Category: Confessions

Labels = Imposter?

Who is the real Karen Lea Anderson Peterson?

Some thoughts in response to a friend’s lament of losing one’s youth.

“Quite a coincidence that after your comment on youth passing us by, I saw on YouTube a movie called Naked, High and Free: Life Inside Taylor Camp. Maybe you’ve already seen it but it’s about a bunch of hippies dropping out in Kauai and making and living a life there, clothes optional. It was really cool to watch and it made me realize that as much as I thought of myself as a hippie, I never really did drop out. Then a flood of thoughts came about other ways in which perhaps I would not be considered a hippie, or any such thing on which you could place a label”.

Here are some thoughts on my life in no particular order:

I didn’t really protest the war (Vietnam) except in heart and of course, speaking out against it at every opportunity, but I didn’t go out to march. That’s never been my thing and I still don’t participate in marches as deeply as I feel that all war should end.

Another idea, which many associate with being a hippie, is free love. I wasn’t a participant in free love. Though I believed, and still do, that one should love who one loves, not dependent on gender, or any other criteria, marriage included. I didn’t even really believe in that. So why have I always thought of myself as a hippie?

What is hippie philosophy and/or lifestyle anyway? I guess mine was more intellectual in that I was against consumerism and yet I am a consumer. As far as my political views, I guess you could say I am a liberal because I’m certainly not a conservative but I’ve never been political. I’ve even considered myself apolitical. I haven’t ever participated in political activities of any kind. I never lived on a commune or in a community, not even in an urban environment.

I guess I grew in understanding that organic gardening and consuming organic foods were important and I did grow my own organic gardens, beginning in 1969. I read about self-sustaining ifestyles but I never actually did that. We raised chickens and goats and even owned and butchered two steer. We also owned a couple of horses.

I cooked on beautiful wood cook stoves and we heated with wood. I made my own bread, I ground my own flour and coffee. I made pickles and canned fruits and unsuccessfully made wine. I shunned plastics and non-organic materials in clothing and packaging to the extent that was possible. I’ve understood and protested (verbally) against the use of fossil fuels and polluting our environment. I’ve spoken/ voted against the use of pesticides and herbicides in food production and against industrial meat production.

I learned to weave, crochet, embroider, quilt and spin my own yarn and sew. I made some clothes for the children and I even made my own wedding dress.

Speaking of children, I gave birth to my first child but did not raise her. I have written that story in other blog posts. My second child was born in a hospital in the days before it was common to have a natural childbirth without any intervention. I had to fight to have my baby in the room with me for the 3 days that was required internment. I breastfed for 2 years. My third child I had at home and again breastfed for 2 years.

Before settling down and having children, I used weed and psychedelics to expand my mind and decidedly not to party. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy music and light shows and good times with friends, because I did. But as the years went on, more and more people were using drugs, not to necessarily expand their minds and their lives but more liberally defined as recreation.

I studied and practiced Midwifery but without formal training and without certificates or degrees. I would not now call myself a midwife, though I did deliver tens of babies. Without the real training that I should have had, I am fortunate to say that I never lost a baby.

I taught aerobics for years and this also without the formal training that I should have had. Eventually I was trained and did hold a certificate.

I read, but not extensively, Eastern philosophy and dipped my toes in psychology and sociology. I had fully rejected Christianity early and was looking for alternatives to spirituality * thanks to forays into experimentation with LSD and mushrooms.

I believed, and still do even more vehemently now that I have a greater understanding of our history as human beings and more specifically as Americans, in equal rights for every man and woman and child and shunned racism and other negative and evil “-isms’  But I never physically marched against them or took part in a written campaign against them or participated in any other activity against hatred  and inequality.

So what is this label that I have put on myself for so many years? I think if I was to be really honest with myself, I would have to say I was never really a hippie by the strictest definition of what a hippie is. I suppose it would be wise of me in all honesty to not take on any label, whatsoever. I suppose I can only say that I was aware of all of the movements and agreed with all of the movements to one degree or another, even dropping out.

My spiritual seeking was really very shallow. I would say, I read a few books but I didn’t really delve deep into meditation until the last 25 years. I didn’t go on retreats in India, like many of us did at the time and not even to local gatherings with other seekers. And even now my practice is a mishmash of what I choose to participate in and not even socially. I don’t belong to any groups. I prefer my independence. I guess the closest thing one could say is that I have formally been trained in Transcendental Meditation but I don’t even practice that purely. I’ve only been to two TM retreats.

And even though I have been educated as an historian, I don’t believe I can call myself an historian. If what it means to be an historian is to have published books and perhaps been an educator. I have published a lot but I haven’t published a book and I don’t teach on one particular genre of history. I might lay claim as an ethnographer. As that was and still is a major activity of mine.

My real expertise, if you can call it that, is in the preservation of history in physical form. The preservation of documents, photographs, publications, artfacts, etc., etc., has been my passion. My career in research, documenting, describing and giving access to those materials, was my field of expertise, and in this field, I am not an imposter. But in nearly everything else, I am, if I claim to be the conclusive and precise definition of those things.

Yes, I was a professor at OHSU. That is true based on the three/four criteria of research, teaching, publishing and serving on committees. Of that, I can lay claim, as well.

But if I were to be quizzed on what I learned in 11 years of University training, I would fail miserably. Only in the field of archival management would I exceed expectations.

But in all other areas of my life it would not be unreasonable for people to point a finger at me and cry: “IMPOSTER”. You be the judge if you want.

And now that I am an old woman, what do I say of myself? Generally, when people ask me about myself, I say I’m an old hippie but I wonder now if that is really an accurate label? If I shun labels, maybe I can simply say that I’m an old woman who lived her life the best way she knew how. I have loved and have been loved. And there’s not a soul on Earth that can dispute that, not even myself.

I’m fine with Watching the World Go By

I’m Fine

I’m fine with watching the world go by.

I don’t feel the need to have ideas, projects and goals.

What could possibly be wrong with just sitting and staring out the window,

And enjoying a hot cup of anything for hours on end?

What interest have I in your wars, in your criminal activities, in your hatred and your lies?

What care I for your struggles for wealth and domineering power?

In what interest do I share with you for  generations of ownership of property and land?

I’ve had a pleasant life of accomplishments, work and study, love and family,

With never a desire or intent to hurt a living soul, without hatred for anything.

And now I am content to sit and watch the world go by.

Do your worst because, I will no longer participate. I will no longer try to save you or try to change you.

It’s my time to rest and reflect. And so that is what I will do… like birds of a feather.

My protest in silence.

The Mountain Hare Hat: what a challenge.

What am I working on now, you might ask. Well, I’m working on my frustration and trying for patience and acceptance. Let me tell you why.

This is Alice Starmore’s, Mountain Hare Hat featured in the publication, “Glamourie”, by same said author. It’s quite a substantial hardcover publication with 278 pages, containing 11 knitting patterns and 7 costumes and stories illustrated to go along with the patterns.

I’ve had my heart set on making this hat since I saw it online years ago. I purchased the kit and borrowed the book from the library. But that wasn’t good enough. I had to buy the book even though I knew I wouldn’t be making any of the other patterns contained within.. But it’s just a glorious book and worth having in one’s own library. The photographs and the stories are enough in themselves to justify the price. The price is substantial but like I said before, worth having.

I knew when I bought the kit, and contemplated, making the hat that it was not a beginers level pattern. But I was just over the line of a beginner and had been knitting sweaters and mittens and hats and shawls and scarves and socks, etc. There were always expected challenges in everything that I knit., but this pattern is kicking my ass.

The kit came with the yarn only and no pattern attached, which is unusual, but I bit the bullet because I was so in love with the hat. The yarn is Alice Starmore’s Hebridean, 2 ply. The colors are well named pebble beach, corncrake, driftwood and sundew. It was the colors that drew me in and the one of a kind design. The yarn is rustic and the hand dyed colors are taken from nature.

So what could go wrong? Everything, it seems, from cast-on to working with the chart. I started and ripped out at least 4 times before I put the pattern, the book and the dreaded object aside. I was worried that knitting, and then ripping it out too many times would ruin the yarn. For some reason, I left it sitting out on my baskets of yarn and it bothered me, it bothered me bad that I couldn’t get it done. It wasn’t the pattern’s fault, nor was it the yarn’s fault… there is only one other thing to blame and it is me.

So, after I finished christmas knitting and the new year celebrations had come and gone, I decided to start on the Mountain Hare Hat once again. I tore out what I had already started and left abandoned and wound the yarn into balls. Then I made my first mistake.

I started my cast-on with the larger needle size and it was supposed to be the smaller needle size indicated in the pattern. But by the time I realized it, I was through with the brim. The next mistake was that I thought that it would be alright. Well, as you can see, it’s not alright. As I began on the body of the hat, the brim gave kind of a flare. Dammit, I’m not going to tear it out again. I’m going to just keep going.

In the brim are a row of french knots. I was supposed to make them with a contrasting color but after the first few knots, I said to myself, f*** it. I was following the instructions, but somehow the knots were ending up on the inside of the brim. So not only are they not the right color but they’re on the inside of the cap. But I quickly convinced myself that I can push them through. They’re not happy about it, but I think I can do a little fixing to make them stay on the right side.

So, “soldier on”, said I to myself. I’m not ripping this out again. At this point I decided that, make all of the mistakes that you will, but I will not rip back. Sure, I will “tink” back if I’ve made a knit stitch where I should have made a purl stitch, but I’m not ripping back for anything. I will finish this hat and wear this hat, be it a big fat mess or at least acceptable.

So, as you can see from the image, it’s not a big fat mess, but it’s barely acceptable. I’ve tried it on and it fits great. In spite of all of these problems that I’m having with this pattern, I’m having fun. I am what they call a process knitter and not necessarily a product  knitter. Maybe when I’ve finished, and I’ve blocked it, some of the mistakes will be buried by this beautiful yarn.

I still have a long way to go. I’m only on row 27 and there’s upwards of 60 some rows, then there’s all the french knots to make throughout and the finishing touch of a felted button at the very top.

I’m determined to go on no matter how many mistakes I make. When I finish, I will post a photo of it.

My moniker isn’t “abundant imperfections” for nothing.

I Won’t Apologize

I will never apologize for what I haven’t done,

Even if it would give your mind ease, to think you are right and justify how you treat me.

Accuse me and blame me without evidence all that you want,

But still, I won’t apologize for what I haven’t done.

Dislike me, or hate me at whatever level of intensity pleases you. it matters not to me,

I won’t apologize for what I haven’t done, just to see you satisfied.

Tell lies about me. Tell lies about my life. Try as you will to hurt me,

Still, I won’t apologize for what I haven’t done.

Do your best to destroy my relationships with others with your tall tales, your tales of victimhood.

But still I won’t apologize to try to save
my love, not even their love for me.

And rest assured I will not use what I know about you to hurt you or to shame you or to justify my means.

I will stand in my defenselessness. I don’t need to prove my innocence, not to you nor to anyone.

I stand here accused and judged by you, ” the blameless saint”, and by the jury. I have stood before you claiming my innocence.

Yet not one word out of my mouth is believed. Why should I speak? My guilt is already determined.

I am not imprisoned by your words of judgment, nor by the sentence you will try to enforce.

My innocence will stand against your hatred. It stands against the venom that spews from your mouth, the darkness on your face, your gestures, the fire of hell and brimstone in your eyes.

Your judgment and hatred has in actuality been your prison for all these years.  Your suffering has been and is self inflicted, while I have walked free.

I will not apologize for what I haven’t done.

From what I can see, you have sentenced yourself to a lifetime of imprisonment. And though I have offered you clemency, you have refused.

Though you did, and still label our old love, “a neurotic attachment”, that is not how I see it. But my words will not convince. I will no longer try for peace.

Though I have forgiven you a thousand times in a thousand ways, I will not ever again stand in harm’s way… And:

I swear to you, and it is a promise to myself, that I will not ever, ever, apologize for what I have not done.

Things he said to me

Some things he said to me left deep footprints in the mud part of my mind.

This is not love. It’s a neurotic attachment

You’re more stupid than my mother

You are stupid, shallow and ridiculous

You’re cold

And why did he say those things?

Was it revenge? A payback for hurting him?

He hated my fat and insulted me in front of friends, family and visitors.

He even ḥit me a few times and pushed me and then wanted me to make love.

I couldn’t, though I loved him and I tried but I drew back,  repulsed, not by him but in defense, I suppose,  I really don’t know.

Probably not Presentable

I’m truly turning into that stereotypical old woman.

I wear the same clothes every day for at least a week, unless they’re too dirty to be seen in public. At home dirty clothes are all right with me.

I don’t change my underwear every day unless they smell.

I only change my sheets every couple of weeks, sometimes, only once a month.

I don’t wash my face every day. I don’t like to shower except after I’ve been in the pool for aquafit classes, and so I don’t.

I’d rather eat a hamburger out every day than cook. I rarely eat salad. I want cookies and/or candy every day.

I wish I could get away without brushing my teeth, or ever going to the dentist. The same goes for visiting the doctor.

I don’t really ever want to leave the house. I’m happy with staying home with my knitting; nothing could entice me to travel.

I’d rather concentrate on memories than making plans. Dying doesn’t scare me but living does.

But in spite of that, I went to the “Christmas Revels” last night, and it was wonderful. I put on clean clothes, brushed my hair and my teeth and washed my face. I had aquafit in the morning, so I had a shower.

I was, for a night, what you might call, presentable.