WOMEN'S MARCH 2.0

Well, I'm about to run into a buzzsaw here.  I'm gonna be labeled a whiner and a wimp; judge-y and sexist and lazy -- and probably defensive as well.  There could be truth in all of that -- and I say "bring it on" anyway.

One thing I am ramping up this year is my practice of self-compassion.  It's hard because I have high expectations of myself.  I often fall woefully short of my self-imposed job description.

For example, yesterday's Women's March 2.0.  I got all squishy about it; ambivalent, bordering on disinterested.  I'd been in a bit of a funk anyway; both of my feet were in a flare up of my occasional plantar fasciitis affliction; and it was supposed to be cold and rainy.  Plus, we had our monthly Tribe gathering scheduled for the evening and Hub and I had some organizing to do around our topic facilitation, not to mention brownie baking as our contribution to the meal.  It's not all that easy to open a brownie mix, believe me.  You have to add stuff, like eggs and oil!

Known in some circles as the Queen of the Resistance on Facebook, how could I ditch the March and retain any credibility?  And truthfully I didn't want to ditch it...I just wanted my feet not to hurt, for the weather to be sunny and warm, and not to feel rushed from one event to the next.

The compromise seemed to be to skip the big Seattle March and do the loosely organized one in my town instead.  It was a longer route but easier to navigate a late entry or early exit if my feet gave out.  I'd be home in 5 minutes from the end of the march rally and have those brownies in the oven and easily be on time for the evening gathering with no time stress.

So, at the 11th hour on Friday night, after being interviewed in the local paper and saying I'd be at the Seattle march, http://www.heraldnet.com/news/everett-events-part-of-national-march-to-impeach/,  I decided to stay local.  I went to the smaller march close to home.  Hub wanted to join in this year, so we both got up and made signs.  I posted an invitation on FB for all to join the local effort, hoping to drum up more support, and we headed for the meeting place.

Pulling into the parking lot was the first letdown.  We counted about 30 people.  We live in a city of 110,000; not known to be a hotbed of activism and perhaps on the conservative side historically, but seriously???  30 people!  We did run into another couple -- good friends of ours -- who were planning to march as well.  We all shrugged and contemplated our commitment.  I may have sworn a bit; I do tire of the lack of enthusiasm here for public civic engagement.

After a while, more people began to arrive, lifting our spirits some, but not enough for me.  I bailed right off the bat.  Hub and our friends marched on without me.  I decided to drive further into the route, babying my sore feet, and joining up closer to the end.  I found a spot up on an overlook where I could see the strung out line of marchers and counted about 80 people, some carrying signs, most older, few younger, few children.  They walked single file or two abreast chatting together, like on a Saturday waterfront stroll.   As they approached me, I took photos and got lots of smiles and waves and saw some happy, familiar faces.  That was fun.   My woman friend bailed at that point and I drove her back to her car.  Her husband and mine continued on.  I thought that was sort of wonderful and hilarious.  Husbands representin' at the Women's March!

Then I went to the store for the brownie fixings and ice cream and went home until it was time for the rally at the end of the March.

I found about 40 more people waiting at the County Building for the marchers to arrive. By the time they did maybe 50-60 people were gathered.  There was an awning and speakers stepped up to the poor PA system microphone.  The first speaker was a man.  I'm sorry....a MAN?  He's actually someone I know and respect for his activism in environmental causes, but still....  This is where I may sound sexist, but I think a woman might have been a better choice for kicking things off at the WOMEN'S March.  This is not about him, or a man speaking per se, but about how it was organized;  the flow, if you will, and who is featured and who is in a supportive role.  Then a woman did speak, and I didn't know her or her organization, but the gist of her remarks were a diatribe against the current health care system.  Not the message I was there to hear.  I thought we were celebrating the rise of women's leadership in the Resistance, the influx of women into the political system, the unity of all toward a common goal, the necessity for taking back the Congress in the mid-terms. (Power to the Polls!)

It was raining and I was cold.  Hub was cold and tired too. He had walked 5 miles and we still had work to do for our evening commitment.  We left.  So did others.  I don't know who else spoke or about what.  Maybe what I'd hoped to hear was said in my absence.  I hope so.  I do know there was at least one more male speaker.  No local politicians spoke, to my knowledge, although one male city council member was in the crowd.  (We have a woman mayor and three women council members...where were they?)

It was a disappointing experience and I only have myself to blame for wimping out on the Seattle March, which drew tens of thousands and was a lively, energetic, multi-generational, ethnically, and racially diverse celebration of the Resistance and the rise of women's political clout.  Watching coverage of marches all over the country and the world brought tears to my eyes -- images of power, strength, and hope.

In the end, though, a March is only a symbol of unity; it doesn't result in much but a feel-good moment in time.  The real work happens in the every day effort we all expend as individuals to make the calls, send the faxes, the texts, and the emails to our elected representatives; it's in the support we show for candidates by writing checks, making calls, ringing doorbells.

So, I forgive myself for my wimpy, judge-y, lazy efforts around the March this year.  I spent Friday hitting up legislators via FreeFax and phone calls to support the Net Neutrality repeal legislation and to support the Dreamers.  I did it alone, at my desk, in my home office, quietly, with no fanfare and no (now controversial) pink hat or waving sign.   I just did the work of democracy.  If that's all we do, that's enough.

At least that's the view from here...©

POST-MARCH EUPHORIA

Well, silly me.  Nothing to worry about.  No Anarchists, no opposition "haters", no rowdy marchers, no danger of  being crushed or trampled by the crowd....just 130,000 smiling, happy, positive, determined women, men, and children under mysteriously sunny skies being all polite and funny and creative -- quintessentially Seattle -- in a 3-mile phalanx of humanity moving slowly toward that beacon of modernity, the Space Needle -- where all dispersed and jammed every single bus, monorail, and taxi for hours upon hours (but more about that later...)

I will say we did it in style.  One of our group had an "in" at the historic Camlin Hotel and booked us a bunch of rooms.  It has an old world elegance, updated for the 21st century, but still feeling like you step into the 1920's inside with gold-gilted mirrors and a grand piano in the lobby.  (Much classier and understated than those "other" gold-encrusted gaudy T-Towers, of course.)  Our group of 20 gathered in a back "party room" and proceeded to create signs, eat snacks, have a glass of sparkling this or that, and get to know each other.  There was a core group and then friends of friends.  Many of us were strangers from one another.  I led a sharing circle where we each spoke to what brought us to the march, what were our hopes and fears about the experience, what support did we need...and how do we get from the hotel to the starting point over a mile away early on Saturday morning:  logistics.

Some of us got up early and bussed to the park where the march would start.  Some of us decided to join the march a mile in, at an official "entry point" along the route.  We later found out that the park, which was projected to hold 25,000 was soon overwhelmed with 50,000 or more people spilling into the neighborhood streets.

 My group decided to bus to the first entry point -- a plan several hundred other people also made.  We arrived to a large, colorful, cheerful crowd awaiting a first glance at the marchers headed our way.  A large lead contingent of police cars and cops on bikes came by, then the marchers.  We soon wove our way into the throng and off we went -- part of the excitement, part of the presence, part of history.

I felt a wave of so many emotions; so grateful for my friends and sharing this with them; grateful for the positive vibe all around me and the feeling of safety, shared values, and sense of community where babies to teens joined with adults of all ages, to the very aged with walkers and canes all putting our bodies on the streets and cheering from the sidewalks all along the march route.

Pink-eared 'pussy' hats (as in cat) were the predominant headwear -- women, men, children and dogs donned the knitted hats, a nod to the infamous crude quote by the man who is now the president about the female body part he feels entitled to grab when with women he finds attractive.  We took his crudeness and owned it as our own -- Pussy Power.

There had been a call for silent march and for the most part it was.  We had quiet conversations with each other and offered words of complement and encouragement to those around us, but there were no loud chants or shouts or songs or anything negative at all!  It was a wave of love or at least good humor where satire was more effective than anger.

We reached the Space Needle, hearing that some of our original group were still almost 3 miles behind us, having taken nearly 2 hours to exit the park!  We three Shiny Sisters Ubered back to downtown Seattle and took our place on the sidewalk, watching the marchers pass until the end.  It was a moment of profound delight and pride.  Not one altercation.  No incidents of violence or discord.  And that seems to be the case across all marches everywhere around the US and the world.  I've heard of no arrests, even at the massive 500,000- person march in Washington DC.   Love Wins.

And then you have to find your way home....  We three retrieved our bags from the hotel and made for the bus station to hop onboard and head 25 miles north to home.  Not too many people at the stop, so we felt confident.  Then the first articulated bus came by jammed with people and the driver said "no more room".  Some at the stop said that was the FOURTH full bus!  Hmmm....a little discouraging.  But we waited for the next bus.  Same thing.  It was getting dark.  We were tired.  On to Plan B.  If we took a bus south to the beginning of the line, we could get on and get a seat before it did the whole route and was jammed!  Brilliant.

We schlepped our bags to a different bus stop and hopped onboard a mostly empty bus that goes underground through the bus tunnel.  We were relieved, chatting away, people watching, reviewing the day and when we emerged from the tunnel it was full dark and we were rolling past Safeco Field at a high rate of speed and onto I-90 east to Bellevue.  Hmmm....we'd missed our stop and were now expressing about 10 miles out of our way.  Damn!  That wasn't the plan!  But what can ya do?

Fortunately one of us (not me) pulled up the bus schedule and figured out how to get home from Bellevue -- only two more buses!  Once at the transit station we had to run to catch the next bus or wait an hour, but we made it.  We were finally on our way to at least be in our home county!  But alas, soon we were at a dead stop on the interstate due to a horrible roll-over accident and all lanes briefly blocked for emergency vehicles.  We broke out the chocolate and potato chips.  It was well past dinnertime.

Once past the accident and on our way again, we relaxed into knowing we'd soon be at the bus station that would get us to the bus home.  But then....the driver slowed to a crawl and pulled over on the shoulder of the freeway and turned off the bus.  Everything went completely dark for a moment.  Now what???  We have no idea. He cranked the engine and we were soon on our way, but something was obviously wrong because he was hanging in the right lane going about 40 MPH.  We made it though, got on the bus home, and nearly collapsed into the car when a kind husband met us at the station.   The trip home was nearly as long as the march, but hey, it was another Shiny Sister bonding experience where we got distracted, had great conversations, disagreed, got a little pissed, people-watched, ate, read Facebook posts to each other, and laughed A LOT.  Typical outing for us.


So, the march was much more than the march.  We were part of history, we showed up and "spoke" with our presence that we will not be silenced and we will be watching and participating in working for our values, our vision, our Democracy.  We were part of a huge community of souls around the globe (millions all over the world marched on 1/21/17!), among the citizens within a free and proud United States, members of a small community of friends old and new in Seattle, and held within a smaller knot of friends- to-the-end from our own county to the north.  Eventually each of us ended up singularly in her bed last night, grateful for all of it -- even the interminable bus adventure.  Can't wait 'til next time....WE RISE!  STRONGER TOGETHER!

At least, that's the view from here...©

PRE-MARCH JITTERS

Oh, hello there Anxiety Monster! I knew you were lurking and I was wondering when you could pounce again.  Yes, this does seem like a good time.  I've been pretty emotionally healthy and stable until November 8th, but even then kept you at bay; you and your ugly partner, Depression Monster...where is she, by the way?  One would think she'd be asserting her considerable influence at this dark time in our country and in my psyche.  But no!  In spite of periods of overwhelm and anger and sadness-- no Depression!  Woo-Hoo!  So, anyway, welcome to you.  I will sit and listen to you for a few minutes, since it's been months since you took your leave after wrecking havoc with me last winter.  What ya got?

Hmmm....yes.  Good point.  This big Seattle Women's March tomorrow is projected to be one of the largest in the nation -- estimates say up to 100,000 people.

Yes, I know I hate crowds and especially those that feel like a herd of people one so could easily be trapped in and trampled by.

Yes, I know the Anarchists could show up and cause all manner of disruption.

Yes, I've heard the new president's supporters may also show up to shout at us, try to goad us into a confrontation, or pretend to be one of us while screaming outrageous epitaphs and showing outrageous images in order to sully our good intentions.

Yes, I know that even those on "our side" will approach the march in various ways -- in spite of a call for a silent march, it is guaranteed that there will be those refusing to march in silence.

Yes, I know we are a weaponized society and some crazy person could toss a bomb or start shooting at the crowd.  I know...I know...

And yet, I'm not giving in to your little diatribe of "what ifs".  Am I apprehensive?  Yep.  And I terrified?  Nope.  All will be well no matter what happens.  Because I am willing to risk any or all of the scary scenarios you are throwing at me.

I hear you...you are trying to get me to call in sick and watch it on TV.  I'll admit there is some attraction to doing that.  But you don't understand...this is a monumental thing we are protesting.  We are exercising our First Amendment rights to stand up for our very Democracy, for dignity and human rights, for freedom of the press, for our environment -- all the things this new administration is eager to dismantle.  This is no time to cower on the couch.

I'm also marching for women.  I remember too well every time in the campaign when he denigrated women, admitted to sexual assault of women, ridiculed Hillary and called her a "Nasty Woman".  As I watched him do this, I shook as the buried memories of my own experiences with horrible, predatory men surfaced.  I march for us.  For my granddaughters, who I want so much to be raised in a nation where care, compassion, dignity, grace, equality, and inclusion are the norm.  I march because I am furious that I even have to march for the basic human rights and dignities that have been trampled by this man who has taken the oath of an office today that he does not deserve to hold.

So, you see, you can't sway me this time.

I've laced up my hiking boots.  I've donned my official Washington State Women's March sweatshirt.
I'm meeting up with good friends shortly, hopping on a bus, spending the night in Seattle, and making my way with the throngs early tomorrow morning to the rally that will kick off the march.  I will be there.  I will be "full in", not watching from the sidelines.   You will likely be with me, I know.  Come on along; maybe you'll learn not to be such an ass.  Cuz sometimes you just have to shut the hell up and do what must be done, even when you're a little bit scared.

At least, that's the view from here....©

WALMART AND PUBIC STYLES

First, I'm very, very sorry I went to Walmart yesterday.  It was a moment of weakness which prompted me to add $10.12 to the considerable coffers of the Walton family when, yes, there were other store choices relatively near by.  It was a moment of weakness for convenience and curiosity.

I was parked about 100 yards from the big new Walmart Super Store while (speaking of greedy little fists)  I stopped into the Verizon store to check out the rebate offer on my "old" (2 years) I-Phone if I got the new I-Phone 6.  (Decent offer, but I can't get a new phone until December when my current contract runs out with Verizon, or pay a huge penalty, and don't worry, he said, the "6" is on back order anyway and you wouldn't get it until November….  Sheesh.)

So, when I left Verizon, shopping list in hand, I realized I could get all the items I needed right over there at that new Walmart.  Plus, I'd see if it had the ugly, crowded, poorly lit decor of the others I'd ever been to, or whether it was an upscale version that actually felt welcoming and attractive while it exploited its employees and foisted cheap merchandize manufactured by children in Third World countries into the waiting plastic shopping bags of True-Blue Americans.

I needed to buy a pillbox, one of the twice a day 7-day plastic things that had trays large enough to hold all the supplements my Grain Brain book said I should be taking to ensure health and happiness well into the next decades of my life.   I am a terrible pill-taker.  Hub, the doctor, calls me "non-compliant."  I just hate taking pills and I always forget completely or I take them and then forget if I did or I didn't so I don't in fear of overdosing, which means I skip lots of doses…it's an ongoing struggle. So I thought I needed this container.   Also I wanted a funny birthday card for Son-One, and a can of "lady" shave cream.

It was this last that gave me pause.  I realize the pink-topped "lady shave" is likely the exact same shaving cream in the black containers sold to men.  But I just feel more feminine using the shaving cream from a pink can, which is a new-ish thing for me and one that I'm sort of exploring with bemusement.

I sometimes think I just don't know how to be a girl.  I don't know "girl stuff".  I mostly just used bath soap for most of my life when I shaved.  (Did you catch that?  "when I shaved"?  I am blessed with fair skin and fairer body hair -- you can barely see it!  Why bother, I wondered.)  Plus, my feminist ire was raised back in the early 70's which gave me a socio-political reason to feel a sense of relief about being inadequate in the "girl stuff" categories of make up, hair (both body and head), and undergarments.    So at the ripe old age of (almost) 64, I realize I am suffering from arrested development of all things "girl".

I still don't do mani-pedis or color my hair or fix it in any ways that require braids or pins or updos.

I missed the entire debate about current trends in pubic hair.  I know that Brazilian waxes were all the rage for awhile (leaving one shiny and bare -- like a newborn babe! -- but all I could imagine was the pain of getting there.)   Just to check in with the current thinking, just now (with some trepidation) I Googled "pubic hair styles" and found dozens of websites that were NOT pornographic, but highly educational.  Here's one:  http://www.express.co.uk/life-style/style/470716/Pubic-hair-trends-2014-The-full-waxed-look-is-out-the-bush-is-back  Take that to the stylist next time you go in.

I have found that my remedial education in catching up with the girly arts has had some surprising results.   I LIKE smoothly shaved legs and the thick, aromatic creams I use to get them.  I LIKE a really nicely fitted bra, to give "the girls" a boost now that they seem to want to move south.  I LIKE a hairdo that is both easy to care for and attractive.  I LIKE the Clinique counter at Macy's where I buy the 4 items of make up I wear most days (base, blush, brown shadow and mascara), from kindly women in white lab coats (it's SCIENCE!)   I like being a girl, exploring the feminine arts of body care.

I also like earning a living wage, speaking my mind, being treated with respect, having equal access to any and all educational, professional, social, and political avenues open to men.  I guess shave cream and feminism don't have to be mutually exclusive.

I just wish the Lady Waltons would put a bit of the old feminine decorative arts to work in their stores.  The new one is just as soul deadening as the rest.  They might also grab some feminist gusto and insist on  providing better pay and working conditions for their employees and look into the labor practices of the countries from which they import their cheap stuff.  Just sayin'.

At least, that's the view from here… ©

CIRCLES OF HELL

In a crisis-type situation, I'm not that courageous.  Mostly I fall apart.  For awhile anyway, then I can buck up and get relatively brave and do what has to be done with some resolve.

So when, after an entire adult lifetime of normal mammograms, I got called back for "further imaging due to changes since last mammogram" I did not take it in stride.  Nope.  Not at all.  I have a couple of teeny tiny risk factors and I always hold my breath just a smidge about it anyway.

I had a long few days of of bouncing from "Awww….I'm sure it's nothing" to vivid scenes of surgery, chemo, hair loss, and death bed farewells.  And lots of heart-racing, sweaty-palm anxiety, and crying; yes, lots of crying.  I hid out in my house for 24 hours, not even getting dressed.  I do not believe I have ever not gotten dressed; lazing 'round in PJ's and robe is just not my thing.  That's when I knew I was seriously freaked.

I do wish I wasn't like that.  I see it as a weakness of character.  I so admire those who can, you know, just soldier on, or barely give something like this another thought; actually believing the idea that "it's probably nothing."  But not me.   I go from zero to worst case scenario in far less than sixty seconds.  Six is more like it.

So, today I got nicely dressed, did my hair, put on a bit of make up (because damn it! fear can be pretty!)  and made my way to the Comprehensive Breast Center for another round of tests, possibly to include:  more imaging (tit in a wringer time again), ultrasound, and MRI.  In that order.

The first thing I saw upon entering the waiting room was a giant inflatable pink ribbon hanging from the ceiling like it got lost from the Macy's Day Parade.  I wanted to pop it.  The waiting room was jammed and I tried not to look at the other women.   I didn't want to wonder, to see, to connect about this thing.  I AM NOT ONE OF YOU!

I got checked in and sat down.  Long wait. So I started to look up from my nervous "reading" of the newspaper (without really concentrating on one word) and look around.  A few women were reading and looking quite calm.  One sat next to her husband and he occasionally helped her take a few sips of something from a cup with a straw.  Another sat near the door, weeping a bit.  Another sat next to me, legs crossed, foot swinging in the air, gulping deep breaths.  She, too, occasionally wiped a tear.

I don't believe I was wrong in my assessment that the energy in the room was fairly intense with terror.  I wiped some tears too.  But bravery was also on display.  The silent journey each woman was walking may have been telescoped to the close observer, but the casual passerby only saw a roomful of women, each patiently waiting for her name to be called.

Mine finally was.  I went back to another waiting room, after disrobing from the waist up and being handed a flimsy (but flowery feminine) little short-sleeved gown to wear, "open to the front, please".  The room was freezing and I noticed all of us from the first waiting room were now in the second circle of hell together and all hunched up against the chill.  Then I saw a sign that said "Gowns for Your Use" with an arrow pointing to a rack of still flimsy, but long-sleeved gowns.  I stood up to retrieve one, setting off a line up of other women grabbing them as well.  I said it wasn't as plush as I'd like, breaking the silent tension, I guess.  We laughed.  We joked about being half-naked in an ice box.  We agreed we'd rather be at the spa.  We were bonding, smiling at each other, holding our respective copies of Women's Day and Oprah and Living magazines on our laps, again waiting for our names to be called.

When it was my turn,  I was ushered into the mammography room for more imaging.  Five more 'pictures' of my errant left breast.  The technician mentioned she wouldn't be surprised if I also would get a sonogram while I was there.  I did not take this as encouraging news.  Then I was led to yet another waiting room.  I saw there, again, the woman from the first waiting room, the one who I'd first noticed crying.  She and I smiled at each other and wondered aloud how many waiting rooms we'd share that day.

In a jiffy my name was called again.  No sooner was I in the hallway than the technician said, "OK, you can go.  It's all clear this time…just some tissue folds or something that now are all flattened out.  Thanks for your patience."

WHAT?????  THANKS FOR COMING?????  The floodgates sort of opened then, shocking her, I think.  I didn't wail, but the tears of relief flowed freely.  She said she was sorry I had been scared; was sorry I had to wait to get in; sorry this is such an anxiety-producing, heart-wrenching thing.  She dropped the professional, "all in a day's work" facade and we hugged.

I love that the Comprehensive Breast Center does the work it does.  I am grateful for 21st century medical technology.  I am grateful for my healthy breasts.  And grateful for my life.

And I wonder how many Circles of Hell my sister travelers endured today... and will in the days ahead.  If I ever have to go again, I won't avoid their eyes.  Because I am one of them.  We all are.  So, I'll look right at those women waiting and try to convey, "Yeah, I'm scared too, sister.  Let's do this together."

At least, that's the view from here….©

I AM WOMAN, WATCH ME CRY

I have done "personal growth" work with great intention for 14 years, since embarking on a particular path of experiential learning which takes place in various weekend "trainings".  In the several I've done, they each in their own way send one essentially on a journey into the dark night of the soul (in a safe and supportive atmosphere), then usher one back again, renewed and awakened in a new way.  This is not as scary and "woo-woo" as it may sound.  But it is intense and it is amazing--  and amazingly loving.

"Personal growth work",  for me and others like me, is to face with great fortitude the inner demons, psychological shadows, and psychic barriers to living a life of unfolding self-awareness, emotional strength, and intimate connection.  It's a journey for sure, and  I figure I'll be on this path right up to the ultimate personal growth moment of heading for that proverbial white light in the distance.

So, anyway, about the crying...one of things I've learned is that tears are normal and essential to healing.  Tears of grief, joy, confusion, anger... it's all good.  But, wow, are we uncomfortable around people who cry!   And many of us are uncomfortable being criers as well.

Here are two examples from my own life, recently, but typical of what I observe over and over.  A few weeks ago, I attended a workshop where people stood to speak, mostly to express thanks.  Occasionally someone would be moved to tears and apologize for it.  They were obviously embarrassed, and expressed,  "I will try not to cry" or "I'm sorry I'm crying".  What's up with that?  What could be more beautiful than a heart so full of love and gratitude that tears spring forth?

The other thing which happens all the time is for those observing someone crying to try to comfort them.  I see this with women especially, who can barely contain the care-taking urge, and leap right in at the first hint of a misty eye with an arm about the shoulder and a tissue offered.

Well, consider this question:  Who's uncomfortable?  The woman crying or the woman observing it?  Is it her own discomfort with that emotion making the "helper" want to stop it?  Because when you proffer that Kleenex you are saying, in essence, "Oh, dear.  Here, let me help you clean up that tear-stained, snotty face and help you pull yourself together."  Or when you offer an arm about the shoulder you are saying, in essence, "You need me to support you; this is obviously not something you can do alone."

I don't think these are conscious thoughts.  The conscious thought is more likely, "Poor thing. Let me help, comfort, make better."  It's a compassionate impulse, yet one of 'power over' sometimes, which often creates even greater embarrassment for the woman experiencing the emotion.  Now she gets to feel slightly childlike and pathetic too, so she quickly tries to shut it all down to save others from discomfort.

I suggest it is just as compassionate to allow a woman to stand in her own power.  To allow her to own her own feelings, no matter how painful.  To honor her 'work' by allowing her tears to fall when they come (they do come for a reason -- to serve a deep emotional need), and to set aside one's own discomfort while compassionately observing another's painful (or maybe even joyful!) moment.

In my women's circle we have a norm, after all these many years largely unspoken:  "I'll ask for what I want."  The Kleenex box is within reach; I can get to it myself if I need a tissue.  I can choke out "I need support" if I want a woman to sit close and put her arm around me.  Or, I can choose to stay in whatever emotional distress I need to, sobbing and snotting it out to completion while my sisters hold me in their strong embrace of silent witness.

I'm just offering this perspective as an alternative to jumping in with the sympathetic urge to comfort.  I can cry and still be strong.  I can ask for what I want.  I am woman, watch me cry, and if that makes you squirm, well, that's about you, not me.

At least, that's the view from here...©


Interested in this type of work? I've experienced both of these and more:
http://www.womanwithin.org/#!wwtw/c13ub
http://www.womeninpowerprogram.com/description.html