Snarked
I have been suffering from a snarked-out limbic system. I think that is an official medical condition. And if it is not, then it is now.
I came to that realization during a retreat I attended this past weekend with 12 other women: many suffering from the heretofore undiagnosed condition of having a snarked-out limbic system. I think it comes with the territory of being born with a womb, and an instinctive and primitive desire to nurture, hold, feed, converse, laugh, converse, comfort, reason, converse, create, love, be loved, move, dance, fix things, connect, decorate, converse, communicate, be heard, be understood, worry and protect and heal and all the other stuff that accompanies the human condition!
Colleen O’Grady, the leader and creator of The Hidden Treasures retreat wrote a song entitled “All Mothered Out.” She sang it Saturday night, and by the time she got to the end of it, we were all on our feet joining in - raising our wine glasses high - toasting the God who thought of creating children in the first place, and, by some reports, Who actually was one at one time. (Hmmm, I wonder if Mary....? )
“Sooooo,” you ask, “Just what is a limbic system?” It is that “fight or flight” place in your serpentine, (primitive), brain that has been the source of our survival in the human race. It causes us to either “Ruuun!” or “Kill!” when confronted with a hungry saber - toothed tiger. And – the most fun part is that it also can make you fat, since we are “fearfully and wonderfully made”: when threatened, our bodies dump the stress hormone cortisol in order to produce an extra layer of fat to protect our vital organs! Sigh....Thank you, Lord. I assume “snarked”-(root word “snarky”), is self-explanatory.
My own personal snarked out limbic system has to do with Alpha males, of which there are 5 in my family; I have really wild, “adventurous” sons: All of them now men. Well, sort of...And all of them fathers. I am one of 6 children: 2 girls, (we were the first ones), and 4 boys. When my sister and I both ended up having all boys, (7 between us), and the fun of rearing them into manhood began, we got our prayers down to: “Oh God, please keep them alive, Amen.” My mother commented that we “should have had some girls to help us with the mothering...that we were having so much trouble with our sons because we had had all boys and no girls.” Now, that was helpful!!! Mother was a good for one-liners. She would proclaim something, and then leave the room. We were left standing there perplexed and staring at each other- wondering “Did we miss something?” (My other prayer was, “Let their wives worry about it now...” In retrospect, I probably should never have said that. But then, I was all mothered out.)
But we tried. My sister and I, that is. And we prayed, a LOT. Her eldest is in his mid forties now. That is many years of many prayers. But then came last year, ending with the Holidays from Hell that blasted me into 2012 and sent me reeling. After many epiphanies from this past retreat weekend, I now realize that I have a snarked-out limbic system. It is always a good thing to have a solid diagnosis. We heard a lot about brain science on the retreat. Helpful stuff, really. The sort of stuff that helps you identify things like: “Oooh! That is why I stood on the kitchen chair screaming, using all of my self control not to leap through the air at my son who was saying things like: ‘Mom! Chill! What is wrong with you??? It’s just a tattoo!’ ” (1998-the first of many; A tame example of one of many scenarios over the past 40 years). And answers questions like, “Now that explains why I did that, instead of being well, you know, ‘rational.’ ” Yeah. I have been living in my serpentine brain for like a whole entire year now. In survival mode. Non-stop. And God knows how many years before that. Tattoos are no longer on the list.
My mother had a father who did not exactly value women. In fact, my grandfather gave me a silver dollar when my eldest son was born. He told me “Now if you have a girl, you won’t get one of these.” Can you believe that!?#*!? (That would explain SOME things about my Mother). One of the huge things that happened to me when I went back to dance in 1989, after a 20 year hiatus, was being forced to observe how little girls interacted with each other. I found them curious little creatures. They giggled and wiggled in the corner, waiting their turn. They were clean and smelled good and did not punch each other just for the Hell of it. Or start belching or farting contests. And they cared about things like their hair, their tutus, and what color they were wearing, and what their favorite color was (pink). They told secrets, clung to each other in passionate hugs, held hands, skipped together, cried when their feelings were hurt, or when they were scared, (which was often). Some were even afraid of bugs, and thought spit was icky, and stuff like that! They were not snarked out in their limbic system...Well, with the exception of one little girl whose mother had just shot a Doberman dead with a .38 pistol. (The poor animal had torn up her garbage that morning just one too many times. She dropped her child off at class, and proudly announced her accomplishment...we sort of stared at her. Now, she was having a really bad, snarked-out-in-the-limbic-system day...)
When Colleen asked me to be the cook for the retreat this past weekend, it was a no-brainer. God knew I needed that particular retreat, and would really need it the weekend when it was scheduled, but more than that, being some sort of “chef” is on my bucket list: I love to cook and create-I am a frustrated Julia Child/nutritionist. So when she asked me to do that for her, (I may actually have begged her...I can’t remember now), I said yes, and started thinking about the menu from then on. The food was good. The incredible thing to me, though, was that all of the women were so grateful. And, they sat at the table-close to each other, crying because their feelings had been hurt or because God had done something loving and unexpected for them. They told secrets, whispered to each other, talked about clothes and make-up and giggled. But mainly they shared about their lives – their children, their husbands, and their Church; their disappointments and hurts. Their challenges. Their exhaustion. There were many stories, and I loved being with them. We laughed a lot – something I realized I had not done this past year. And they said things to me like, “Wow! That is really good chicken!” And, “I love that chocolate!” And “Thank you so much for doing this.” They cleared their plates, and loaded the dishwasher. Amazing! I left the retreat exhausted but filled, humored, and at peace for the first time in a very long time. My thoughts, now emanating from the frontal cortex, surfaced clear and creative, loving and hopeful. I was the Me again who had gotten so lost...
Then I came home. The re-entry was a little rough: My car was dead in the driveway: Where I had left it: perfectly well tuned and okay the Friday afternoon before. The gear shift was in neutral instead of first...Hmm: That was suspicious. I pressed the clutch and shifted to first gear. Turned the key in the ignition, gave it some gas...Nothing. No sound at all. Not even a click click click. I checked the gas cap. Loose. Not replaced correctly. Hondas are picky about that, and will shut down. Hmmm. The area around the car was muddy. Hmmmm. What on earth had gone on here? The automatic response to years of shenanigans started: The imaginary drama/trauma stories. And there was a lot of history to choose from. There was that time that my eldest showed up in the middle of the night holding the right side of the car. And then there was that other time that the youngest stole the (new) car and was stopped by the pine tree at the end of the driveway, (which is still crooked and bears the scar). My heart/breathing rate went up, etc. Like a stone in a pond I started to sink to limbic. But I paddled up; took a deep breath. Maybe I could have, (after seven years of driving the car, for the first time ever), left it in neutral instead of first, and then forgotten to close the gas cap and click it three times – for the first time ever, in seven years? It was possible. I made some calls to the guys: “Did anyone know what had happened to my car? No? Oh...it was me and I just forgot?” Hmmmmm. I did what I needed to do: I took a bath and went to bed. One son had unexpectedly arrived from Dallas. Another one was asleep upstairs. Breathe. So, I was not stranded. Breathe. The next morning they both went outside to “fix the car.” Breathe. I cooked. Breathe. Push out of primitive. Stop the story. Inhale. Exhale. And I watched them.
What I saw was two really handsome strong young men pushing my car down the driveway and aligning it up to check the battery and try to charge it...”helping Mom.” It was going to take more than that, but, I broke through. There they were. Two of my sons. Men. Focused together. Doing manly things. Taking charge. Protecting. “Mom!” “What?” “Do you have any of that retreat chili left?”
Published Saturday, February 4, 2012
Dedicated to my father, Locke A. Plauche’ who, thank God, loved and valued women.
