the red cardinal
by Elouise
the red cardinal
sings his bright clear spring song
perched on bare branches
When I published my first post, Dear Dad, on 27 Dec 2013, my voice was anything but bright and clear. Singing was definitely out of the question. As a survivor of childhood PTSD, I used an elaborate strategy of calculated silence and half-truth.
How much did I owe the world? How much did I owe my family? How much did I owe the church? My father was a clergyman. Revered, respected, loved and sought after by people with sorrows such as mine.
But I wasn’t one of his followers. I was the first-born of four daughters. I had to watch my tongue constantly. Smile when expected. Stifle tears. Do as I was told. Set an example. And take the beatings like the contrite spirit I was not.
Breaking my silence of decades took decades. It started when I was in my 40s, with trips to Al-Anon meetings for five years. There I learned to relax and share things I’d never told anyone. Then I worked with an intern therapist who helped me complete a genogram (family tree, with notes). Finally, in the early 1990s, I began working with a psychotherapist with whom I’m still connected.
I put in hours and years of work. Did tons of homework. Cried buckets of tears. Filled unnumbered journals with dreams and personal entries.
Yet my recovery isn’t measured in months, years or numbers of pages written in journals. It’s measured in my voice. At first feeble, halting, self-conscious and terrified. Beginning with my husband and immediate family, then with my sisters and parents, slowly but surely with several trusted friends, and finally, a few years before I began blogging, with my large extended family on my father’s side.
My voice is the measure of my recovery.
Regardless of the weather, the political climate, or my health, the question is the same: How free am I to tell the truth? That’s the thermometer that matters.
I’ve always cared about issues that have to do with women. I used to think that getting a decent academic position would somehow ‘prove’ my worth. Or set me free. Especially if I was granted tenure.
Well, that wasn’t my riddle to solve. My riddle was my voice.
I began blogging because I knew it would challenge me to tell the truth freely, with words chosen by me, not by someone else.
So the little red cardinal outside my window caught my attention. The ground was covered with snow, and the laurel bush had been beaten down by more than one Nor’easter. Yet the little red cardinal was singing his heart out. Freely. Telling his truth about life and announcing his territory and the hope of spring.
Though I’m a follower of Jesus, I don’t believe this makes my life easier. In fact, I’d suggest it makes it more difficult because it means both living and telling the truth. Especially when it’s most unwelcome or unexpected.
Many thanks to Candice for this topic! Though I’ve already written elsewhere about this blog, this is another way of looking at it. Equally true and challenging.
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 17 March 2018
Cardinal duet found on YouTube
What a wonderful post. I’m so glad you found your voice. Telling the truth takes one from being a victim to victor. I too, have had to work through some difficult issues from the past, and with God’s help, I think I’ve been able to deal with most of them. Thank you for sharing.
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You’re so welcome, Candice. I’m grateful to have lived long enough to have made measurable progress. Which means I love life and myself more than I ever thought I would. 🙂 Which sounds like a version of your story, too….
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Thanks for this post, which helps me for a talk I’m giving at Quakers tomorrow – remembering that when we tell our truth, we gain in courage and conviction. Thanks so much! 🙂 xxx
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You’re so welcome, Fran! I wish I could be sitting there to hear you tomorrow. I know it will be memorable, just like you are. And courageous. 🙂
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Thank you so much! Sisters of the world unite! 🙂 xxx
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I have listened to your voice for at least five years and I can say how much stronger and stronger and clearer it has become. Congratulations. And if you sisters of the world do ever unite we poor males will probably get what we deserve.
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What, a lovely, sexy lady who adores you? 😉 You’re in the collective, Paol. 🙂
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Have no fear, Fran and I will protect you! Many thanks for your long listening and your welcome comment. 💐😎
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Yet my recovery isn’t measured in months, years or numbers of pages written in journals. It’s measured in my voice.
and what an amazing and beautiful voice it is dear Elouise ❤ ❤ ❤ you speak to so many things many of us often wish we could also, you are strong and you are loved so much ❤ ❤ ❤
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Thank you, dear Kim. I admit to a deficit of confidence when it comes to my personal voice. It’s strange, since I think I had a fairly strong teaching voice (at the seminary and in the church). I’m grateful for retirement, and the opportunity to exercise my writing voice. Even though I sometimes shake in my boots. 🙂
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