Desperately Seeking Acceptance

 

My upcoming book, How My Unborn Children Saved My Life, is a spiritual story of my journey to wholeness. It navigates the terrain of abortion and narcissism and how my unborn children led me to find my way out of a world of unhealthy behaviors.

Often we do not realize how broken we are and it takes an earth-shattering event to shake us from the world of illusion that we live in. 

We are born and raised into a world that over time becomes our “normal” way of living. Yet we can become so disconnected from the truth of who we are that we have little hope of discovering who we truly are without a crisis to ignite our transformation. 

I recently met two women who grew up in a household where narcissism was their mothers’ defining character trait. Both of these women were givers and both of them wanted more than anything else to be loved and acknowledged by their parents. And yet their mothers were so self-centered that it was impossible for them to clearly see their daughters and recognize their needs. I understood their stories well. Their stories were so similar to my own. 

I realize as I come full circle in my own life and understand why I made certain choices, why my life brought me in the directions it did. I understand that as human beings we all have one thing in common:

We desire acknowledgment and love from our parents. 

Our unborn children are no different.

I believe whether we have had an abortion or we have lost children through miscarriage, they are spiritual beings who chose us as their parents. They saw a beauty and light in us that made them want to be a part of our lives. 

Part of the healing journey from our pregnancy losses is their healing journey as well. They desire what we also desire – acknowledgement and love from their parents. 

It makes sense, doesn’t it? How many of us strived for a good part of our lives wanting to be seen and cherished by our parents? How many of us studied to get straight A’s or perhaps even developed a negative behavior just to get our parents’ attention? I think it is an unusual human being who has not been caught up in wanting such recognition. 

Why would our spirit children, our unborn angels, be any different?

The moment I connected with my unborn children, my life began to change. The heaviness in my being lifted and my transformational journey began.  

In fact, opening up to the bond of my unborn has led me to a deeper connection with my embodied children. Both my born and unborn children have taught me so much. The very least I can do is acknowledge and thank them for it.


Namaste.

Why We Really Need to Tell Our Stories

My good friend and author Susan Westbrook, of the extraordinary new book The Five TibetansYoga Workshop, believes that “We tell our story so others will tell theirs.” It is in telling our story that we give others permission not only to tell theirs, but if we do it right, sharing with an open heart and deep vulnerability, then they will share their story the same way.

But sharing our stories honestly and with integrity isn’t always easy to do.

Last week, at a conference of transformational leaders and visionaries from around the globe, I had the opportunity to speak to the concern of being vulnerable and authentic in storytelling.

I shared with the audience how difficult that experience was for me. I wrote no less than six drafts of my story for the Amazon bestseller, Pebbles in the Pond –Wave 2. I think the actual number was eight, with the final version coming out in draft nine. Each draft took me deeper into the land of vulnerability and opening my heart. Each draft brought me closer to the truth of who I was. You see, by committing to writing this story, I had also made a commitment to myself. Sharing my story has certainly given others a place of comfort in sharing theirs, but it also gave me a chance to know myself better; to take responsibility for my life, and to finally begin to live as an empowered woman, not a victim.

Writing and sharing my story was a spiritual practice; one that brought me profound inner healing. 

What I didn’t share at the conference last week was that writing my story was not something I consciously chose to do. Just like being awoken from the repressed feelings of my abortion when I had a miscarriage, the sharing of my story was something that chose me.

I spent years doing the inner work I needed to do to heal from my abortion. And yet each time I thought I was done with it, I received a message from the Universe gently letting me know that there was still much more work around this subject that needed to be addressed. No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t escape it. My grandmother’s confession was my first realization of that, but over time the message was felt in other ways as well.

Never in a million years did I imagine I would write about pregnancy loss, abortion and our unborn children – definitely all of them suppressed, stigmatized and “woo woo” subjects. I was forty years old before I knew that my life’s work would include a significant component of energy around these experiences. Even then I did not envision that I would be writing about them for the whole world to read.

But this thing that I did not imagine, it kept coming back to me. Just when I thought I was done dealing with my abortion, my unborn daughter, or my grandmother’s startling news she shared with me, these events would weave their way into my prayers and dreams and remind me of their presence, of their stories and of their love.

Yes, it is true that I tell my story so others can more easily tell theirs. I also tell my story as a conduit so that my grandmother’s story and my unborn daughter’s presence can be acknowledged and appreciated. You see, for in doing so, in listening to the inner promptings to open my heart and let out the good, the bad, and the ugly, I find I am transformed as well.

Thank you Mor-Mor and Mary, for reminding me of this fact last week.

Namaste.

 

Ritual and Remembrance

Today marks the first day of the 2014-2015 school year for the elementary school children of Santa Rosa, California! Woo hoo! Many parents will breathe a sigh of relief that they can now (hopefully) find a little more sanity in their daily routines, especially those who are working, while the kids get back to the job of expanding their brains. This shift in energy in my city will be palpable, as it always is, but it didn’t happen without some preparation.


Many families have a ritual of doing back-to-school shopping before school starts. A typical shopping spree will likely include new shoes, new jeans, a few shirts, notebooks and pencils, maybe a new lunchbox or backpack. This ritual helps to prepare our children for that first day with more readiness and sparkle. It also helps to ground our kids and ourselves in the experience that is to come. 

The day before school starts, my youngest son’s school posts the classroom listing, the big reveal telling the kids who their teacher will be and who will be in their class, at 4:00 pm on the outside of the main office. It is mayhem, in an exciting way, this congregation of children and parents itching to see where our kids have been placed for the year. It is another step in this ritual of going back to school that moves the experience even closer into reality. Being back on campus, seeing friends again, imagining this new classroom of students brings everyone another step closer to the next day, the first day, of school. 

Rituals have the power to assist us in so many ways when we are in transition. I have discovered it is one of the biggest ways we boost our healing after a pregnancy loss.

I remember thinking it seemed unnecessary to memorialize my unborn children. I did not want to be reminded of their existence. This was true for both of my unborn – the baby I aborted and the one I miscarried. I just wanted to snap my eyes shut and have any thoughts of either of them be gone and buried… without any heavy lifting on my part. 

Our western culture makes non-recognition rather easy, doesn’t it? How often have you heard of an unborn child being remembered in a ceremony? I can only recall hearing about it one other time in my life. 

As part of my Project Rachel retreat, remembering them in a ceremony with several other mothers many years ago was a part of the process that I did because I had to. I did not want to do this as I knew it would hurt. I won’t lie to you. It hurt like nothing I had ever experienced before. But it created one of the biggest shifts for me, bringing me out of the hell I was living in and into a place of peace. It was hands down the hardest thing I have ever done, because I needed to not only acknowledge their existence, but in the case of my aborted daughter, my role in terminating the pregnancy. It was also the most powerful transformational experience I have ever had.

There are many different ways to memorialize our children. An anonymous guest blogger earlier this spring wrote about her ritual at the top of a mountain. I have known several women to find their rituals in nature, in the woods or at the ocean. My guest blogger from last week, Garet Bedrosian, wrote about helping one of her clients to ritualize her baby’s life. The key is to find time and space to do this. Whether we realize it or not, our unborn children are part of our lessons here on earth and their presence in our lives has not been by accident. I believe they want us to acknowledge their existence in our lives. The gift we get in return for that acknowledgement is a peace that is pure, sweet and lasting.

Today, I remember my unborn when their birthdays approach. My neighbors’ birthdays remind me of my daughter and my sons October birthdays remind me of my unborn son’s life. My daughter remembers and acknowledges her siblings during the Day of the Dead celebrations at school now. Like a soldier in a war does not want to be forgotten by his or her family, neither do our unborn. For you and for them, please acknowledge and remember. It can be a beautiful way to heal and to transition into a new place of peace in your life.


Namaste.

 

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A Leap of Faith and Counting Stars (Part One)

It was barely a year ago when my (then) tenth grade daughter expressed her deep and sincere interest to do an exchange program with a student from another country. She had talked about this desire before, but as a single mom in a relatively new area of the country, I didn’t feel remotely prepared for having a fourth child to be responsible for in our home. But last summer, when it came up again, without so much as a second thought, I said “Yeah, okay. Let’s figure it out.”

And thus began a journey of meeting new "family" members that has changed our lives.

My daughter’s school does exchange programs on a regular basis, so it was relatively easy to find an exchange student. Spain, Argentina, and Israel were the immediate choices as participating countries in the program. As Israel quickly became the most viable option, friends and family would ask me how I could consider letting my daughter go there and was I aware of how much violence there was in “that part of the world.” I don’t know how I knew everything would be fine, but I did. From the beginning, this felt like the right place for her to go and I had absolutely no worries about it. Not one. Ever.

My new “son”, Gilad, came to us first, less than two months later to stay for three and a half months. I still remember meeting this tired, unshaven, guitar toting young man at the airport. Just like a mother instantly knows her baby when it is born, we knew immediately that he was “ours” as he walked through security.

His presence brought so many wonderful things to our family. My boys, a ninth and third grader respectively, loved him. A common connection among boys is sports, and soccer, basketball, and swimming became the language for instant friendship between the three of them. My youngest son joined a basketball team this year, and I am sure it was due solely to the personal coaching and encouragement he got from his new "brother".

All of my kids were amazed by how easily new skills came to Gilad. While he was here, he decided to learn how to do a back flip and within 30 minutes had taught himself how do to it on our front yard. When my older son asked him how he did that, he replied “I don’t know. I just believe that I can do it, and I can.”

Out of the mouths of babes . . .

One day, a new Jewish friend taught me the word, “bracha”, which means blessing in Hebrew. I was excited to tell Gilad I had learned some Hebrew. He said, “Oh, yes, that is a good word. I do this every morning.” I was curious so I asked for more information from him. He told me every morning before he gets out of bed, he gives blessings for what he has been given. He blesses the air he breathes, the ground beneath his feet, the clothes on his back. He blesses life itself and is so grateful to choose to live it each day. His list goes on.  The stunning thing for me to see as he told me this about his practice was that this 15 year old boy was deeply connected to this ritual, and truly felt a deep appreciation for the things he shared with me. Living in a culture of “whoever has the most toys wins”, I was in awe of his sincerity and belief.

He loved music and one thing I miss is the sound of his guitar strumming in the evenings. He taught himself to play the OneRepublic song, “Counting Stars” while he was here. He used the internet to learn the chords and practiced over and over until he got it right. In learning this song, just like learning to back flip, he taught us that if we put our minds to it, we can do anything.

I wondered for most of his time here what he was receiving from living with us. It was soccer season here, and between school, practices, and games for the three different teams the kids all played on, there wasn’t much time to explore California. School was very different here than it was back home and that was very frustrating to him. I knew he missed home terribly and in fact, there were times when I thought he might leave early.

He did stay until the end as planned. I wondered what he brought home with him from his experience. His father tells me that he sees a new, more mature and accepting young man. He is more content with his life and has a new sense of calmness about him. He tells his father how grateful he was to have been able to live in California. And I imagine there is some sense of gratitude for having his father in his life, as he lived here in a household without one for the first time in his life.

 

It’s amazing to me to think about our new ties to Israel. It is a country 8,000 miles from us, and misunderstood by many in the world. Despite the warnings of those around us, the bonds forged between our two families were deep and immediate. Gilad’s father and I agree that our children have chosen us, and we are both profoundly grateful for their choosing. Our children, whether by blood or spirit, born or unborn, have so much to share with us when we relax and open our hearts.

In next week’s post, I will share how my daughter’s experience living in Israel gave her soul the nourishment she so deeply needed.

Namaste.

 

Protecting the Children

 

My report cards when I was a kid are pretty consistent – I was quiet, reserved, smart, and helpful. I was not a drama queen, nor did I take risks. So I think I surprised myself, as well as those who knew me, in December 1985 when I had my first real experience of being courageous. It was the first time I felt the protectiveness of a lioness.

I was an accountant for a CPA firm in Boston. My boyfriend had taken the day off work with three of his buddies and they had been holiday shopping. They decided to stop at Clark’s, a bar around the corner from my office, before heading home. The bar was loud as I wended my way through the crowd to meet them after work.  

Mark was excited to show me his purchases. He was particularly pleased with a sweater he had chosen for his sister, his eyes dancing with delight as he showed it to me. As we were looking through the rest of his gifts, three women came over, flirting with his friends. They did not stay long and we laughed when they left about the guys getting “hit on.” Not much later, we put on our coats and reached for our belongings. Mark, however, couldn’t find several of his bags, including the one containing the sweater for his sister. We searched and searched, but the bags were gone. It seemed clear that the young women who stopped to flirt were probably not flirting at all, they were setting us up to pilfer the packages. John remembered they had said they were going to Houlihan’s at the other end of Faneuil Hall next. Mark wasn’t too happy thinking about giving up that sweater, and we were both on tight budgets.

It seemed clear: we had to go after them.

Mark, not one to be confrontational, was not excited about tracking the thieves down. His buddies were embarrassed to have been so easily deceived and they were not anxious to meet up with the women again either. But I persisted, and off we went. 

When we got to Houlihan’s, the women were nowhere in sight. We spoke with the hostess, and learned they were in the ladies’ room. Where the guys had hesitated before, I knew they were certainly not going in with me now. I marched into the bathroom. There they were, primping in front of the mirror when I burst in. 

Somehow, it came naturally to me to stand in front of the door, blocking the women’s exit until I had all Mark’s gifts back. I am 5’2” and not a physically dominating presence by any means. But the women handed over the bags.

When I came out carrying Mark’s bags, I am not sure who was more surprised by my actions, them or me. 

I have thought about this encounter many times over the years. It seems symbolic of a protective fierceness I did not know I had. I believe most women have this lioness instinct when it comes to protecting our loved ones. Our bodies were made to create life, and it is natural for us to want to protect life.

So how, then, do we come to have abortions? For myself and for many of the women I have spoken to over the years, we believe we are protecting our children when we choose to have an abortion. I remember for myself feeling that both my baby's life and my own would be dramatically different in a very hard way if I continued with the pregnancy. I foresaw divorce and hard work to make ends meet for myself. I envisioned poverty for both of us.

Was it instinct, intuition, or fear?  Our past (http://christinaehaas.blogspot.com/2013/08/how-childhood-experiences-can-cause-us.html) or present (http://christinaehaas.blogspot.com/2013/09/abortion-can-be-consequence-of-other.html) experiences might have informed us that it is not safe to bring a child into the world and we believe we are protecting our children in making a choice to abort. I wonder, if I had such a strong instinct to protect my boyfriend's sweater, that maybe my instinct to choose an abortion was also a protective mechanism.

When I think back on my grandmother's situation, knowing she chose an abortion at a time when it was not only illegal, but when she could have lost her life (during the Great Depression), I see a woman of great courage. I imagine that with a frail baby and small income already, her choice was made not just to protect her unborn child, but the child she already in her arms. As I wonder about her state of mind some eighty years ago when she made her choice, I find myself awed by her courage.

As I contemplate my situation and that of the many women I have known who have made the same choice, I believe we are each doing what we feel is right to protect the our unborn, and sometimes already born, children. It is not an easy choice, but it is often the most courageous one.


Namaste.