Cosmic Parenting: Back Story

To write this book, I have had to overcome a soul crushing wall of self-doubt, self-criticism, and fear.  My internal negative voices—the demons, the distractors, the obstructers—have said to me: “You have no authority.” But my deepest inner voice has called me to write this book and the people I trust most—the ones who believe I have something important to say—urged and supported me to push through the wall.   

Writing this book has been a journey. 

As long as I can remember, I wanted to have been parented differently. I wanted my own children to raise and to parent them differently than I had been. Always a dreamer, I wanted to change the world by working with and for children. I became an early childhood and development specialist, and an educator embracing much of the Montessori philosophy which is grounded in the belief that world peace starts with the Child.

Though I accumulated a great deal of knowledge, wisdom, and experience in child development, parenting, and depth psychology, I never wanted to write a book that cites research, quotes experts, or offers practical exercises. For many years, I felt called to share my wisdom and experience with others in person—what I’ve learned about parenting the Child Self and parenting the Child we raise. Through teaching, coaching, and consulting, I have done this, and continue to do so. Over time, however, I could see that my work made a positive difference in the lives of children and adults and came to believe that I needed to reach a broader audience. 

Throughout this writing journey, my self-doubt has flared up. As an adult, like many of us, I struggle with early childhood messages that I am not good enough. I absorbed the societal myth that we need to be special or perfect to matter. But humans aren’t perfect. And this Catch 22 blocks us, if we let it, from doing what matters most to us. On this journey, the creative act of writing—an act of vulnerability—threatened to stand in my way. I chose to move through it. 

My first experience of my so called “imperfection” came when I was six. My mother sat me and my sister on the front step of our 1960s split-level suburban brick house and said, “Don’t move!” Adoring her, perhaps daunted by her, I wanted nothing more than to comply, to be perfect for her and not move.

I was dressed in a poufy wide-skirted, satin dress and white gloves. My mother had sown it herself and I knew it was special. But the skirt had so much crinoline and taffeta that my legs itched like crazy. As best I could, I sat still next to my sister who had her hands folded tightly in her lap, frozen.

To make things worse, those white gloves covered my most sensitive instrument, my hands. My hands are the source of my deep connection to the physical world and of my self-expression, my essential creativity. I longed to touch the waxy leaves of the myrtle bush pushing against the wrought iron railing next to me—the leaves were calling out to me. I touched them and, of course, soiled the white gloves. Mortified I tried to wipe the dirt off and in the process stained my dress. 

My mother didn’t consider that it’s nearly impossible for a six-year-old to sit still. I would have said to my own Child something like: “I will be a moment; if you can stay on the steps so you won’t get your clothes dirty, that would be great.” At least that would have been an honest recognition of who I was, a six-year-old.

When my mother returned, her hair was high and stiff on her head, the First Lady fashion, and she shimmered in her skintight gold gown. I was desperately trying to wipe the smudge of black soot off my white gloves. (Could there be a better symbol of perfection?) When she saw me, she was dismayed, disappointed, and angry. “What did you do?” she asked, “I told you not to move.”

I hadn’t moved from that spot. I told her this. She laughed, perhaps with love, but it did not feel that way to me. “Only you could get dirty not moving,” she said, and I felt her giving up on me. I had failed her. In that moment I knew that I was never going to be perfect. Her laughter had mocked me, leaving my self-esteem in tatters. For many years, I never felt like my clothes fit right. They pulled and pinched, they were too long or short, too gray, or too colorful. I did not feel right.  

And the story of the white gloves became a family legend: I was dirty, clumsy, and messy, I could never be polished and crisp, never be good enough. 

This is the lesson I took—that I was wrong, that the desire to feel everything with my fingers was wrong. It has taken a lot of work to accept myself and my nature.

To effectively parent the soul of the Child and the Child Self, to support the expression of their will, requires our consciousness. When I could hold the memory of the white gloves in my consciousness, I began my path to healing and wholeness. 

When our childhood wounds are triggered, everything becomes more difficult. Tending to our wounds and the activities of daily life at the same time is hard. It can feel like there is little left for creativity and self-fulfillment. Practicing consciousness strengthens and opens our flow of clarity so that when we are triggered, we have more access to our inner resources. We are better able to respond to our needs, not just react to them. We can honor what is true for us and can call on the help we need. That’s consciousness at work. 

On this writing journey, just like on my own self-parenting and parenting journeys, I have had to fully exercise my consciousness muscle. For me to pause that critical voice from thwarting my desires, needs, and ability to parent and to write, I had to make that voice my best friend, one who loves me and could shine a light on where I am hurt and broken and need healing. 

The critical voice comes to me in feelings of shame and inadequacy. I now know not to take them literally. They’re a wakeup call. If I listen closely, the critical voice shows me how to understand the source and nature of my wounds. When I feel the sting of shame about my “imperfections,” I can show my Child Self that the childhood messages were false.  I realize there is nothing that needs fixing, not in me, my Child Self, and not in the Child I am raising. In this way, I can reclaim my broken pieces and feel whole again and act from that wholeness.  

Writing this book became my Promissa, a spiritual contract with myself. And though I had to face internal obstacles along the way, being conscious of them has enriched my life and the writing of this book. 

I have tremendous gratitude for this journey and for sharing it with you.