt Fern is just the sort of woman who has enough motherly love to go around. In other words, sharing never really feels like sharing. She has a way of making each and every one of us feel special - as if we’re the only one. My beautiful Aunt Fern used to gently and patiently comb through my long hair - getting out all the rats - without ever pulling - without ever causing my tender head an ounce of pain. She was also the there the day I became a young lady. Oh how embarrassed I was, but somehow she knew and somehow she made it all ok. Just like my own mama would have. She made summers fun for me too. I couldn’t wait for school to let out so I could go to her farm and play and play and play the days away. . . waiting for her to come home from work and play with me some more. Whether it was a trip down the old gravel road to the local Dairy “B” for an ice cream. . . or two, whether it was a trip to the lake for an early evening swim or whether it was a fun filled night at the baseball diamond watching The Queen and her Court or Donkey-ball, she always found time. . . she always made time. . . to show her love. She sacrificed for me, just like my own mother did. And when I became an adult, that didn’t change a bit. For 51 years now, she has loved me as if I were her own. . . unconditionally. Life has a way of coming full circle. I mentioned earlier that I’d never know the joy of holding my own baby in my arms. While that is true, it is also true that the moms in my life will never know the joy of a mother’s love. Not like I know it anyway. Sure they had a mother. She was the “biology” kind. She gave them birth. And for that, I will always be grateful. But she didn’t do right by them. She didn’t love them the way a mother should. Unlike me, she had the opportunity to hold her babies and squeeze them and love them and rock them gently to sleep, but she threw it all away. For reasons we will never know, she didn’t mother her children the way they had a right to be mothered. And though my moms didn’t know the love - the real love of a mother - they both excelled at being moms - to me, to my brother and to my cousins, John, Paul Eddie and Nancy Jean. So I can’t be too heartbroken about not having a baby of my own. While I’ll never have a child sit in my lap and whisper in my ear, “I love you mommy”, I am blessed that I have two moms that would let me sit in their laps any day of any week and whisper, “I Love You Mama”. On this Mother’s Day, may you both feel the joy - the real joy - that true motherhood brings. If life ever gets you down, I want you to think back on this day and all the days before and remember - you gave all the children in your life. . . especially this child . . . the most precious gift of all. . . your unconditional, undying love. You did it right. Every single bit of it. With all the love and affection my human heart is capable of holding. . . Happy, Happy Mother’s Day.