Gabor Mate and other men and women of greatness

I was listening to this on the way home , and was just hit by how special this man is. I have this feeling with music to. I remember hearing Neil Young's Live at Massey Hall 71, and I felt what Pia Mellody calls joy/pain. Joy at how wonderful it was, how brilliant he was at 23, and pain knowing I would never do that with the guitar. I feel the same way when I hear Gabor Mate, Dan Seigel, Bessel, Pat Ogden, Alexandra Katehakis, Allan Schore , Porges, Pia Mellody, John Bradshaw, John Lee and Patrick Carmes ( to name a few!)

One thing I will say about the resilience that can come out of early childhood trauma, I never have given up playing guitar and writing songs, and I will never give up the belief in holistic Physical, emotional, psychological and spiritual approaches to healing.

http://youtu.be/qlHIWXWDuF0

Older Now- Fathers and Sons.

Well, with Father’s Day tomorrow, I have been thinking of my own Father. Many years ago I found poetry a huge release as a way of writing out and contemplating the inner world. Robert Bly, John Lee, Sam Keen, James Hillman were all men that used story and poetry and that inspired me enormously to be courageous and go within, and write my own. To go inside, under the earth, to some dark and light places. It can be just as hard to confront your shadow, as it is to confront your heart.

My Fathers inner world was something he was quiet about. He was an Englishman. There was a time I even wondered whether he had one. I know now he certainly did. He just did not have the language to share it. I wished he had shared something with me about his inner life, and how important it is as a man to take time out so you can take time in, and just how important that is in becoming aware. To read something reflective, poetry, spiritual literature, stories of men, Earth, Love and Faith. That this time makes a man deeper, stronger, a better Warrior, Lover, Magician and King!

My father found his peace in the vegetable garden, fixing things in his garage, and brewing beer. He was peaceful when I remember him doing these things. He had energy for the family when he spent some time in those places. I know that feeling these days. It’s important to know when you need to take that sort of time for yourself.

My mother use to send him bush when he was retired when he starting getting antsy around the house.  He would go to metal detect for Gold. It was a hobby he picked up when we had all got older and left to start our own lives. He would usually pack up his things the next day and head off for a few days. Searching streams for gold, sitting around a camp fire on his own at night, it was his special place. When he came from England with his father on a boat, a six week journey back then, his first experience in Australia was jackarooing out west. I always thought these times in his retirement reminded him of the time he was free, horse backing riding, living with the energy and dreams of a young man. He made some of his gold into some jewellery for my mother. Now that’s a family heirloom.

The first part of my life I spent running away from myself with sex, drugs, and rock and roll. I didn’t start the journey within as a man that until in my recovery, after I had been clean a few years, dealing with relationships and Rage in particular that got me attending men meetings and weekend Gatherings. I changed from a female therapist to a male. Started reading men’s literature. Listening to Iron John by Robert Bly, John Lee’s healing the Father-Son wound. It changed everything. My life changed over a fifteen year period. I used to feel like a boy in a man’s body. These days I feel like a man in a man’s body. It does not mean I don’t have fun and hang loose and be a goose. It just means I have a better sense of when to be in the different spaces of being a man.

Tomorrow there will be two little boys waking me up with my Father’s Day gift. I already have an idea what it is, because they have “told me a secret”. They are four and two. Now we have a secret cause I told them not to tell their mother. (of course she already knows). I am looking forward to it.

Being a Father has been the greatest change of experiencing life on this planet I have ever under gone. Now I live for others. They rely on me, and my wife,  she focuses on their care. It’s a decision we have made. Our Priority. I take this role serious, more than any other role I have, and as a son I made a commitment to my Father two days before he passed that I will always look after Mother to.

This Poem I wrote when we had hugged for the first time that I remember. My Father told me once when we talked about that Hug, that he remembered being picked up once by his Father. He recounted his father picking him up and placing him on a bike. It was only in reflection that I thought that he would have been facing away from his father even then. That always stayed with me.

These days one of my greatest delights is playing with my two boys. Every time I do yoga after walking they climb all over me. Quiet moments at the end of the day when they lay on me and we watch cartoons. Touching them, wrestling, hugging them, being close I think is so important for boys. If we learn it when we are young, then we can get the need met for touch in more appropriate ways as an adult too. I want my boys to grow knowing that it is ok to be affectionate, loving, and supportive to both men and woman. That this is being a man.

So on the eve of my own Father’s Day, and in memory of my Dad, Alan Stokes here is Older Now.

Older Now.

We are older now.

My lines are beginning to match his.

We have talked of prostates, and old mates

Like it was not possible before.

He hugged me at Christmas.

We had talked about it,

And although it was not requested,

Just gestured.

I felt it melt something in my heart.

It was uncomfortable for two though,

For we did not know what do.

For both our Fathers

Had never done this before.

Since then, when we meet,

It is with uncertainty.

My one hand goes out to meet his two spread wide,

And quickly we reverse the positions

Only to fumble into each other’s arms

Friendly strangers,

Who share the same history.

Although mine is much shorter than his.

He asked me to go bush soon,

Just me and him.

I’m excited,

 but I don’t know where to begin.

So many questions.

Yet I have been fed silence for so long

That I am scared of the consequences of truth.

We are older now,

His hairs gone grey,

Some fallen away.

To his surprise I got my cut the other day.

Look more like a man he did say.

Everything changes to our dismay.

So we are going Bush, and who would think

My heart would long to be in sync

With a man I had run from as fast as I could

Away to adulthood, to prove that I could.

Now I know I share mistakes I’ve made,

From plans a wreckless youth outlaid.

He understood for he made the same,

He only tried to shield my pain.

So here we are, older now.

Each facing off a sacred cow.

His life is coming to an end.

Mine is taking another bend.

And we’re going Bush to find some Gold.

He’s going to teach me some things he knows.

And I am finally willing to learn instead,

Of thinking that I know it all.

S.J.S.

A Gift from the Cook. The Mother Son Dynamic. John lee and more

A Gift from the Cook-The Mother Son Dynamic.

Sitting here tonight I have been enjoying reading The Mother –Son Dynamic by John Lee. By enjoying I mean I am identifying with the premises of the book, and grateful that over the many years I have been in recovery I have made some mighty progress in becoming the man that I wanted to be.

A major part of this journey has been healing the wounds I received in child hood, and I found it necessary to work through my Father –Son wound and my Mother –Son wound. To cut a very long story short, in my case, the end result of the work was a compassionate accepting loving relationship with both my mother and father. After one of my conversations about the past with my mother, my initial questions regarding my past with mother, led her to pulling out old photo albums, and sharing with me stories of her youth. Some hours passed, and when she was packing away the albums she said, “I’m not sure you got what you came for”. I replied, your right mum, but I got what I needed! I meant it to. Recovery had taught me to be spontaneous, live in the moment. When I started that moment with her, I had an agenda, but I let that go once we started talking, something bigger and better for me emerged in that conversation.

By the time my father passed I felt closer to him, and I know he felt closer to me. With my mother, I don’t feel resentment any more, That was a major gift, as I resented her enormously, and unconsciously it was playing itself out in every relationship I had, with the women I loved, and with any women that was angry and controlling that I came into contact with. I was never able to protect or contain my reality. It was exhausting. These days , with my wife, and women in my life, its nearly a dream, to not be driven by fear, shame, anger (Rage) and resentment.

In the book, John outlines some of the tasks a man can do to discharge his anger in a safe and appropriate way. I first heard these techniques in one of John’s workshops, and from his book, Facing the Fire. Towel squeezing, walking briskly, punching bags. All tools I have used and taught. But he mentions getting out into the wilderness, allowing yourself to get “Wild” I remember when I had got to my moment in recovery, where I had to make that decision, to head to the wilderness.

I had been asked to write an opening song for a 12 step convention. I of course said yes, but as the convention got closer, I had to admit, that I had not written a song or poem for a long time. I was stuck. My energy flow was trapped. I didn’t fully understand what was happening, and these books and tools I mentioned, had not been written. My therapist was taking me through my Family of Origin work and all this emotion was coming up, but I had nowhere to put it. I decided that I needed some time alone, so I went down to my parent’s caravan at on the South Coast of N.S.W, a beautiful spot called Gerroa. Early Saturday morning, I hired a canoe, and went up river, I found a very quiet spot, then proceeded to gather branches off the ground and put them near a fallen tree trunk. I sat then for awhile and allowed all the anger that I felt about my mother to come to the surface. It was dark, monstrous, and black and rage full. When I bear it no longer, I stood, and started to break the branches over the trunk. I screamed all the abuse I  could muster, unedited, unashamedly, furiously. I screamed and bashed branches till I had absolutely nothing left.

I sat there for sometime. I felt different. I felt weird. Time seemed different. Eventually, I got in the canoe, and paddled gently, up the stream. I was barely in reality. But I was really present. Like I was looking at things through new eyes. I had gotten the canoe so far up the stream that it narrowed so much I could not turn it around, and I looked into the trees, it was early morning, and there was 1000’s of spiders in webs in all the trees. It was mesmerizing. Breathtaking, and I was fully in my body, in the moment. This felt really new. Strange. I took a moment, but eventually it frightened me a bit, and I backed out of there, and then paddled back to the site. It was beautiful on the river, I took everything in. That night I dreamed, and I realized I had not dreamed like that for along time, and then the next day I wrote two poems. One was about the spiders,and another about the Pelicans on the river. I could feel that the energy was unblocked. I went home,and not only did I write the song for the convention, I wrote over the next five years, The Window to the Journey 1,2 & 3. Songs, Poems and stories about the journey of recovery. That first album came out in 1996, and next year I will be releasing the albums together with a new album as I will be celebrating 30 years since I  have been travelling on the recovery road, all going well, a day at a time.

The words that John writes in the Mother Son Dynamic will be a compass for a whole other generation of men starting on their own road to masculinity and I want to honor John Herald Lee for his courage, integrity and commitment to speaking his truth, a truth spoken so well and clearly it has been a calling to many men to stand up, and grow into the men that we want to be, that our families and community need us to be.

Following is a poem from that series that I wrote many years ago, as I confronted the enmeshment that I experienced from my own mother, and the impact of the avoidance of my father.

It’s titled a Gift from the Cook, and I dedicate it to John Herald Lee.

A Gift from the Cook.

How long has my worth been determined by others?

My need to be needed,

Reflects my self perception.

It seems to be the only substance to fill this hole.

To make me complete.

Yet I have always been empty.

The approval have always been an illusionary filler,

For I remain always trying to fill the same hole.

Showing people I was worthy of their need.

And keeping them needy.

For if they grew beyond that place,

What would become of me?

To my mother I was a possession.

She needed me to need her,

So she could feel special,

Whole and complete.

And I grew to need her love, approval and protection.

Yet, there was something wrong.

An anger or resentment,

At my acquired need.

Like it sucked at some life blood that did not exist.

A hunger that was induced,

But no food could be supplied.

 And as the years have  past,

I have lived with this constant hunger.

To be needed or not feel complete.

And for the women of my life,

They served the same meal,

And for a while I enjoyed.

But somewhere the food soured,

And the hole inside grew to the size of a cavern.

My wife found she needed herself more and left.

My mother just grew tired,

And occasionally just turned off the stove.

And now I am alone,

Me and my need to be needed.

And for my father,

Who sat for my entire life

A spectator to this feast,

Resented me.

For I ate his food, from his wife,

And many times he went hungry.

And now we live many universes apart,

And speak very different tongues,

Both with a hole,

A gift from the cook.

S.J.S