Tag: psychology

Admiration for my Teacher/Mentor/Auntie

 

Admiration

Jean Illesley Clarke

This is Ms. Jean Illsley Clarke.

You can Google Jean and find a number of pictures and videos, and also, references to her books, etc. She’s a very accomplished woman in more than one field. (I’ll even list some at the end of this post.) If you are a parent, a teacher or an adult educator, and have not treated yourself to some Jean Clarke, you have a treat in store.

But none of that published stuff tells you what she is like as a woman, a friend, a beloved “family” member.

The first thing you need to know is that clearly, she lies about her age. As of just a week ago, she was claiming something ridiculous like 92! But this is how she still looks! Come on!

Jean has this amazing presence and presentation that invites Guru-type adoration and attention, which she disallows in such a down to earth way, you feel her equal.

She is an unparalleled teacher and workshop presenter, who can tame the most obnoxious, disruptive students or hecklers, without them ever even knowing it…no shame from Jean…ever.

And, as my Mentor of almost forty years, more like a beloved Aunt now, she has taught me more about myself than anyone. And believe me, I have done a lot of therapeutic soul-searching about myself! That’s partly an occupational necessity…I am a Psychotherapist. (that is ONE word, by the way.) When I think I’ve reached down as dark as it gets, Jean encourages me to dig even deeper. She has helped me hang on in some of the toughest moments of my life.

Imagine this: You tell her your most painful story ever, trusting like never before, and here’s her reaction. She locks her penetrating blue eyes with yours for a long time and gently places her hand on your cheek. Then she says “Oh…(insert your name here)…”.

That’s it. That’s all it takes to know you are seen and heard and are absolutely not alone.

Seriously though, Oprah missed this one. Maybe even Dr. Phil. Not that those two should carry nearly the weight they do in terms of public opinion, but more people on the planet should know about this absolutely amazing woman, and hear about what she advocates.

My deepest admiration is of her ability to, no, her insistence on learning from absolutely everything. She is the consummate student of life. And the ultimate translator of these lessons into language the rest of us can easily understand and USE!

This is my favorite picture with Jean. It was a lovely sunset cruise around Puget Sound for our Staff R and R, after a power-packed, five day Training with about forty students.

 

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Jean Illsley Clarke

Jean Illsley Clarke received a bachelor of science degree from the College of Education and Human Development (CEHD) at the University of Minnesota in 1948. She has been a pioneer and advocate for children and families in the state of Minnesota, across the nation, and internationally for more than three decades. She is widely recognized for her book Self-Esteem: A Family Affair that became the seminal work on how parents could raise children with healthy self-esteem.

From Amazon

Jean Illsley Clarke is an accomplished workshop leader and a nationally certified and internationally known parent educator. She is the author or co-author of several books about families including Self-Esteem: A Family Affair; Growing Up Again, Parenting Ourselves, Parenting Our Children; Time-In: When Time-Out Doesn’t Work; How Much is Enough? Everything You Need to Know to Steer Clear of Overindulgence and Raise Likeable, Responsible, and Respectful Children. Who, Me Lead A Group? is about leadership skills.

She has designed, tested, and taught accompanying courses and has offered facilitator training across America and in other countries. Her books have been translated into eight languages. The developmental affirmations have been translated into ten languages and used with groups as diverse as affluent Americans and disadvantaged South Africans. Recently she has been involved in the five research studies on overindulgence.

Overindulgence talks  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=enw942U421Q

and https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z4VyMXbj1FE

Grandparenting  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ultbBYRQRVk

 

 

Abstract from Harley Road Trip

 

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From Bellevue, Washington to Pacific Grove, California (including camping in the Redwoods). This shot taken right after we were passed by the Hell’s Angels on the freeway next to Lake Shasta …hmm, reminds me of another great story.

Watch for “The Hell’s Angels meet the Mormons”!!

 

Abstract

Still another series for WPC Abstract

Sometimes I think I’m so “artsy”, but then I think I’m pretty funny too, so I may not be the best judge. But you can be. Tell me what you think of these shots of a rotating shadow  on my Group Room wall.

 

Here’s the explanation, Abstract in its own way. This is a gift from a client about “removing her mask” in therapy…..cool, huh?

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Abstract

 

The “Chosen” Future for WPC

Future

If these “impossible” connections can happen…..

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between predator and prey………..

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between newcomer and homey…..

JOY and Bandit

between natural enemies…..

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between famous and fan…..

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Then maybe in the FUTURE my sisters and I can reunite!!!

Dear Badfish, again (random memories)

  1. The Chart House restaurants in North San Diego County were a favorite eating place on vacation with my adopted family each fall.
  2. When I bought my house forty some years back, I picked it for its unusually large  piece of unincorporated city property, complete with corral and finished horse barn. It came with two Shetland Ponies, a great start to the idyllic Horse-Life I’d dreamed of. Country paradise smack dab in the middle of suburbia!! But 3 weeks after we moved in, my son’s father left us. He sold the ponies (and my Dalmatian Clancy) while 3 year old son and I were off gathering our wits for the next phase of our lives. I ended up boarding other people’s horses for years, throwing myself into two jobs and trying to finish a degree so I could start my practice. I had also picked this house because I could immediately see building my office and Group Therapy room in the unfinished basement. I had the same struggle we women all had back then, fighting the mom vs career battle and I wanted to work at home. 112_1248
  3. When trying to finish college, I waited tables at one of Seattle’s two Five Star restaurants, Henry’s Off Broadway. I got the job with zero experience, by barging onto the construction site and approaching the restaurant manager as the restaurant was still being built! He said he hired me for “my balls”. Hey, I was a young, desperate single mom and this place was just blocks from Antioch University. To fit everything in logistically, I needed a job either right next to home or to school, so apparently my ovaries turned into balls on the spot.
  4. I’ll never forget the John Denver concert at the Tacoma Dome, when we had just heard that one of our Board of Directors for INDEPTH (Institution for Developmental Education and Psychotherapy) had died. Buckminster Fuller was our most important supporter, and as it turned out, one of Denver’s closest friends. Mr. Denver could barely go on with his concert, all choked up. (One of my favorite quotes from Bucky was There is nothing in a caterpillar that tells you it’s going to be a butterfly.)
  5. I would have done obscene things back in the day to cross paths with any of the Eagles. The closest I got was attending every concert I could, including one when I was 30, a Super Concert with The Eagles, Jackson Browne, Linda Ronstadt, and BONNIE RAITT!! An amazing birthday gift from friends!! And, I’m thanking the universe now that my family treated me to the Eagles History tour (again, in the Tacoma Dome) just 2 years ago, for another birthday. I will grieve for Glenn Frey for some time to come.photo 3photo 2photo 4
  6. I was a Hermit Crab thief. On a once-in-a-lifetime, non-touristy trip to Fiji, on an extremely remote, uninhabited island at the southern most tip of the Lau Group, I collected fifty of what I thought were uninhabited hermit crab shells, beautiful ones. I wanted to bring back a shell for each of my clients at the time. Normally, we would not collect anything off the many beaches we visited without that island’s Chief giving us permission (after the whole Kava drinking ceremony) but as I said, uninhabited. So I asked the Universe if I could take some shells and it said “Sure, why not?” What it didn’t tell me was how to know if my chosen shells were occupied. Nope. Didn’t discover that until later that night. Soundly sleeping in my beautiful stateroom aboard The Tau (means “friend”), a 90 foot yacht housing a crew of 5 and me, with my 6 best friends, I am awakened by this frantic scritching sound! FijiJust about all fifty of my “empty” shells, being stored in a bowl of fresh water, were scrambling to escape!!! Not to worry, unless you believe that Hermit Crabs are traumatized when you move them to a new beach. I gently placed all of them on the sand of the very next island we came to, with a sincere apology for their uprooting.(I’ve always struggled with anthropomorphism). And then our Fijian First Mate, Sefo, taught us how the natives find out if there is “anyone at home” in shells of all sizes. (They hold the shell close to their mouths and whistle. If someone is in there, they come right out to say HI.) I then successfully collected 50 empties!IMG_6309
  7. Cross Country Skiing- I learned in an idyllic circumstance. Imagine you are deeply, newly, psychotically in love…..with someone who lives as far across the country as you can get. (man, do I ever hate a long-distance relationship) BUT, he just happens to be in a location for 2 weeks that is a 12 hour drive from where you live. He is on the US Disabled Ski Team and West Yellowstone is their pre-Olympics Training Camp. He can’t get to me…he’s blind, so I decide to surprise him by showing up there. On our regular, nightly, blissful and painful phone call, I tell him to walk outside so we can be sort of standing under the same full moon. He dutifully (or romantically) walked out of his motel room, guide cane in one hand and phone in the other. I then scared the shit out of him by walking up to him to hug him! (I was not yet fully Blind Etiquette Trained.) It worked out though and we spent from midnight until the beautiful moon set/sunrise, with him teaching me how to ski the groomed trails he and his team practiced on all day. He already had them fairly well memorized, even though he skied with a sighted guide. Only surprise were the huge, and I mean HUGE buffaloes that apparently wandered across these same trails all night long. THAT was a bit less romantic.
  8. I married the guy, kind of, on the above mentioned Fiji trip, and we were together for 13 years, most of which I would not trade a minute of, including one spectacular, take-only-the-back-roads trip to his best friend’s wedding in Breckenridge. That’s the closest I got to your old stomping grounds. I loved my guy and I loved hanging with the US Disabled Ski Team for those years, a crazy, irreverent bunch with nicknames like Blinky, Wheelie, Stumpy, and Flipper (this last, a Thalidomide baby with birth defect shrunken arms that just flipped around). Ski Team (2)
  9. There should be a law against, and an immediate consequence (Karma takes way to long and is less satisfying to the injured parties) for certain kinds of marital cheating; like doing it with someone you know, especially someone close to you, or using any of your territory or equipment (your bed or vehicle), or right under your nose, etc. In my case, it was with a former client of mine who was now a client of HIS…definitely the biggest No-No in my profession! Can I pick ’em or what?!? Yeah yeah, I got the lessons part and all but shouldn’t I be able to choose (on purpose, that is) which classes to sign up for???
  10. And that brings me Back to the Eagles–Don Henley in particular (along with Lynch and Winding)…one of my favorite healing songs is “My Thanksgiving”. My favorite line is “sometimes you get the best light from a burning bridge”.

Oh and Badfish, I’ll see your Ted Bundy and raise you with a Charlie Manson. (That whole thing was happening less than a mile from where I brought my sweet baby boy home from the hospital.)

And there you have it, at least until you write the next chapter of your memoirs, to trigger the next bunch of memories for me!!

PS I forgot San Diego, which I already wrote about, and your Om T-shirt!

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This is a handmade cloth paperweight.

If you have not visited https://badfish2.wordpress.com/  it’s one of my favorites, a visual treat and a fascinating journey!

Joy, the “guard dog”

One Love

I follow Wild Currents, a very moving blog and today was inspired by her post.

https://wildcurrentsblog.wordpress.com/2016/03/11/weekly-photo-challenge-one-love/comment-page-1/#comment-436

This entry moved me to write about my purebred German Shepherd, Joy, named to counteract her malfunctioning tear ducts, which were cosmetically disturbing enough that her breeder considered doing away with her.

Disgusting.

I’m afraid I don’t care who that offends.

I had always wanted a big ole German Shepherd. My best friend throughout my teens lost his vision and had the most wonderful guide dog, called Rue St James. I adored that dog.

And when I discovered my neighbor up the street was a well known breeder, with champion Shepherds, I made it known that I wanted one. Unfortunately her dogs went for thousands of dollars which put me out of the running….until my accountant asked me if I needed a Guard Dog for my therapy practice. Hmmm. I started saving money even though I never had any intention of teaching any nasty habits to a pet of mine.

One day I got a call saying if I wanted a dog for free, I could have a damaged one if I came for her right now. This precious puppy had been kept in a separate cage for the first four months of her life, no other dog or human contact, waiting to see if she would outgrow her birth defect to the degree her owner could at least breed her. I jumped at the chance.

I fell immediately in deep love. Joy grew up to be such a beauty the breeder wanted to buy her back. By then she was all mine, though that did not exactly come easily. She spent her first few weeks with me hiding under my bed.

Eventually I was able to take her to work with me. I’m a psychotherapist in private practice. Right around this same time I had started accepting clients referred by the courts and some of them were actually pretty scary. Several people suggested…strongly…that I have Joy “protection trained”, but I just wouldn’t do that. She was already pretty skittish and not reliably nice to strangers.

As it turned out, I didn’t need to train her. I hoped that her mere presence would imply protection for me. And in a bass-ackwards way, it did.

I was blessed to have Joy for 16 years, completely healthy for 15 of them, highly unusual for such a large dog of her breed. And you know what, she never so much as curled a lip at a client of mine. Not even when one of them showed up at my home at 2 AM, in a rage of negative transference, and carrying a baseball bat! Joy spotted this client out on my deck and started barking her “I’m so glad to see you” bark, tail wagging furiously. When I let her out, she simply ran to the client (her buddy from numerous therapy sessions) and attacked her with 110 pounds of slobbery kisses.

Joy protected me alright, by winning over the most hardened of hearts, and making instant friends with the innocent “child” part of them all.

Joy died in 2001, during the same trauma-filled stretch as several of my family members passing, both my other pets dying, AND then, 9/11 happened. I was devastated by all the jumbled loss in my life, and though I have grieved much of that loss, I still have not had the courage to adopt another dog….yet.

 

JOY and Bandit

Joy, and her cat Bandit

I call her a Grandmother of the Service Dog, because she was here before we really knew the power and healing a therapy animal can have…..

It’s Never Too Late….*

It’s Never Too Late….*

(Branding VS Bonding)

“Maternity is a matter of fact; paternity always a matter of opinion.” Unknown Author

When I was two, my Mom found my Dad. They got married and had my sister Eileen when I was three. They had my sister Barbara when I was six. When I was nine, I found out that Dad was not my first Dad. I don’t remember that fact being particularly bothersome. But when I was twelve and my folks divorced, well, that was definitely bothersome. When I was fifteen, being fairly exhausted by the role of Junior Mother to my sisters while my own Mom drank herself into oblivion, I left home in search of the rest of my childhood. When I was nineteen, my mother made her first (at least discernible) suicide attempt. (She took pills.) She survived, but only after being in a coma for as many days as I had had years on the planet. She woke up saying, “I don’t want to sleep anymore.” I thought she meant it and was really relieved and hopeful. Her narrow escape from death seemed to inspire her. She turned her life around dramatically…but only for a couple of years. When I was 20, my mother was more determined…no reprieve this time. It is much harder to survive suicide by gun.

When I was 24, and had a toddler of my own, the difference between a biological parent and a step-parent smack in my face, I wrote my Dad a note. It said, “Now that Mom is not alive, you and I are not REALLY connected by anything, so do you want to stop being my Dad?”

As of this writing, I don’t remember how he answered that question. I think it was something sweet and positive.

I do know that after he died in 2001, when we were going through his belongings, I found that 30 year old note from me, crusty with age, in a small box full of obvious treasures; like a very beautiful picture of my mother (his one and only love), correspondence from his father, and a very impressive letter of endorsement from his commanding officer in the U.S. Cavalry recommending him to West Point. My barely camouflaged plea for reassurance was in very admirable company indeed.

When I was 40, I received the following letter from my Dad:

Dear Kathie,

When your mother and I got married, we didn’t have much money and you were very young so we didn’t think you would mind if we skipped the legal proceedings for me to officially adopt you. Then, as it does, time passed and we just never got around to it.

Would you think it silly now, at this late date, for me to make it all legal? Would you let me adopt you?

I think you know that you have never been any different in my eyes from your two sisters, except that you were my oldest. Your other father left before you were ever born, marrying your mother in name only, at the “insistence” of your grandfather, so I knew I would be your only Daddy.

Have I ever told you when I knew you were mine?

When your mother and I were dating, we always brought you along. I knew from the start it was a package deal with her and that was just fine by me. One afternoon when we were out, I picked you up to carry you on my shoulders, as had become our routine. Well, while you were up there, you had a little accident and leaked all over my neck. That wasn’t too bad really. But when I went to change my shirt and tie later, I found that you had marked me. My white shirt and neck were stained a bright crimson, the color of my tie. I didn’t think of myself as a “red neck” but I proudly wore that red mark around my neck for several days until it finally wore off. I told the guys at work that my new little girl had branded me. That’s when I knew I was your Daddy.

Now, I would like to make it official if that’s OK with you. Let me know what you think.

Love, Dad

My response to him was a no-brainer.

So, the Christmas after my 40th birthday, my Dad flew to Seattle from San Diego. My sister Barbara was there. My sister Eileen, who had rarely seen any of us since our mother died all those years before, flew over from Hawaii, and my 3 long time best friends attended as witnesses. It was definitely official, taking place in a courtroom in front of a judge who asked both my father and I a peculiar series of questions. “Do you have any ulterior motives for taking this step?” “Does doing this help you to avoid legal action in any way?” “Are either of you doing this for financial gain?” etc.

Then the judge pronounced us legally “father and daughter” and leaned over his bench to shake my Dad’s hand. He said, “Congratulations on your new baby girl.” And to my sisters he said “She is your real sister now.” Then he thanked us all profusely saying, “Usually during this week between Christmas and New Years, we have nothing in Family Court except Child Protective Service cases or maybe the relinquishing or termination of parental rights. How refreshing it is for me to have participated in this long awaited and obviously joyous occasion.”

Judging from the things my Dad did during the time immediately before he died, my legal adoption was not the first time he had considered my sisters and I being re-united.

Although he had never uttered a single word of criticism or advice concerning our long-time estranged sibling ties, clearly he had thought about it. He simply carried on three separate father/daughter relationships. He developed his own connection with his 3 grandchildren and before his death he fixed it so that at least once more, we had no choice but to all three be together. I mean really together. We had to join up and cooperate in the dispersal of his estate. All papers had to be signed by all three of us, in person, and at the same time.

There was plenty of money designated specifically for travel expenses, eliminating that excuse. Clever, clever man. Either that or a real brat. If Dad was nearby, and we believe he was, we know he got a real kick out of it as his lawyer innocently said, “Yes, I thought this was an unusual request that there be 3 executors and that all be present in the same place. This is not how it is commonly done. Your Father must have known that you three get along really well to put you in this position as equal trustees.”

I wonder what that attorney thought of the look of shock, dismay and wonderment that passed among my sisters and me in that moment.

Dad, I’m sure, was chuckling. I guess he really believed that it is never too late.

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ADOPTION DAY–one of only two times my Dad had all three of his grown daughters together

*(published also just now at medium.com)

Dear Badfish (again)

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Crystal Pier at the end of Garnet Street in Pacific Beach…that is my sand, my original beach, my sunset place, my surfing destination, my first bikini debut (had to sneak so my Mom wouldn’t know), my first kiss (Russell Lanthorne), my second run-away-from-home spot (my first was to hike to the top of Loring Street Hill, 2 blocks from our house, so steep and high, I could see my entire world from there).

Related image

These memories came tidal-waving back, Badfish, when you mentioned the pier in a comment. Some of the pictures I found online were images as familiar to me as my own hands. (By the way, I am still learning how to find and use free photos on my blog.)

Memories, in order of significance: starting with…well, you can decide if they go most important to least, or the other way…

1) My bathing suit. I wore the aforementioned bikini on that beach.

I found my first bikini and bought it with babysitting money. A whopping $13.

It had to pass inspection by both my mother and grandmother.

 

Luckily, in this instance anyway, even at 15, I still had nothing “up top” to show for my age. As a matter of fact, my nick-name from some Junior Highschool bullies was Busty (a logical transition from my last name, Bessey), but chosen for me because I wasn’t.

Here’s how creative I was in my  pitiful to fit in.

It was camouflaged as a two piece bathing suit, with maximum coverage.

You could wear this one particular bathing suit in a modest, cover your belly button way, OR, your could pull on the drawstrings hidden on each side of the suit bottom, and Voila, decide exactly how itsy bitsy you wanted your Yellow Polka Dotted Bikini to be! (Mine was pink and green plaid.)

I opted for minimum coverage, pulling those secret drawstrings as tight as I could…once I got away from the house, that is. I was hoping, I think, to draw attention away from the also adjustable, Kleenex or Kotex stuffed bra top. (Yes, when I swam, it was a soggy mess until I switched to my cut up gym socks.)

2) Battle of the Surfer Girls and the Spider Babes. Picture a long flat sandy beach, about 15 stair-steps down the hill from the sidewalk, parking area and life guard tower. Me and about 15 other girls, with our surfboards, requisite bikinis on ultra tanned bodies and our long, straight, variously attained blond hair are gathered on the beach. We have heard the Spider Babes are coming today. I don’t think any of us actually know what that means but we are ready. Honestly, this could have been a competition over our hunky Surfer Brother’s or just a face off over make up style. Who knows?

But here they are, all lined up along the cliff overlooking our Crystal Pier Beach…only about 8 of them to our 15. They are dark haired, over clothed, pale skinned with ratted hair adding several inches to their height, and sporting exaggerated Twiggy eye make up with almost white lipstick.

Oh, and our foxy guys? They are here too. This is rare because the area south of Crystal Pier is insultingly named “the girl beach”, meaning long slow very flat waves, compared to Tourmaline canyon just a few blocks up the coast where the guys surf.

At the time I thought the boys were standing at a respectable distance, trusting us to handle ourselves, but now I bet it was that these adolescent boys were drawn to the possibility of witnessing females fighting.

What is that anyway?

3) Maynard’s–In those days, there was a tiny biker bar at the corner of Garnet street and Ocean Blvd. If you crossed Ocean your were ON Crystal Pier. The place was called Maynard’s. Amazingly good food, and they served meals 3 times a week for a quarter (25 cents) to minors (Hippies/surfers/street kids) out the back window.

Maynard’s in Pacific Beach, California

http://www.billpaxton.net/maynards.html

4) And last memory, for this post anyway, My favorite Runaway Place-As a kid, 7 to 13 years old, I would sneak away from my “oldest kid” duties at home and walk to the beach. Got in big trouble for that. Did it anyway.

As an adult (all of 19 years old) I ran away to that same beach again. This time it was after discovering I had become pregnant (my very first time out of the gate) and the love of my young life, had dumped me. At 5 months along, I ran away this time, with a fist full of hard-earned der weinerschnitzel and Fotomat dollars, to the cheapest motel I could find on Ocean Blvd. facing my same old beach.

I could only afford two nights and it was the longest 48 hours of my life, filled with anger, grief, confusion and terror. How would I ever raise a baby on my own working at Fotomat? I walked on the beach. I wrote in my diary. I watched the sun set. I ate at Maynard’s. (They actually fed me for free one night. I mean, what were they going to do? Turn away a crying, hungry, pregnant teenager??)

But my Crystal Pier Beach came through. I left knowing exactly what I needed to do.

What happened next is definitely for another day………