Finding Your True North

Dust off the compass and consider the powerful magnetic pull of influence...in the most unexpected places.

When I was grade school age, somewhere around there, I was introduced to my stepfather’s brother and his wife. They were introduced to me as my aunt and uncle. I’ll call them Aunt Harry and Uncle Sid.* They didn’t visit too often because they lived far away but when they visited, my parents stayed up late. There was a lot of drinking and carousing.

I loved Aunt Harry. She was LOUD and FUN. She talked to me. She played with me. She was old. Or that’s how it seemed to me. She was older than my grandmother who raised me. Looking back she was probably around fifty. In other words, young. Relatively speaking. (I’m here all night, folks.)

One day I walked up to Mom in the kitchen (for I called my grandmother “Mom”) and told her something funny that Aunt Harry said.

Mom scowled.

She positively growled.

Mom did not like Aunt Harry. Not one bit. And in that split second of growl she made it patently clear that WE did not like Aunt Harry as well. That was how this was going to go.

So from that moment, I did not like Aunt Harry.

I stopped talking to Aunt Harry. I stopped listening to Aunt Harry. I stopped playing with Aunt Harry.

Because Mommy’s the Mommy. And Mommy didn’t like Aunt Harry.

In hindsight, I understand so much more of course than I did then. There was adult warfare going on and the child was getting all knotted up in it. I wondered why it wasn’t Uncle Sid that WE didn’t like. (He hugged just a little too tight and a little too long.) Why couldn’t WE decide he was the one WE weren’t going to play with. I didn’t have to be told to give him a wide berth.

Nevertheless, my Aunty Harry playtime had abruptly ended. I could see the confusion on her face. Because now I frowned. Now I scowled. Now I walked away. I had chosen sides.

Influence.

What influence we have on each other. In all relations. Our familial pulls are the strongest as it trickles, babbling down the brook, yak-yakking, “listen to me, do it my way, get in line.”

As children, we are always looking to our favorite grown-ups for signs. Cues. With all of our senses we are primed and ready to follow. Regardless of our own outer bitty rebellions that may be brewing, even erupting daily.

As spouses, we’re looking for clues. How do you feel about this? How did she react to this? How did he respond? Which way are WE going to lean here as a unit? And when we don’t, who is the stronger influence?

And is that how it’s going to go?

Eventually we rebel. Rebel and build our barricades to prove our independence and free thought. (Huh. How free is that free thought?) And in turn, we are influencing someone else. But based on what? A rebellion. We have not yet even begun to think for ourselves.

Shakespeare had hierarchical view of the universe that began with God and trickled down through angels, royalty and down, down, down through class systems to rocks and dirt. The order was meant to influence beginning with the highest order – God. Why? I imagine, in addition to a good subliminal outline to playwrighting, so that the Elizabethans would have a compass always pointing True North.

So who, what or where is your compass? Where is True North for you? Is it truly north? Or does north change every time Mercury retrogrades?

Let’s go back to Aunt Harry. (Clearly short for Harriet.) I mean you cannot be called Aunt Harry and not be fun! You just can’t. For a child, this would be against the laws of names. Aunt Harry was not pretty. She was unusually short. Not a “little person” but couldn’t have been much taller than 4’5” because we almost saw eye to eye. She wasn’t fashionable. She wasn’t well spoken. She, to my recollection, didn’t while away the time with deep thought.

She was fun. She paid attention to me.

I will go so far as to say, in our short time together, she loved me.

Mom did not want to share that love. Perhaps because Aunt Harry was a wicked witch and said nasty incantations after she popped back a few shots of Jägermeister long after my bedtime had passed. Perhaps Aunt Harry knew a secret! We had lots of those, so this is not an uneducated assumption.

But in truth, more likely Aunt Harry was “beneath” the class or hierarchal order of what Mom deemed appropriate in her home and she had to bear it for the sake of her husband who rarely saw his brother.

(Look, we all have our dark places. Mom was influenced by her mother who scoured the southern social registries desperate that the family name didn’t disappear from the Blue Book. It did. Thanks, Aunt O’Haley! Cheers! Turns out peeing in the ladies’ room at the boxing match is overrated.)

One more little story before I bring it all home.

I had a childhood friend who I loved deeply. We had sleepovers. We were loud. We giggled and cried, and jumped on trampolines, and had those deep talks that twelve-year-old girls have. (“Do you think he likes me? No, I mean like.”) We were in many ways super opposite of each other. I loud, she soft. I extroverted, she introverted. I, a heathen, she a believer. It was a match made in heaven.

Our mothers did not care for each other. But we. WE loved each other. We went through change after change as we grew to high school and beyond. We drifted for natural reasons but also for reasons I believe influenced by our elders. Perhaps some of those reasons were for our best. But I believe many of those reasons had to do with a self-protection of the elders passed on to that of the youngsters.

One day, many, many years later after we were in our late twenties or so, long enough for things do have passed and short enough for our elders to still hold a grudge, I had the opportunity to see this dear friend.

I felt happy. I felt my heart swell at the idea of seeing her again. I shared this with Mom, who, without missing a beat, reminded me of all the reasons why this person was not my true friend. Reminding me of childish pranks etcetera, etcetera. I mean we are talking adolescence here.

I said, “I’ve forgotten all that. I’ve forgiven all that.”

“Well, I haven’t,” glowered Mother; the smoke of ugliness wafting in where it had not resided before.

And for the first time – I saw clearly.

I was NOT influenced…by her.

Even when my friend revealed to me that her mother, too, warned against this seemingly unfruitful kinship where one light could not possibly shine if the other was aflame, I was not moved.

Because True North is love. And on this day True North influenced me.

Love never fails. Love never dies. Love never ends. True love returns. Love is always the best offering.

You can still know True North while never seeing that person again for your own reasons. But still love and still forgive.

Obviously as youngsters and as adults we don’t always know what’s best for us. And a wise influence can be a lifesaver.

But so often, we allow influence for a number of what seem to be superbly intelligent reasons – but often – a misplaced loyalty of love. Which is in reality is what? Ohhhh, what’s the word? Today, let’s go with “twaddle”.

In effect, the influencer with power, the one who is so invested in taking your love from another, (let’s be clear here – no one who is beating you up loves you. So do leave that person stat), whether it’s your mom, dad, or spouse, this influencer who needs you to get in their line, is actually crying out to be loved – unrighteous as it may be. Desperate as it may be.

What was my mom actually saying? “Don’t be like Aunt Harry. Don’t live in a ‘double-wide’ somewhere in the middle of Washington state. Don’t make your fashion choices at K-Mart. Don’t be so loud. Put your napkin in your lap. Be pretty. Be elegant.”

“Don’t be like her.”

“Be like me. Because you’re mine.”

And as the weed is watered it finds more voice:

“Love me more! I’m scared for you!  I’m scared!  I’m scared! I’M FRICKING TERRIFIED OVER HERE THAT IT’S ALL GOING SOUTH, BABY, AND YOU’RE ALL I GOT.”

<Scowl.>  Followed most likely with a secret sob in the bathroom alone with a liter of vodka.

So as I sit here, I have only a few more thoughts:

Aunt Harry. You were awesome and cool and not fancy and maybe even a little ignorant. Or maybe, you were a secret underground CIA agent with a PHD in early childhood play.

But you were Aunty Harry, and you had your own True North. I hope that you listened. And I thank you. Because I have a good memory of being loud with you. Here’s to polyester pants, plaid shirts, questionable haircuts, and funny faces.

Mom. I have so much material because of you. You, the extraordinary woman, that no one knows about… yet. You had so many demons. But you had a fight in you. You  - and I know this – had a True North. And when all was quiet, you listened to it, deeply. And then you shared that with me, too. For how else would I be able to speak of it? Perhaps my True North took over when yours went wonky. It’s that mother-daughter/granddaughter magnetic pull.

And you, Friend, who is your True North? Who do you allow to influence you from long ago? Unto this day?

Who do you influence? How are you wielding this power?

Now is the time for the Call to Love. Get out your compass.

Yes. You can.

I’m already proud of you.

* Names changed because that’s what you have to do.