Category: Truth

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 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.

Does This Alarm You?

I was talking today to another about a conversation I was having with a friend about the meaning of dreams, of spirituality. She thinks that I should not be talking about spirituality because my perspective is not spiritual. She thinks my friend would be better talking to someone who is spiritual. Perhaps she is right.

It’s not that I do not acknowledge spirituality, it’s that I stand there, face to face with it and am not afraid to ask questions of something that, to me, does not exist. Why do I need something to believe in?

I see only the stories made by men. I acknowledge the stories. Yes, I acknowledge that others put faith in them. I can acknowledge the creative beauty of the stories but I also recognize their sinister intentions, their dark, shadow side. I put faith in nothing. I believe in nothing.

This is a great comfort to me… that I can live in this world, with a beating heart and understand, that my courage consists of this: I know, only, that I am. I know nothing for sure, not even that and that is OK for me. I know that I am vulnerable and that I will not be here for long. I know that my existence consists of both joy and sorrow and that I have no control over my experiences and that is terrifying but true.

I will talk to you about anything but know for sure, that I do not live with belief or faith in belief. My perspective might frighten you. You would not be the first to be alarmed.

The Cost of Consciousness

One of the advantages of having a house that is three stories tall is that I can look down on all of the plants in the garden. From my vantage point I can look down on the tops of the dogwood trees that are still blooming. The hummingbirds are feeding this morning from the blossoms. From high up here the entire yard looks green. Yum yum, my sweet dog, is lying in a pool of morning sunshine on the lounge. The water is hot and I’m ready to make my 1st cup of coffee. From high up here, I can almost forget what is happening in the wider world.

The advantage of being older is that I can do what I want when I want without being scheduled. This I love. From this vantage point I can look at my life and see the incredible life it has been. And I can also see what a wonderful life I am living, despite the chaos in the world.

From this vantage point I can also see the disadvantage of living in such a priviledged country. We are living on blood soaked land. We are living this priviledged existence because we are able to militarily overcome all other countries. We are only privileged because other countries have knelt before us at the point of a gun. We are only privileged because we have caused others to fear. People say this is the most wonderful country on Earth. What they don’t understand is that we’ve only been priviledged because we have insisted that others submit to us. We’re only priviledged because we have made it so that others have been brought to their knees.

What I hope for now is that we are being brought to our knees. Our powerful greed and hatred have been our demise. Our “democratic/capitalist experiment” is failing.

I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know how much longer we can go on like this. It is hard to be the privileged person that I am knowing that my privilege has been bought with blood money. It is hard to be the privileged person that I am knowing that my privilege has cost another’s suffering. It is hard to be the privileged person that I am knowing that the leadership of this country consists of wealthy, hateful warmongers and have always been. It is hard to be so joyful and peaceful and comfortable knowing that the majority serves the minority. But so has it ever been. This dichotomy of feelings is the cost of consciousness.

My privileged life breaks my heart.

Te quiero muchisimo. I love you so much.

❤❤❤❤❤❤❤

Every Last Thing

Every Last Thing

Every last thing

158,000 will die today.

What memories and secrets do we hold heart-side and in our bodies.

Do we let them bind us? Do we let them flow through, cleansing wounds long neglected.

Let’s find joy in adventures we thought were painful, when in fact they were our wild ride.

How fortunate we are to have these memories that sweep through our souls.

Remembrances of days long past. Let’s look at them, share them, revel in them.

We were and are fully alive. That means all of it.

Every last thing.

I Am Here but Peripheral

I Am Here but Peripheral

I have no importance here. I try to talk to everyone. But no one talks to me. When I join in conversation, I feel their disdain. I have nothing authoritative to say because I am not an expert on anything, they say. Look it up, they say, with a slight sneer contorting their lips.

When I explain that my education and experience and research gives my opinion authority, I am scoffed at.

When I talk I am ignored or am made to feel foolish or am misinterpreted

I sometimes feel loved but that changes moment by moment. I reach out to embrace. I have been told not to embrace. I embrace too much. No one reaches out to embrace me.

No one consults me and if I offer the wrong advice, words chastise me.

No one tells me where they are going nor if they are going.

I don’t feel welcome at the table.

I ask all the wrong questions. Words and looks say I sound stupid. I have been told that my questions are stupid.

Sometimes none of this is true. Sometimes I want to run away.

I am not needed. I am peripheral.

Why are you a Skeptic?

Documentation only sometimes provides consensus and memory rarely provides consensus. Just spent a lovely evening with my siblings, Steve and Kristi. We shared the same family and the same events while growing up but if you had been listening in on our conversaition you would think that we lived in different worlds. Perception is always and only just that. Why are you a skeptic you ask, a post-modernist historian? Do you really have to ask? It’s the completely unreliable evidence of experience that convinces me of nothing.