Hey Annie!

Lessons on Listening

I began my journey towards self-differentiation when I was in the third grade.  My given name is Anne Marie.  As the story goes, shortly after my birth my grandparents tried to call me Annie and my mother quickly put an end to that and informed them that I was to be called Anne.  For my first 8 years I was known as Anne. That all changed in the fall of 1975. My mother had just gone back to teaching one day a week, my brother began kindergarten, and I was starting the 3rd grade.  I was coming off a good year in Mrs. Gregory’s second grade class, where my challenges with reading were beginning to be noted and for the first time my classmates and I were sorted into groups based upon our academic abilities. I was placed in the group struggling with reading and my friends in the more advanced group.  Even still, I have fond memories of my year in the 2nd grade. On the last day of school Mrs. Gregory had all of us with summer birthdays come up to her desk.  Being born in the summer meant that my birthday was not acknowledged during the school year.  I was so jealous of the kids that got to lean over Mrs. Gregory’s polyester slacks and receive their “birthday swats.”  When all of us summer birthday kids were asked to come up to her desk I was literally bursting with anticipation.  Not one who liked to being singled out, I felt my courage bolstered standing in solidarity of my classmates, I stood there waiting, hoping.  And sure enough, she started with June, then July and finally August.  As each of us assumed the position and she gave us our 8 “birthday swats,” and one to grow on.  My heart soared. These swats were merely love pats and I felt that love.  It may sound a bit barbaric now, but it was a right of passage none the less.  For me it was so important.  We summer birthday kids were now being included in the ritual that had taken place all year. 

Summer came and went.  With all the swimming, playing outside, eating the delicious vegetables from our garden, and catching fireflies.  As school began, I moved into 3rd grade with ease.  There were two third grade teachers in my small rural Ohio elementary and I was thrilled to find out that I had secured a place in Mrs. Davis’ class. I loved my 3rd grade teacher so much. Mrs. Davis was beautiful, stylishly attired, kind, and warm.  I still remember how her pleasant scent would linger in the air when she walked past my desk.   Because she was so accessible, I confidently approached her desk one day and asked her how to spell, Annie.  She wrote it out for me and to my surprise it only required one additional letter.  I have always thought it was funny that my nick name was longer than my given name.  And that was that.  At age eight I became Annie and I left Anne behind.  Anne was too confining; it was a name that kept me feeling controlled by my mother.  I did not understand this intellectually back then, but my inner self knew.  She knew that I would need to make my own way in the world.  That inner voice that I heard and listened to that day as I made my way through the rows of desks to Mrs. Davis became harder to hear as the years added to my age.

I learned somewhere along the way that my inner voice was not to be trusted.  The New Testament is full of verses that warn of following the flesh and instead call us to listen to the spirit. 

For the flesh desires what is contrary to the Spirit, and the Spirit what is contrary to the flesh. They are in conflict with each other, so that you are not to do whatever you want.  Galatians 5:17

Whoever sows to please their flesh, from the flesh will reap destruction; whoever sows to please the Spirit, from the Spirit will reap eternal life. Galatians 6:8

Somehow in my formative years I began to understand that the voice inside me, my inner teacher was my flesh and therefore, bad, and not to be trusted.  I learned to discount my gut, to not trust my intuition.  I saw my own desires as prideful, or evil in some way.  In the faith of my youth God was just another authority figure who was out to make sure I towed the line.  A heavenly father, strict, angry, and demanding.  I remember singing a song in Sunday School as an elementary student and that says, “The cross before me the world behind me, no turning back, no turning back.” I would in the privacy of my bedroom practice not looking back, so afraid that when the time came, I might be so curious and turn my head back toward the world, thus sacrificing my chance to live in heaven.  I found the story of Lot’s wife so distressing, she too looked back with dire consequences.  My childlike faith was one centered on the fear of messing up.  A fear of being human developed. My fear said something that is so natural like looking back, a simple turn of the head, was all it took to lose everything. And because I knew that I was probably going to fail, I went ahead and condemned myself and labeled myself as bad.  And shame found its grip.

I learned to not listen to my body.  As a Highly Sensitive Person (Dr. Elaine Aron,1997) I feel everything and as a child this was probably very overwhelming.  In my home excessive emotions were criticized.  I would be scolded for being too silly, or too loud, and negative emotions were not permitted at all.  The few times I spoke up about my emotions were met with an explanation as to why I should not be feeling that way.  I learned to not show my emotions, even normal childhood emotions like anticipation and delight. When I was growing up and was looking forward to some event or party, at the last minute someone would be sick, and we would be unable to attend. This taught me to not get my hopes up, and not to be excited about things, lest I be disappointed.  I even got sick a couple of times when I was supposed to do something that I was afraid of. And that felt so disingenuous to me as a kid that I learned somehow to push through which led me to the other extreme.  To be so out of touch with my body that I basically ignored it.  My relationship with my body became adversarial.  It became something in the way of doing what I wanted. 

I am rarely sick.  I might get a cold every 10 years or so.  I don’t let small things get in my way.  My pain tolerance is high. I don’t say this in boasting, I say this as a recognition of my buying into our culture that glorifies this kind of pushing through at the expense of listening to our bodies.

As I came into adulthood, I was fully invested in this idea that I was inherently bad, that my body was also not to be trusted. Although I heard messages of grace and love, I heard them through this lens of denying my flesh and thereby not listening to the voice inside me that by this time had become so stifled that it was only a faint whisper. It never occurred to me to trust myself.  Faith was about sacrifice, it was about always trying to do the right thing, and the only way I knew to do this was to seek the approval of those around me, as a pastor’s wife that meant the members of the congregations my husband served. My self-worth was based upon how I imagined others saw me.  An emotionally unhealthy way to live.

Now I understand that voice inside me that I am leaning in to hear is my true self, it was also my gut and certainly it is my body. I see how I not only questioned my inner voice, but I also got very good at ignoring her completely.  I have been afraid to listen to her.  My early church experiences and my role as a pastor’s wife reinforced this.  I was so afraid of criticism that I made myself less so that no one would have anything negative to say about me. Believing that the flesh was bad, I learned to dismiss myself as wrong or bad. 

Listen, my childhood was mostly typical.  I work every day with clients whose childhoods were fraught with abuse of the worst kind.  Even my clients who come from good homes have work to do.  Processing their family of origin. I have always believed that you don’t get out of childhood without some scars.  When parents look at me and say, “I am so afraid I am going to mess up my kids.”  I usually respond, “you will, and that is ok.”  We all at some point, need to work through the messages we got as children that no longer serve us.  Messages based upon a child’s literal understanding.  One of those messages I have been processing the last few years is my total disregard of my body and her wisdom.

In Hillary McBride’s book, “The Wisdom of Your Body (2021),” I discovered just what I needed on my quest to sift through the messages I received in my youth.  Keeping those that still serve me and letting go and challenging those that do not.  So, as I think back to my little 3rd grade self who marched right up to her teacher’s desk and became Annie I realize, early on I listened to my inner voice.  I was free of the fear of others’ reactions and judgment. Simply choosing what was right for me and being fully confident in that.  My adult self sees the wisdom of my little girl self.  In her innocence she embraced her own truth.

Ann Lamott, another of my favorite writers that has been helping me along in this journey since I first read “Traveling Mercies (2000)” in 2005 wrote in a recent New York Times opinion,

“I have the theological understanding of a bright 8-year-old, but Jesus says we need to approach life like children, not like cranky know-it-alls, crazily busy, clutching our to-do lists.”

Well, I guess I want to have the sensitivities of a wise 9-year-old.  I want to listen and respond with compassion when I hear my inner voice’s tiny whisper.  I want to stop what I am doing and gently touch my shoulder and say, “I’m listening.”