I send her light

There are two ways of spreading light; to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.  —Edith Wharton

Just before dawn the sky is brilliant—sprinkled with stars and planets to chart a course by.

Standing in for my I-pod this morning is the harmonic blend of Chinooks collar and my heavy breathing both of which are underscored by what now begs to be the percussion section—the heavy loping footfalls of my feet.

 ‘I can run’ my mind tells me.

Less then ten minutes ago I was inside returning an email to my friend Brooke whose dear friend was dangerously injured in an automobile accident. Her news typed out in black and white told me of her friend Eve being ejected from a vehicle after being struck by a sleeping driver.

 Along with the injuries, Brooke described her own despair at the half globe distance between her home in Scotland and New Mexico where Eve now lies in a medically induced coma.

Now outside, I find Brooke’s worry and utter vulnerability are still with me in the twilight air. My footfalls speed up as if they are competing with the increased thump of my heart.

She asked me to send her light.

Fight Eve—I don’t know you—but fight. Hold on, get better.

Chinook is so happy to be out in the cool air that crept in while we slept, cool air that momentarily usurps the heat of yesterday.

‘Eve, I do not know you…but I do know Brooke, and if her heart is yours? Then I trust that I would want to know you…fight, please fight. I send you light…’

As the pavement is swallowed by our momentum I puzzle over the intricate complexities of living.

I can run…but I cannot hide, I know this about me. I am pushing what just yesterday was imperceptibly perched on my shoulder—away. It pushes back and I am yielding to the gallant effort of memory as it makes its way around the corner of my face and into my periphery vision.

This news is tugging me into the 1995 time warp. It’s there and in a sideways glance I see it, as if made visible by the headlights of the car that passes from behind, up ahead so clear I could reach for it were it not for the leash that keeps me grounded in the now, is the dashboard of the Toyota 4Runner. Unwillingly my brain much like a rewound tape recorder hits play and I hear it in my mind—the ugly information of loss that leached through the retched cell phone of so long ago.

“Elin, pull over.”

“What?…Why?”

“I need you to pull over…”

“What? What’s wrong just tell me…I’m just outside Boulder there’s no where to pull over, what’s wrong?”

“My Mom died, she’s dead.”

“WHAT? No…you mean Grandma…right?”

Sobs cascade through the phone and the road in front of me is riddled with question marks.

“No…..my…mom…Mojo…there was an accident…he fell asleep at the wheel…he called me. Oh God this cannot be happening”

I pull over and hold my pregnant stomach; the bile of truth churns inside me, not a good time to throw up. Max is staring at me. Cars are barreling past us, and what seconds before seemed a cocoon of safety inside the vehicle, now feels dangerous as it lurches from side to side in the force of air and velocity of the passing cars. Disbelief dangles before me and I shut my eyes.

“I’m turning around, we’re coming home.”

It was surreal. I have no idea how I excavated the words from the pile of jumbled thoughts that conveyed to my eight year old Max, that his new Grandma had been ripped from all of us.

I have zero recollection of the retraced miles backward from Boulder to Edwards. What remains crystal clear is the vision of Jimmy pushing the lawn mower outside, what was our home, eating away the over grown grass in his effort to stabilize his thoughts when we pulled into the driveway.

We had just been with her days before the accident. She was so effervescent in life that you could feel her from miles away. And now in death it was incomprehensible that she was gone, extinguished.

Next, we drove to San Diego having locked the doors to our house on Hackamore Road without a backward glance. Navigating every mile, Jimmy beside me in a catatonic state, Max paralyzed with uncertainty riding in the back, and me the driver, wrestling with the cruelty of it all as the miles between Colorado and California disappeared.

The years are unwinding before me and I so wish for just a moment I could be Chinook…I mean really, what does she think about as the pavement flies underneath her four paws with her tongue hanging past her knees?…

Back in 1995 we huddled together in the church where we were married, our family cleaved to one another in our grief.

In my quasi hypermnesic state, I now see Max graveside, head bowed staring at the coffin with shoulders that were trying to be brave…

Slowly his face turns up toward me and our eyes lock, I hate this pain for him and reach to touch him in an effort to brush it away.

Later, the funeral behind us, Max has flown with my mom to her home in Virginia; Jimmy and I this time huddled on the beach alone, he, anchored in a pool of sorrow seemingly larger than the Pacific Ocean.

He was drowning and I needed a 1000 pound test line to reel him back to our boat of safety, and I did, and he does come back, despite the labyrinth we were in, we dug deep for compasses that found the way through the cold dense California fog.

Light there was light.

‘Send light’ she whispered in her email plea.

I send her light, I send Eve light, I see light, the promise of a new day and the gift that we are bestowed upon waking.

I can run…I can run…I do not hide.

The life contract we sign with our first breath is omnipresent, we are born, and between that day and our last we live in the balance of all that we cherish, the fragility dangles before us from time to time calling into focus our purpose, to be real, to share, to be our most authentic selves.

The morning light has crept in reflected in the clouds is a splash of violet, ah, there is light, I feel the light.

I send her the light.

 *This post was part of my orginal blog which was dismantled ages ago it is written in memory of my mother-in-law Ellie Waldal and also for my dear friend Brooke.

An Interview: StyleSubstanceSoul

An interview featured on StyleSubstanceSoul  an online gathering of women who strive to look good, feel good, do good

Talking About Teen Dating Violence with Elin Stebbins Waldal, Founder of girls kNOw more and Author of “Tornado Warning”

Not all kisses are loving, as Elin Stebbins Waldal reveals so bravely and intimately in Tornado Warning: A Memoir of Teen Dating Violence and Its Effect on a Woman’s Life. As you know, Amy, Susan and I all have teenage daughters so we were immediately drawn to this topic. Elin, who is also the founder of girls kNOw more, has written a painfully honest account of her own experiences, sharing her personal teenage diary entries along with her adult perspective. This is an important and ultimately empowering book which should be read and discussed by all parents and teenagers.

I literally read your book in one sitting, silently begging you on every page to leave the abusive Derrick. It took a lot of courage for you to write your story. Why did you decide after all this time to share this with the public?

Reading the entire Twilight Saga was the catalyst for me to share my story now. Those books lit a fire inside me — I could not bear the thought of made-up stories existing without a counter-message told from the perspective of the teen I was. The Twilight books invoked such a visceral response in me because they are riddled with unhealthy relationship behaviors. Here is one example of many I found disturbing when put in context to the readership of tweens and teens:

“When you love the one who is killing you, it left you no options. How could you run, how could you fight, when doing so would hurt that beloved one? If your life was all you had to give your beloved, how could you not give it?” – from Breaking Dawn

I knew I could not remain silent for another minute. There is nothing glamorous about living with someone who threatens to kill you.

Do you think you would have published your book if Derrick were still alive?

It is so hard to know for sure how I may have felt about publishing it if Derrick were alive, because he is not. The best I can say is that when I wrote my first draft, over two decades ago, he was alive and he was not the reason for me to abandon my dream of publication at that time. It is so important to have real stories. Part of the liberation I feel from healing is the freedom I have to share my journey and embrace my womanhood in its entirety, embracing it in a way that pays homage to all of my life experiences.

You were only 17 when you entered this abusive relationship. That’s such a vulnerable time in a girl’s life. What attracted you to Derrick and kept you in the relationship?

We had spent some time flirting and I was very attracted initially to what I perceived to be his grown-up qualities. He also had an air of mystery to him in that“not everyone understands me” sort of way. I think his protectiveness is what won me over; as you know, when we first met he rescued me from an uncomfortable altercation with another guy. I saw him as brave, righteous, and capable of seeing a girl as worthy of having the right to state her opinion. Apart from that, he was nice, funny, cute and, most importantly, he was a “grown-up.” He was out on his own, he owned his own business, he seemed mature and together, and all those things were very attractive to me because I was obsessed with my own emancipation. It is so important for individuals to understand how insidious abuse is; early on, his control over my decision-making leeched into me in a way where at some point it seemed normal. I think I looked to him as the one who knew better because he was older. He never laid a finger on me until I was living with him; once we were under the same roof, the emotional and physical abuse took hold.

Do you think there were certain characteristics Derrick saw in you that convinced him you would take his abuse? You seemed strong and confident, but he called you “little and helpless,” and told you that’s what attracted him to you. Did you become his perception of you, which is what so many teenage girls do with boys they like?

I think I was flattered that he felt I “understood” him. In a word, it helped me to feel special. He for sure played up the “nobody but you gets me” syndrome. I absolutely believe he found my best attributes — the ability to nurture and have empathy — and used them to attach himself to me in a way that served to make me feel responsible for his well-being.

On some level, I am sure I became his perception of me; that is, until the reality of living with him began to catch up with me. I was working two jobs — I was supporting him — and life, if it remained on that path, was going to be painfully long.

In hindsight, it’s easy to see warning signs. Looking back, when should you have left him?

Oh, this is tough. I don’t really subscribe to “should,” per se, and each woman’s journey is very individual. As frightening as it sounds, I believe I left when I discovered my strength. As you saw in my story, I went back so many times and, sadly, that is the pattern in abusive relationships. Having said that, had I understood the warning signs I may have thought twice when he announced to the room that I was his “girlfriend.” He never asked for my consent — without the tools, I saw it as a compliment; with education ,I may have seen it as a means for “quick involvement” and a need for control which lacked regard for my own say-so. The other important piece to remember is that he was threatening to kill himself, me, our dog, my family members. It was very scary for me to imagine leaving alive, and in some ways I think I was protecting myself, my family and him all at once.

How long were you involved with Derrick? What finally enabled you to leave him?

We were together just shy of three years. It was a combination of things which led me away. I was slowly asserting myself and reclaiming who I was but my decision to go to college really brought my strength to a new height, thus allowing me to end it. Once I had the space to feel who I was without him, I couldn’t imagine being who I had become when I was with him. It was really hard though because leaving him meant giving up on him and the relationship prong which a couple becomes: “us.” The guy he claimed he wanted to be was incongruent with the guy he really was; the “us” I fantasized about did not match the “us” we had grown into. Once I could clearly see and feel all of that, it was easier to take the steps toward breaking free. READ FULL STORY

Message Delivered from the Pantry

Last Friday the universe sent me a rather messy message via my pantry. To be clear right up front—this is not a “you are what you eat” ramble…it is however a “you are what you think” epiphany.

On March 25^Th no more than an hour and a half into my day and 24 hours away from leaving for WAM! LA,  I had sent what I can only guess would be close to 500 hex-messages to myself about, what I couldn’t do, hadn’t done, and who did I possibly think I was by thinking I ever could, in other words; serious amounts of negative self-talk or what I have dubbed: hex-messages.

For three weeks I had been pecking away at formulating a presentation I would deliver at the WAM! LA conference, but for the three days leading up to the aforementioned didactic bulletin from on high, I had hit a road block with the presentation I was working on. There had been a series of false starts at eradicating the pitfalls but really they amounted to staring at a blinking computer cursor while trying to tune out the abysmal chants my little voice was sing-songing in my mind.

Do you ever do that? In a moment of self doubt rather than drawing from your personal strengths your brain rushes down the highway of self deprecation as if trying to defeat you?

Well left unchecked mine does exactly that, which brings me back to the morning of March 25Th and my pantry…

While on our way out the door to get him to school, my son stopped and said, “Mom, what’s that smell?”

“Eew. Not sure.” And much like a blood hound goes on patrol I double backed to the trash assuming the offensive odor was the result of rotting food cast from a plate lurking somewhere within. Nope.

Sniff, sniff, sniff…it seems to be coming from over here…my mind having temporarily abandoned it’s hex-messaging was telling me while picturing a dead mouse or worse. As I drew closer to the pantry the offending odor took hold. I can honestly say what was hidden behind the door and about to reveal itself was the farthest thing from my mind.

Yup, that’s what my pantry looked like when a four year post expiration date can of tomato sauce decided to spontaneously combust and blow its contents out from its bottom inside the pantry.

I didn’t need to consult the clock to know there was not a possibility of cleaning the putrid mess and getting my son to school on time.  I took a deep breath and told myself—“pull it together…think of the people in Japan they would GLADLY trade places…” With that thought circling like an airplane coming in for a landing I gently closed the doors to the cabinet, turned, and with a smile said to my son that of course I wouldn’t make him late for school…the mess would still be there when I returned.

Off to school we drove…minutes later my son climbed from the car and as he did I paused to watch him head toward his school day…all that promise and ability alive in his long legged gate, and as if by magic a thought crept into me…

“What do I tell my kids when they doubt themselves…” followed by, “why don’t I extend the same patience and grace to myself?”

Messages of self deprecation are learned—what do I want my children to observe when it comes to my own self-talk—clearly I do not want to pass on to them the quasi mini-series-drama that has been performed in my mind as of late.

Even when self-deprecation takes hold internally it still finds a way to manifest externally—so I cannot delude myself in the “at least I haven’t said these messages out-loud” reassurances. Negativity oozes from pores, shows up in body language, and in my case —no doubt was shutting my family out—clarity of vision almost always comes from backing away, by staring at my work with my nose up against the screen I was trapped in the “I am too busy to think and feel anything but this” paradigm and all the while cemented in misery not solving one smidgen of my dilemmas.

By the time I returned home the internal voice noise was grounded freeing my mind to see that self-defeating messages are toxic. In many ways they lead to self-hate and I knew I had traveled way too far to allow myself to implode, or like the can, explode.

Better the can than me.

I grabbed the camera, rubber gloves, paper towels, a sponge, my sense of humor and began the clean-up.

For me cleaning often is a cathartic process—something about restoring order to domestic chaos re-aligns me with myself. In the case of the cabinet it’s as if the objects needing removal were symbolic of an unsolved trouble spot in the presentation I had been working on. The more I tore that cabinet apart the more my brain worked on the trouble areas of my PowerPoint. As each item was replaced I found my confidence emerging what had previously been a message of doubt, “You seriously can’t make this into a deliverable message—it’s too fragmented!”  Was replaced with “Bullshit—it isn’t fragmented I simply have a couple of areas to flesh out—I have what it takes to make this a deliverable message.” What once was, “Who do you think you are?” was now usurped by, “A woman who is trying to make a difference by sharing her own observations and experience.” Last, “why the heck did Melanie Klein choose me to speak?” was stomped out with, “I am so excited by this privilege I can’t wait to hug Melanie and thank her for trusting me!”

My friend Andrea Owen refers to the negative voices that like to take hold as “Gremlins” –she likes to say “It’s time to kick my Gremlins ass!” In fact she is so passionate about it she is writing a book to help people do just that; kick their proverbial gremlins ass…I smile as I picture her sharing her own experience and know we all have moments where the “Gremlin” attempts to have the last word.

By allowing my own “gremlins” into my thought process…they acted as road blocks creating an obstacle course cluttering the path to my desired goal. The toxicity of negative self-talk can lead one down a slippery slope that can dead end in what another friend, Kendra Sebelius, refers to as self hate…so taking time out to hear the messages inside my head, in a word, stopped the personal attack.  We all need to do it—just Stop Self Hate, it emotionally arrests us in a place of negativity.

Cabinet cleaned, order restored, message from the universe absorbed—back away for clarity, turn down the noise, tune-up the mind set, and above all check myself when negativity sets in—

Like the contents of the can, that way of thinking has long since expired. Hex-messages be gone…because, I am what I think.

I Was That Girl-Teen Dating Violence

It was an honor to be invited by Nancy to guest blog for New Moon Girls website, Daughters.com, thought I would share it here too…

“This guest blog contains a very personal and cautionary story. I’m grateful to Elin Stebbins Waldal for sharing it with us and for dedicating her life to awareness and prevention of teen dating violence.” -Nancy Gruver

I know that anyone can fall victim to an abusive relationship…I know because I was that child.

I was raised with promise, privilege, love, education and by parents whom modeled a loving union. I was surrounded by adoring siblings and a support system which my own friends claimed to envy—in other words it “shouldn’t” have happened to me. But here is the thing about abuse, it doesn’t care, nor does it discriminate.

I was 17 when I met Derrick and in the beginning he was everything I hoped for—loving, attentive, responsible and polite. I fell in love with him when he was at his best.

He was older, owned a business, lived on his own—all attributes and experiences that served to fuel my own desire for emancipation. When high school ended, rather then head to college, I moved in with him. With bravado and self assurance that only a teenager can claim, I insisted I didn’t need an education; I was ready to live on my own and earn my way. I was majority age and my parents could not force me to change my mind.

The storm of violence that unfolded in the years ahead was hidden from my family. Derrick slowly worked to isolate me from all the people in my life. He made threats of suicide and my own death if I should leave. Those threats chained me to him. In the end I did manage to extract myself from the relationship but not before it nearly cost me my life.

February 28th marked the final day of Teen Dating Violence Awareness and Prevention Month for 2011. But the end of the month doesn’t mean the end of the crusade. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. Individuals committed to the cause know that our work requires unwavering dedication 365 days a year. Even though the month ends, the subject, in this case teen dating violence will not. READ MORE

The Danger of Desensitization

Desensitization—what is it and why is it a problem?

Definition of DESENSITIZE

Messages land on us everywhere we go. Quite literally it is hard to escape television, print magazines and billboards. They stare back at us, talk at us and each frame sends a message both subliminal and conscious about who we are, what we need, and how to feel.

“Ads sell more then products, they sell values, they sell images, they sell concepts of love and sexuality, of success, and perhaps most important…of normalcy. They tell us who we are and who we should be.”
-Jean Kilbourne, from Killing Us Softly

Imagine an entire generation unmoved by images of violence, danger, and the sexualization of women and girls. An entire generation spoon fed a constant stream of toxicity that the new normal is to make a mockery out of crimes of bullying, violence, sexual assault, stalking and domestic violence. In that generation everything becomes “no big deal,” “your problem not mine,” “a joke,” or “not taken seriously.” A generation whose response to images that speed before them faster than a moving freight train is—“What’s the big deal? Everyone knows it’s just a joke.”

In other words living in the world being cultivated today through advertising—a normalization of what otherwise would be held reprehensible, disconcerting, and even dangerous.

My mind is still reeling two days after seeing the ad campaign known as “Go Crazy on Android” by Virgin Mobile. In it Virgin Mobile is selling the consumer on the numerous applications available on the phone, they do this by featuring a young woman stalking a young man.

What happens when as a culture we become immune and no longer can distinguish real issues embedded in a message because they are dressed as a joke. When we don’t recognize the underlying gravity of stalking in the Virgin Mobile Campaign but perceive it as “harmless” or “funny” we are walking a slippery slope.

Per the National Institute of Justice Website, stalking is defined as the following:

“Like domestic violence, stalking is a crime of power and control. Stalking is conservatively defined as a course of conduct directed at a specific person that involves repeated (two or more occasions) visual or physical proximity, nonconsensual communication, or verbal, written, or implied threats, or a combination thereof, that would cause a reasonable person fear” 

According to a study by the Bureau of Justice Statistics:

“An estimated 5.9 million people over the age of 18 were victims of stalking or harassment in 2006.”

Furthermore on December 21, 2010, President Obama proclaimed January 2011, National Stalking Awareness Month, where he stated:  

“This dangerous and criminal behavior is still often mischaracterized as harmless. During Stalking Awareness Month, we acknowledge the seriousness of stalking, we recognize its impact on victims, and we recommit to reducing its incidence.”

There are countless professionals in this country who teach young people about the importance of safety when it comes to technology. Students are asked to hold themselves accountable for their own actions and report the indiscretions of others.

Candidly the script in the Virgin Mobile video above (as well as its counterpart on YouTube) make a mockery out of the efforts made by educators, volunteers, and parents whom strive to place useful information and tools in the hands and minds of young people.

Comments on YouTube provide insight into the minds of the youth targeted and reveal their confusion. There are an alarming number whom minimize the serious nature of stalking, while a few speak to the egregious nature of the videos referring to them as “frightening.”

I ask you to join me in a letter writing campaign requesting Virgin Mobile to end their irresponsible commercials immediately. I mailed my own letter today:

Virgin Mobile USA

Attn: Bob Stohrer, Vice President of Marketing

10 Independence Blvd.
Warren, NJ 07059 

For more resources about technology safety visit National Network to End Domestic Violence